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wanderingelvis · 17 days

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hi!! so my birthday is tomorrow or the 27th of february and i was wondering if you could do an Elvis imagine and the Memphis Mafia throwing her a surprise birthday party? of course no rush or pressure i hope you have a wonder day ! - 🦢

headcanons for a birthday at graceland with elvis and the mafia 🎂🥂 (kinda possessive elvis!) 🧚🏻 Masterlist 🧚🏻

birthday's are special at graceland.

and yours, is no exception.

see, elvis spoils you every day, he showers you with affection and gifts that it's often overwhelming but you love feeling loved and you love soaking in the feeling.

but today, on your birthday, well, that's when elvis' generosity goes into overdrive.

he's like the captain of a ship, ordering the memphis mafia to do various tasks that will make your birthday extra special.

usually, jerry's scanning crowds making sure no-one is going to attack elvis but today he's blowing up pink balloons to decorate the interior of graceland with.

and of course he doesn't mind, he loves you as much as elvis does.

they all do in fact, jerry, sonny, red, charlie, lemar, you've got a hold on all of their hearts.

it's how sweet you are, even when they've had an intense and rough day, you'll be the sunshine that they crave.

like when jerry got in a scuffle with some guys trying to get too close to elvis and he cut his knuckles pretty damn bad, you sat by his feet, tending to the wound with a warm damp rag and clean bandages, trying to tell him jokes that maybe weren't all that funny, but when you said them, well then jerry had to laugh.

you're like a tonic.

and god, you were intoxicating.

so when it's your birthday, the entire memphis mafia ensure they're pulling out all the stops.

when elvis wakes you up, you're an adorable sight to see, your hair is slightly strewn and you blink several times before the realisation hits that it's your birthday, and suddenly, it's like you're a bush-baby, and the excitement begins to build.

"happy birthday, kid." elvis says, kissing your forehead as you gaze up at him from your shared bed, the kiss eliciting a soft giggle from you that practically melts elvis' heart.

even though you're still a little sleepy, elvis leads you out of the bedroom, your small hand in his larger, more calloused one.

and you practically jump out of your skin when a chorus of "surprise!" and "happy birthday!" roars around the living room, all of the men of the mafia, watching as elvis leads you to them.

of course, it's then that the stage fright hits, and your nerves bundle up inside you, the attention on you causing you to turn and bury your face into elvis' chest.

as if he's your comfort blanket.

but this only elicits another chorus of sound, but this time laughter, and 'aww's' from the men, cooing at just how sweet you are.

"think someone's got a lil' bit shy!" elvis chuckles, wrapping his arms around you, rubbing soothing circles into your back before leaning down his head to check on you.

"y'okay bunny? it's just the guys, they wanna celebrate y'big day with you baby, see," elvis coos at you, coaxing you into peeking at everyone as he points to the pink balloons over the archways. "jer got up extra early this mornin' to blow them balloons for you baby." elvis tells you and you start blushing, that feeling of feeling loved swelling inside of you.

it's already too much for a little thing like you to handle, and you've only been awake for 20 minutes.

once the stage fright is shaken off, elvis keeps a hold of your hand, leading you through the dining room and the living room, letting you see all of the pretty decorations that he and the memphis mafia have done for you, from balloons, to ribbons, to birthday breakfast pancakes.

and being the good girl you are, you give every one of the big, old men a cuddle, thanking them for making your birthday so special.

and even though elvis knows your cuddles are harmless, he never lets you out of his sight.

he trusts you, of course he does, and he trusts his men, of course he does, but there's just something so irresistible about you.

he knows his men are loyal but you're so heavenly that he knows you're worth risking everything for.

so he always keeps an eye on you.

because no-one else will ever have you, only him.

so he knows he needs to keep you happy.

and of course, that means presents, and extra special ones as it's your birthday.

and what could be more special than your own little puppy?

when elvis gives you the puppy, you can't help the tears that pool in your big, wide eyes.

"really? for me?" you ask with a slight tremble, you're not really ready to believe that the puppy is all yours.

"all yours baby." elvis smirks, he's proud of himself for the gift.

so there you are, with elvis' kitten with her own little puppy.

elvis and the mafia have invited everyone round for a party to celebrate you and by the time the evening rolls around, it's a full house.

the smell of champagne and cigars fill the rooms as does the sound of laughter and chatter.

and of course, you remember your manners, making sure to say hello to everyone and thank them for coming.

even if you have to go on your tippy-toes to whisper in elvis' ear because you need his help - you can't remember that guests name.

as the party continues and elvis is showcasing his new gun collection to sonny and charlie, the two men puffing on cigars, you're sat on the fluffy white carpet, by elvis' feet, your sole attention focused on your new puppy, who you're affectionately playing with.

elvis' talk of guns being interrupted with your sweet giggles at your puppy.

but it's not long before the staff come round with more glasses of champagne for everyone and you can't help yourself, you just want to have a little bit more.

only a little.

so you tap on elvis' trouser leg, catching his attention as he leans down to where you are on the floor beside him.

"please may i have a glass of champagne?" you ask softly and you know the look that he gives you all too well.

"just one more." elvis tells you with that coy look on his face. "can't have my baby being sick on her birthday now, can i?" elvis chuckles and you reciprocate, taking the glass that the staff hands you after elvis nods at them to confirm it's okay to give you one.

you love how elvis looks after you and knows what's best for you.

but the excitement of your birthday is quick to take it's toll, and it's not long until your head is firmly led on elvis' lap with your eyes closed.

elvis' lap is a good enough substitute for your bed, you think.

but obviously, elvis disagrees, and after about fifteen minutes of stroking your hair as you rest your head in his lap and lay on the couch by him, he decides it's time for your bedtime.

"c'mon little one, time to get you to your bed." elvis coos, waking you up ever so that you can say your goodnights and go with elvis to your bedroom.

and it's not before elvis instructs you to say goodnight and thank you to all of the memphis mafia that are sat around you in the living room.

"give the guys a kiss goodnight baby, say thank you fr' makin' y'day so special." elvis chides, patting your butt so prompt you to say your goodnights.

see, elvis is a possessive man, and he knows that his men adore you, and after a few drinks, he can't help but enjoy watching as you innocently go around, placing a kiss on each of the mafia's cheeks, not thinking anything of it, whilst the men won't stop thinking about for the next month, wishing they were as lucky as elvis to have you.

because there's nothing elvis loves more than having something that everyone else wants but can't have.

and for him, that's you.

because now, he gets to take you upstairs, undress you, kiss you up and down your body, taste you, fuck you.

and the mafia will still be thinking about that kiss on the cheek.

but all you feel is loved, and you love feeling loved.

and elvis loves you better than anyone.

and that's why birthday's at graceland are so special.

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aconflagrationofmyown · 10 months

Text

Prima Nocta (or the right of the first night) Part 1

Warnings: so so so so many for thematic material. This is dark. Quite dark. This is freshly divorced and verrrrrry bitter and disillusioned Elvis helping himself to the bride of the newest Memphis Mafia initiate. Hugely unreliable narrator, belittling and objectifying of women, dub con because of that, sanctimonious chauvinism, reference to his marriage going very south. no actual sex yet but definitely 18+.

Notes: this got so long from just lead up that I figured it was worth publishing on its own and seeing if there’s interest for a part 2. Sorry for going bonkers on this one, sometimes you just gotta tap into the villain side of yourself. Also, this was inspired by many talks with my previous mutuals about THAT picture of Elvis holding a gun to George Klein’s head at his own wedding…I’m using it for solely for vibes, sorry George

Series: Sky High Lovin -reading Honeymoon might make this even better but not necessary

Dedicated to: Sweet Christi with the wayward mind and all my thanks to Ally and Jane and Elise for spitballing this into existence.

There was a time, not so long ago, when Elvis enjoyed life affirming events like weddings, believe it or not. He enjoyed facilitating days to celebrate love and loyalty and vows before God, promising everlasting devotion. That is, until he learned that “till death do us part�� meant about as much to most as a “bless you” did when someone sneezed.

It makes surveying the pink and white festooned hotel ballroom something of an eyesore for him as he lounges back, dressed in black velvet, a sore thumb of ominous derision amidst the pastels, viewing the merry reception through moody, tinted lenses. The familiarly charming table accents of champagne and flowers and paper mache hearts twist his own into something a little furious and decidedly bitter.

A man’s wife betraying him and leaving him and stripping him of his pride and his joy and all his best intentions for her and your child will do that to a man.

Couldn’t even make it a whole decade before she found fault and spread her legs for another and turned his child against the father that loved her.

Sorry for being away so much baby, I was just singin’ myself hoarse to buy you that fuckin ring and car and hair and face and keep you in the style you’d married me for.

Cause it was obvious as all hell that honoring and obeying hadn’t been first and foremost in her mind when she promised forever. Forever to riches and fame, maybe, but not forever to him. She has those now, and he hasn’t got the family he’d prayed an Old Testament God for.

Rather like the pretty lady currently allowing her rodent of a groom to feed her their wedding cake, fake giggles and batting lashes adding to the nauseating act of pretending she can stand being in his company for longer than a couple hours.

Forever, my ass.

Elvis watches her through his shades and with each passing minute the anger burns brighter and his justification steadily builds for the liberty he’s about to commit.

The groom is here for Elvis’ paycheck, the lovely bride is planning to suck that idiot's cock till death doth them part (or a good four years) for the status of being a Memphis Mafia wife, and even the guests now stuffing their faces with pasta and alcohol are here for what Elvis’ money buys.

Loyalty is dead and what’s left is the goddamn food chain, like they’re the animals school tells them they’ve evolved past. In the recent months since his divorce, Elvis has felt a near Devine calling to bring this wicked devolution of morals and motivations to light, to humiliate these homosapiens until some level of shame is regained by mankind. If this is a pack of animals that surrounds him, he is King of the Jungle, and it is a careless and heartless king who lets his subjects run amuck.

He has no appetite for pasta, the hours of frivolity pass him by and he remains aloof, crouching in wait in his chair, running off righteous indignation and primal sufferance. Good things come to those who wait.

That’s what the bride is thinking, Elvis suspects, as the reception winds down and her luxurious honeymoon full of sunbathing and spas, good food and rich wine and the obligatory playing hooky to get out of sex draws nearer. Just a little more time letting fuckin’ Ronnie feed her cake and paw at her, then she’ll be on her way, securely locked into her future of privilege. He’s got nothing against Connie, uh, Sandra, -oh hell what was her name? he consults the gold embossed invitation at his elbow,- He’s got nothing against the newly minted Mrs. Kemp, nothing in particular, except that she’s a woman. And Elvis has a bone to pick and a point to prove with the whole, whorish lot of them.

Elvis opens the limo door for the bride himself, gallantly ushering in the happy couple before joining them as arranged, the whole merry band of his boys piling in after.

The new Mrs. Kemp, unlike some of his boys wives, had had the good grace not to whine about the lack of privacy and alone time to be found in and around Graceland’s inner circle. As a result Elvis allowed her to choose the more expensive flowers and gold embossed invites and french vintages, even if he knew why knew she’d been disgustingly eager for any chance of her intended husband being distracted from her. Elvis is certain, thanks to first hand accounts from fuckin’ Ronnie himslef, that the groom has sampled the bride already. It’s the way of things in this decadent decade, and she’s no fresh outta the nest baby chick. The fact Ronnie could give no further details about his encounters with his betrothed beyond the mechanics of thrusting above her till he blew his load, made Elvis despair of humanity and suspect Mrs. Kemp had a serpentine pragmatism about this entire arrangement.

Oh my buddy my pal, he thinks to himself as the limo flies through the never dark streets of Las Vegas towards the airstrip, I gave my wife everything and that wasn’t enough, how can you compete? God gave Eve the whole of Eden ‘cept for one measly apple tree -and what did the mother of all mankind do? She took, she ate, she damned them all with her disloyalty.

Ronnie is a damn fool, and while Elvis’ warnings were not needed during the engagement and this marriage has progressed to a limo ride and honeymoon, Elvis is not to be thwarted in his determination to save Ronnie the slow disillusionment, the slow death of any pretense of love in his wife’s eyes, the crumbling of all faith in anything such as Elvis has endured. Better to rip the bandage off now, five years is a long crucifixion.

As the limo parks on the tarmac and the gleaming hulk of the private jet looms over them in the night sky, no doubt Ronnie harbors some pathetic hope Elvis has forgotten his promise.

Elvis proceeds his guests up the jet bridge, cane thumping and carefully harnessed excitement radiating through him as he enters the opulent space, watching with benign magnanimity as the newlyweds board his jet, the boys providing a rollicking group to ferry the new couple to their honeymoon destination.

This was Elvis’ treat, he had insisted the jet drop them off before he heads back to wherever it is he’s supposed to be tomorrow. He’s not lost his appetite for spoiling folks. Only this time, he is gonna get repaid in currency a little more tangible than ephemeral, transient, fleeting loyalty. And Ronnie, kiss-ass, weak-spined fuckin’ Ronnie wasn’t man enough to hold out more than a few minutes when Elvis told him his new bride was the price for being inducted into the inner circle, the intitiation to prove his loyalty to The King.

Predictably, after some pathetic and scandalized objections, some monetary threats by Elvis and some judgmental snickers by the guys, fuckin’ Ronnie had caved and betrayed his loyalty to his own wife before he’d even walked down the aisle to marry her.

“B-b-but d-did the rest of t-the g-guys h-h-have to do this?” Ronnie had protested while they were shootin some pool, leaving the gals the other rooms to wedding plan, “Is it a-a-always this w-way?”

It hasn’t always been, no. Because Elvis hadn’t always been so astute. He had allowed his taste for pleasure and innocence and childish notions of fidelity to cloud his perception of women and the men they married. Elvis once was blind, now he saw, and now there was a currency of wedding nights established in the jungle.

“No one’s forcin’ ya to stay in this group.” Elvis had pointed out while lining up his pool cue with the ball, “you’re mighty welcome to go right on out that door, never receive another check from me or a glimpse of Vegas again, you’ll lose that girl, too, cause she sure as hell won’t be stickin around when all your bells and whistles fall off and it’s just you she’s left with. She don’t want ya Ronnie, she wants what I give ya, which makes me her provider, don’t it?” he reasoned before making his shot, the clatter of the balls deafening against the green felt as the older members of the mafia held their breaths in sick fascination with this new form of hazing. “And now, if I’m her provider,” Elvis had straightened up his posture to watch Sonny mark the score on the board, “that makes me a husband of sorts, an authority, a protector. A sugar daddy. Don’t it? You gonna tell me I should throw you guys a damn weddin’ and honeymoon, buy ya the house you live in and the cars you drive, the clothes she wears and the food you eat cause you hang around me an’ promise to protect me if the time comes? Bodyguard my ass, I could turn anyone to chopsticks before you even woke up long enough to realize a threat. Face it Ronnie, there’s a totem pole in this here life, and no one blames ya for bein’ a few notches down than most in the scale of things, but it don’t give ya much leverage bein’ down there. I give you that leverage. And I’d like to compensate myself for my generosity with a lil marital privilege. Jus’ once, just first night rights.” he took a swing of his coke and watched Ronnie closely, licking the sugar off his lips with deliberate swipes of his tongue, “Or would ya prefer I just wait and fuck her in six monthes when she comes knockin’ on my door sayin’ she just got lost in this big ole place?”

Fuckin’ Ronnie was a coward and a cad and he essentially agreed that he’d rather Elvis fuck his wife on the wedding night and be done with it than always be watching his back, suspecting her of carrying on an affair. Ronnie was a little bitch, Elvis surmised. Gone was any protest that he couldn’t do that to her, that she was a good gal, that Elvis wouldn’t do that to a friend.

Kings had no friends. And tonight Ronnie was oh so close to being officially inducted into the Memphis Mafia, he’d do nothing to jeopardize that . Elvis figured he’d wait until the plane took off to sample the goods, make her husband squirm guiltily over it while his new bride puzzled over why he was so tense.

Out of consideration for her downer of a groom, Elvis handed her a drink, playing the gracious host and taking her mind off her husband's stiff bearing and sweaty pallor.

“Don’t mind him, honey,” Elvis whispered hot and wet in her ear as he handed the drink off, “Ronnie boy here’s just scared of flyin’. You’re not scared are ya, honey?”

Honey….he couldn’t recall her name, Mrs. Kemp’s name, his fatigue and apathy too strong. He stood straight and dug in his pocket for a pick-me-up as he watched her smile and blush under his attentions,

“No sir, Mr. Presley, I’m not scared.” she smiled, “One could think we’re sat in a living room, it's so spacious here.” she added a compliment.

“I’d like to show ya the rest.” he says sitting down next to her, his arm heavy and warm around her shoulders and his gaze intent on her, knowing the effect this has on an ignored woman.

He recalls using that same line on his young bride during their honeymoon, eager to show his own new wife everything he had to offer. Beauty and luxury and care and a damn good fuck in front of the mirror back there. And it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t enough.

He can feel Ronnie tense further against the back of his hand where he clasps the bride’s shoulder, knowing that the “rest” of the plane beyond this lounge is a conference table, a toilet and a bedroom. Ronnie has had the privileges of being part of the TCB and now he’s about to pay his admission fee, and Elvis smirks at the thought that the man will never ride aboard this jet again without thinking of getting cuckolded by his boss.

The Bride is trying to make sense of Elvis' sudden shift of mood along with her husband’s. Both of them seeming to have swapped bearings, changing from the reception as if the jet’s air pressure had doused Ronnie’s merriment and finally revitalized Mr. Presley from the rather sullen attendee he had been. Elvis can feel her hesitancy to agree in her body language and the way she keeps looking over to Ronnie, as if to figure out his nervous ignoring of her and the way Elvis makes up for it in touches and attention. Beneath them the jet rumbles and takes flight, her little gasp at the heart swooping feeling of take-off a taste of what’s to come, of what he’ll pull from her body, willing or not . He’d rather lure her, try that first, the other can always be resorted to.

There’s an unspoken agreement to wait on this lil tour till the jet reaches cruising altitude, and Elvis spends the wait rubbing her arm and watching her try to make conversation with her groom who finds discussing the latest baseball stats with Red far more interesting than recalling the beauteous memories of the last few hours with his now introspective and mildly panicked bride. It’s funny to hold a woman whose mind is racing, Elvis can almost feel the frantic thoughts and conflicting emotions battering her frame from the inside out like a caged bird against its bars.

Elvis allows the minutes to trickle by and work for him, the soothing sweep of his hand slowly melting her rigidity, the continued abandonment of her husband's attention going from hurtful to frustrating, the innocuous chatter of the fellas talking and laughing around them, the cool air of the jet’s cooling system kicking on, and his warm and broad chest already pressed against her, now beckoning like a little haven for her to cower inside until the confusion passes. He clocks all these developments as the minutes go by, fully aware the boys are making small talk with their minds as preoccupied as Ronnie’s about when Elvis will make his move, their anticipation mounting while her guard drops, finally accepting his closeness without question. The jet rumbles and her drink kicks in and with the wedding fever abated it leaves her drowsy, unmoored.

Elvis waits for the perfect moment to pounce and is rewarded for his patience. The cool blast of the AC has made her begin to curl towards him and he’s met her halfway and it’s not till her head almost nods weakly to lay on his shoulder that her sensibilities prick her and she jerks it back up, another little gasp. It makes his repeated,

“Lemme show ya round, honey, got all sorts of remarkable stuff up here”

sound like a gallant cover for her lapse of decorum. Predictably, she shakes herself upright and gives him a polite nod of thanks, their first mutual, unspoken communication acknowledging something the rest of the room isn’t privy to. Her loyalty is slipping and all it took was a few minutes of heating her up with his embrace, a few whispered teases and buying her a whole damn lifestyle. To her credit she looks to Ronnie as she rises, asking him to come along in a coaxing voice Elvis knows is her trying to get her new husband to even look at her.

Elvis watches her try and fail at this from the curtained doorway leading to the back of the jet, thinking it makes a striking picture. A bride still dressed in white, bending over to try to catch her husband's eyes as he watches TV in his rumpled tux, the entire plane’s worth of masculine attention directed on her, except for the man who swore to worship her. Perhaps the disillusion will go both ways tonight, maybe women aren’t all merley bitches in heat, maybe some start out intending to be faithful and good and content.

Elvis has yet to meet a woman faithful and good and content once he puts his mark on them, they spend the rest of their lives day dreaming and closing their eyes when their husbands are in them and clogging his phone lines, kidding themselves that they’re special. He’s saving her the sin of coming to his room in a couple of months or years and saying she got lost while dropping her silk nightwear down her frame, an old and familiar expression of invitation on her face. She might not know that’s in her future otherwise, but he does. And he’s gonna save her the wait. When she wants something she’ll come to him now, not her husband, and he will have the discipline to make the right choices for her.

Elvis holds the curtain aside and beckons her with his fingers, and she would be angrier that he has the nerve to summon her away from her husband if she weren’t so humiliated at being ignored by the man. Frustration at their man makes women very susceptible to comfort, Elvis knows this intimately, and in their strong desire to be understood and soothed, they’ll spread their legs for the first person who tells them they deserve that attention.

She ducks under his arm, into the shade of the conference room with an attitude written on her face. Elvis drops the curtain behind them, the prey corralled. Nothin so easy as a woman scorned, nothin’ quite so hungry and quite so fierce. He hopes she’ll take out some of that miffed little ‘tude out on his back with those fancy nails his money bought her. It makes him smirk in anticipation and he can tell she finds that unsettling, her huffy bearing faltering once she notices him just watching her move round the glossy table top, suddenly aware of their seclusion and the fact she left her groom behind for a tour of the jet. She’s beginning to doubt her choice, doubt her loyalties.

Honeymoon off to a damn good start, she thinks sourly.

It’s innocuous, standing at opposite ends of a conference table with a man who is your husband's closest friend and at whose house you’ve eaten multiple dinners. There’s nothing wrong with it, but she feels her skin prickle none the less like she’s in danger, like those eyes observing her through shaded lenses are not fully human, not fully beneficent. She curses Ronnie for humiliating her, for his weird mood these past weeks making her feel isolated, for her past making her paranoid of this assessing male gaze.

She’d met a panther in the woods on an Appalachian bike ride once. They’d stared each other down as he had crouched and observed, his eyes fathomless and intent, the muscles of its body undulating in readiness beneath sleek black fur. Her mouth had dried out exactly the same as it does now when her shy smiles aren’t met with anything besides those assessing eyes and that crooked smirk that holds no fondness for her, no pride in his jet, no amusement at her awe of his wealth. A smirk of pure and smug knowingness.

Then he calls to her and the warmth of his voice melts her fear. “Check out this icebox, honey”

Her face lights up like a kids in the yellow glow of the refrigerator light as she bends over to look inside, white stain skirt hugging her perfectly and he gathers that all that athleticism has done her good, she could probably ride a man for hours without tiring, judging by the firm curve of that ass.

“See anyhtin ya’d like?” he asks her casually, laying a light hand between her shoulder blades as she reads rows and rows of labeled refreshments.

“Oh, uh, no, no, the drink was enough for now. Thank you Mr. Presley.”

He used to correct folks when they called him that, and used to punt the honorary title to his father. But nowadays he finds “Mr. Presley” might be closer to “your majesty” than mere “Elvis” -in which case he’s stopped putting little floozies at ease by asking them to call him by the name his mama gave him. That’s a name used by a wife back when he was happy and respected and alive.

“C’mere, I wanna show ya this television back here.” he beckons again, removing the heat of his hand from her back and she breathes easier with him taking the lead, she’s able to watch his imposing figure unobserved as he leads her past the conference table and into a small hallway with a large, showbiz style mirror.

Elvis swaggers right on by the marvelous monstrosity with its low counter and doused bare bulbs, but she can’t help herself. A flicker of childish glee taking over as she flips the switch on the wall and makes the bulbs buzz to life, brilliant as a spotlight in the inky gloom, illuminating them from the knees to the ceiling in a gaudy reflection. The sudden blast of light makes him pause on his trek to the bedroom and he joins her in looking at their reflection.

“Hell, honey,” he drawls amused as he takes in her fresh little wedding set and his decadent black suit, “we look like cake toppers.”

She laughs at that, a sweet unaffected thing that is music to his ears, and no doubt a screech to Ronnie’s. Elvis finds his grin growing at that thought and she mistakes it for joy. She laughs again, aborted little chuckles tapering out.

“There’s a tv back here, too?” she asks, embarrassingly at ease with entering a bedroom in the company of Elvis Presley.

Interestingly she doesn’t even glance at the bed when he ushers her in, she’s peering at the walls and the built in furniture for a peek of a screen.

“Mhmm, keep lookin, it’s hidden.” Elvis follows her and shuts the door behind him, a quiet click she doesn’t hear as she’s got her back to him, busily creaking open dresser doors and clapping in commendation upon finding the tastefully camouflaged TV set.

“How wonderful!” She praises and his heart does something funny and nostalgic over unpretentious enjoyment of what he has to give her.

One day it’ll be old hat to her and she’ll be like all the other wives, naggin’ and bitchin’ over keeping up with each other, forgetting about what it was they ever wanted, consumed with one upping each other and dominating the pecking order, spending Elvis’ money not for pleasure but for bragging rights. For now he watches this young woman bounce in her heels over a hidden TV set and makes a pact with himself to be nice, to gentle her into this ruination.

Then he recalls she married Fuckin Ronnie, and that twists his gut in reminder she’s a practical gold digger like all the rest. And he doesn’t mind that about her, he just hates the dishonesty of pretending she’s in it for more, and her ignoring him for a tv irks him as disingenuine.

“Wanna kick back and watch somethin, doll?” he asks her and sees the exact minute his words make her back and shoulders stiffen beneath white silk.

“Uh, on this one?” she’s scared to ask, scared to sound like she’s accusing him of suggesting it, scared to suggest it and give him ideas.

“They got the damn game on the other.” he answers her smoothly, coming up behind her and reaching round her to power it up.

“Elvis.” she dares to sound reprimanding when all he’s done is stand behind her and punch a button, she’s the one who walked into a bedroom with a man who isn’t her husband.

“Gonna be a long flight, three more hours I reckon.” he is patient with her.

“Y-yes.” she hesitantly agrees, watching the screen flicker to life, “And I wanna spend it with Ronnie, exc-“

Liar! He doesn’t let her turn around, he puts his hands on her shoulders and keeps her facing the TV, keeps her away from the closed door she’s not yet noticed, he nuzzles his nose into the crook of her neck telling himself, gently, gently, tempt her, tempt her. “Doesn’t seem like Ronnie is eager to spend it with ya.” he mourns low and sympathetic in her ear and she gasps at his brutal honesty, at the fact he’d have no tact to pretend he didn’t notice.

“Elvis, t-this isn’t right.” she parrots her mother or her favorite tv show or some rote set of rules she doesn’t really embrace.

“What ain’t right, honey?” he rumbles, keeping his hands on her, moving them from her shoulders down her arms, then swooping them up again and fingering at the sides of her neck, delighting in the shiver her body yields up to him.

If he hadn’t been so aloof before, she figures she might not feel so electrified by his sudden, all consuming touch. But it’s not just that, he’s kept his distance from her since she started dating Ronnie and in her star struck insecurity she’d made no move to become friendly with him.

Now this, this intentional hovering and the petting that tastes like something she’s only ever heard about. It’s Elvis, Elvis petting her in her wedding dress on the way to her honeymoon destination and that’s simultaneously about as predictable and uncredible as can be. Elvis, who’s been the ephemeral host for countless of lovely parties, Elvis who’s been the presiding specter over all their schedules since she became part of the group, Elvis who has been the magical name on the credit card used for everything she ever wanted. Elvis Presley, the man who achieved all there was in life by 21, and has been bored by it ever since. What did she expect him to be, a fatherly figure?

“Did you like your weddin’ honey?” he asks her after her raging thoughts consume the time she should have spent answering and protesting him.

The hands descending to her hips and squeezing there hint a warning prompt even as his gentle tone reminds her of all he has done for her, his inexhaustible benevolence -which it seems something has finally exhausted. She begins to panic, no need to see those panther eyes when the heat is radiating off of him, sexual intent potent from his aura alone, no need to feel a crude gesture or have it spoken out in clunky declarations of desire. Ingrained self doubt takes hold of her for one brief moment before the scratch of his sideburn rubs against her cheeks and the hot press of his lips against her neck tells her it is not vanity making her project on him, Elvis Presley really is trying to seduce her mere hours after her vows, a few yards away from her new husband and his friends.

“Mr. Presley!” she resolutely stiffens in his embrace and tries to turn and leave his hold of her and he lets her so far as she’s spun round and facing him, her stern tone wobbling out when she’s met with the hypnosis of his expectant stare, “Y-yes it was lovely, thank you.” she stammers out, fear and primal instinct kicking in and guiding her to cower and simper her way out of this, her boldness having bounced off him like shotgun shells off cement. Nothing but damaging to her. “T-thank you for all you did.” she tries again, her tone unsure as his face remains unreadable, his eyes burning and unblinking behind his shades, lit with white hot something in the glow of the tv screen. “You’re very generous.” she admits, tacking on every obeisance she can think of while resolutely ignoring the feel of being held to his chest, near eye level with the gap of his shirt and the chains glittering on his skin. “I need to rejoin my husband, sir.” she begs, begs that she doesn’t want this, denies she’s ever hoped for this.

Idly he wonders if she’s being honest, then he watches her swallow thickly as she catches a whiff of his scent.

Suddenly he crushes her to him, her mouth smashed to the metallic, skin warmed nest of his chains, pinning her there with a hand to the back of her head as his other reaches for the hem of her skirt and drags it up and over her ass, palming it even as she shrieks in shock, “Tell me, Mrs. Kemp,” he growls in her ear, “did you go after Ronnie cause he was near me, or did ya come for the money and stay in the hopes I’d pay attention to your little self? Was you countin’ on me gettin lonely some night an’ sendin’ your husband on an errand so I could get my fill of his wife? Is that what keeps ya from gaggin when he’s on top of ya? Is that the hope?”

Elvis’ fingers find the band of her lacy panties -honeymoon lingerie his money bought her- and he snakes his hand in, down the warm curve of her ass and along her crack, dipping between clenched thighs to rake through predictably sopping wet folds. She gave the whole resistance act a good try, but her womanly body responds to dominance, and Elvis is dominance incarnate. It’s in her weak nature to drip for him, plain and simple, and so he swipes and dips and drags his fingers through her as she fights against his chest, pounding her fists impotently against the velvet of his coat.

“Shhh, shhh honey, I know, it ain’t your fault.” he is magnanimous, gracious as King Solomon. “This, honey, this is what hope tastes like.” he brings his glistening fingers to her snarling mouth and shoves them in against her tongue, savoring the way her choke distracts her from the obvious defense of biting him, “Taste that? That’s how hope tastes, and there ain’t anyhtin’ more harmful than hope. Makes a purgatory of your life. Doesn’t let ya be satisfied with what ya got, won’t let ya get dissatisfied enough to wanna change anythin. You just hope and hope and your life goes by, while you’re hopin.”

She whimpers around his fingers, wilted white silk in his arms, dress bunched up obscenely in the screen-lit room. He strokes her cheek with his spit wet hand, the ring faces of rubies and diamonds and priceless gems caressing her tears away, lulling the creature back to her basic instincts, hypocrisy and futility purged away beneath Elvis’ healing hands. “I ain’t gonna let you go on hopin for years and years,” he enchants her with whispers, rocking her now as she whimpers in catatonic fascination, “I’m gonna gift ya with knowledge.”

Everything she’s given up while fighting to get herself on a jet like this, married to a man of means, with a house and a steady future and a predictable timeline stretching out before her -security at last! -all of it crowds her mind, the devil and the angel on her shoulders whisper in a traitorous debate. Of course life isn’t how she wanted at eighteen when she expected to marry for love, yet of course her mature self is pleased with this match. Those can both exist, and she planned for them to exist in a tidy world where Elvis Presley wasn’t an option, because he’s not. He’s not offering himself, doesn't even have enough dreams of his own to bother with lying about it to buy them both a minute of reprieve from the disillusioned hellscape that is life in one’s thirties when you comforted your starry eyed twenties by telling yourself it gets better. Then to no one’s surprise -it didn’t. The one last insupportable piece of this maturing puzzle that would cement her growing up forever is tasting this then going back to Ronnie. It’s out of the question and she doesn’t give a shit what he’s going through right now, or what Ronnie thinks about her angering his boss, what she needs is the peace of mind that comes with not knowing.

“You can take your knowledge and shove it.” she snaps out of the pliant heatstroke his embrace caused her and shoves him away, only succeeding at making room between them because he’s so surprised by her sudden surfacing out of the trance.

One final thrash of the prey and he watches with amusement as she stumbles in haste across the flickering room, yanking open the closed door and steadfastly booking it to the front of the jet. Headed to the shelter of a man who promised to protect and defend her and cherish her and swore it all while counting his bonus for selling her out.

Elvis watches her till she and her crumpled white dress fly past the brightly mirrored hallway and disappear from his vantage point through the doorway. He picks at his nose and thinks about what he might like to take on this little experiment, and having procured a few items of use saunters after her at a leisurely pace. He sets them on the conference room and table and watches as she pulls back the curtain and steps into the lounge, her whole being vibrating in a way that is not subtle or discreet about what just occurred between them.

It’s warmer in the lounge, just pulling the curtain back wafts warmth into the ice box chilled areas of the plane that Elvis frequents, it makes her tremble with relief. She’s back in public, back where he won’t try anything. Ronnie, to her angry bewilderment, is still glued to watching the TV like he didn’t even register her absence. But his mere existence will still work for what she needs. She needs to belong to someone and sit beside that person for three hours while his boss cools off.

She is not prepared for the way everyone in the lounge spins round to look at her once registering her presence, looking with absolute surprise as if her reemergence was the surprise, not the lengthy plane tour to the back bedroom. It makes her seethe inside, they thought she’d go through with it, damn animals that they are, all “what happens on the road stays on the road” and carefree chauvinism inherited from their boss. She has to remind herself why she wanted this life in the first place, has to recall the perks and the wages and lavish reception.

Red and Joe now flank Ronnie and her seat beside him is taken up by those two manspreading oaf’s. Desperate, she decides to play at being cute and makes to sit on her husband’s lap, spinning round to find Elvis watching hehe from the curtained doorway as she tries to lower herself down to perch.

“Babe, I can’t see the damn screen with you like that.” Ronnie has the churlishness to complain and she wants to scream at his denseness, the way pushes at her lower back to tip her out of his lap.

To save herself the humiliation of face planting on the plane floor she chooses to stand of her own accord and catch herself from the shove. She sees Elvis’ lush mouth frown behind the cigar he’s lighting up.

“Don’t be an ass to her Ronnie, she’s your wife.” he reprimands and she gets a funny feeling of appreciation for being defended in all this. Her loyalty teeters towards the man she has to remind herself she needs to escape from. “Or have ya forgotten, ya unchivalrous bastard?”

That’s a little harsh but the memory of Ronnie not giving a damn about the fact she was almost assaulted -that’s harsh word for that too, her traitorous mind supplies- reminds her that she isn’t happy with him at all. But in fact, come to think of it, she isn’t pleased with any one them, and there’s no where to go on this damned plane. It starts to make her skin crawl, the realization that she’s surrounded by men who would either not believe or else not care if Elvis went through with the forceful attentions he was showing her back there. Who would believe her if she said he forced her?

“Ronnie I’m tired and my seat’s been taken!” she argues with him, “I just wanna sit down. Lay down, even!” she begs, thinking of how best to clear the couch of anyone but him so that no one takes liberties and sits down beside her.

“Then go lay down in back where there’s a fuckin’ bed? Why’d you come out?” he snaps.

“Cause-“ because Elvis Presley tried to take liberties, that’s why, but she feels strangled watching how all the men await her answer with a little too much investment, the way Elvis is still watching her behind tinted shades and a haze of cigar smoke.

“You get all bitchy when you’re tired, go lay down and take a nap, honey. I’m watching the game.” Ronnie suggests her worst fear and it infuriates her how he’s changed just since he slipped a ring on her finger.

“Ronnie please-“ She whimpers and would give anything to know why Joe is leering up at her with a sly grin. There’s no time to think on it as Elvis’ ringed fingers close around her elbow and tug her back towards the curtain.

“C’mon honey, ya heard your husband, let’s get ya situated.” he coos and her fingers turn to ice from the shock of it all.

“I don’t wanna!” she protests, “Ronnie!” she tries one more time while being backed away from her husband by his boss.

“Oh for fucks sake just do what he wants!” Ronnie begs with something akin to frustration but the red hot blush sweating up his neck suggests he’s humiliated to be caught saying it.

“Beg your pardon?” she hisses in disbelief, feeling Elvis’ hand clamp on her arm just a little more, maybe to keep her from marching up to Ronnie and smacking him.

“Just, just give him what he wants. Just tonight.” Ronnie spills the beans far sooner than needed and Elvis wants to roll his eyes at how fast they went from taking her for a nap to admitting to something far more sinister.

The bride’s head swivels from viewing her husband to Elvis and back to her husband and the room full of men who’s thrumming interest in her makes her wanna bolt straight out of the plane now she knows why. It’s sickening yet so strongly in character for them she doesn’t waste many moments in disbelief, it all makes sense in a horribly predictable way. Every one of these fella’s grinning at her discomfort are pathetic in her eyes, as pathetic as men who’d prefer to watch naughty movies than better themselves as lovers. Somehow in the mess of it all, Elvis alone stands out as something a little less deplorable. Even if it’s just his brash and demented honesty she admires.

“Y’all planned this?” she asks dully, scanning each lip licking face, ending with her husband’s sullen one, “This was all planned out? You offered me up? You goddamn, two faced bastard-“

Elvis loops his arm around her waist to prevent her from launching at Ronnie and clawing him to shreds. His chest is searing her through the silk on her back and his hands grab at her more than they need to in order to restrain her. It makes her pulse pound and fury swirls inside her, battling with the cold dread of weakness and helplessness.

“Ronnie made a little deal with me.” Elvis is drawling in her ear in so soothing a way it almost counteracts the nauseating confirmation, “And now, we can watch you runnin’ round this plane for hours to get away from me like a Junebug in a bottle but that ain’t gonna change how this night ends. How bout ya just be sensible, hmm? Just cause he’s a lyin’, no good sunnuvabitch don’t mean you gotta turn bad yourself, ya know? He gave ya instructions, ya can still be a good lil wifey and honor and obey him, can’t ya?”

“Why?” she persists, but feebly this time, not knowing if she’s asking her husband who keeps his face averted towards the screen or the man whose hands are mapping out her body in full view of his friends. “Why y’all gotta do this?”

“I told ya honey,” Elvis murmurs, rucking the hem of her skirt up passed her knees, “hope’s a dangerous thing. I don’t allow it in my house. An’ you’re part of my house now, ain’t ya?” he pets at the damp plushness of her inner thighs as the men stare and she struggles to find a way to empower herself while caught in such a feeble position. Hurting Ronnie, twisting the knife a little more like he’s done her is all she can think of at the time. “Don’t you belong to me, sweetie?” Elvis is prodding once more and his cheek is clammy and hot against hers, the cigar smoke pungent around them.

“Yes sir.” she agrees while sneering at Ronnie’s reddened face.

“That’s more like it.” Elvis’ voice gentles to something a little less frightening than before but all the more terrifying for how sure and smug it sounds. His hands grab at her breasts and she can’t help the whimper she lets out from the presumption, no doubt it’ll only get worse. “Since you’re so eager to stick close to ole Ronnie and include e’rbody in our private business, I reckon it’s only fair we conduct this lil interview on the conference table, hmm?”

When she cranes her neck to look behind him and past the curtain, she can see the shiny table top littered with items it didn’t hold when she made her hasty exit passed it; scarves and a strange sort of plastic wand, that stupid police flashlight and a box of cigars are clumped at its foot in an ominous hodgepodge.

Admitting to being frightened by it would strip away her last bit of autonomy in this and so in a bid to act unbothered she slips out of Elvis’ hold and walks on her own two feet into the room, turning her back to Ronnie before shifting herself to sit on the cold, hard surface of the table.

“Is this what you had in mind, Mr. Presley?” she asks him meekly and makes sure to let her legs fall apart just so. She thinks she’s going to have some control in all this, the silly little thing, thinking he’s a man with regular tastes and base preoccupations, easily distracted from the purpose of this like any other. And the purpose is not pleasure -though he intends to draw it from her till she is broken from it- but purity of intention and nature. A lie dressed in white no more, but a wanton woman giving in to her true nature. Only he has the power to bring this out in every one he meets, and to purge it all the same.

Elvis Presley eyes her, as do all the men in the lounge just past him, until with an approving little hum and smile that is almost pleased, he steps towards her, yanking the curtain closed behind him and leaving them (somewhat) alone together in the dimly lit room, full of anticipation.

And maybe dread.

#elvis fanfiction #elvis presley #sky high lovin #Prima Nocta #elvis fanfic #elvis imagine #elvis x reader #elvis au #70s elvis #elvis the king #elvis film #elvis aaron presley #austin elvis #elvis x you #Elvis #elvis movie #elvis photos

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wanderingelvis · 1 year

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Hello love,is it okay for me to call you that? Sorry if it isn't,I was wondering if you can write an Yandere!70s or late 60s Elvis where the reader is naive and is dragged to one of his shows by readers friend or anyone she knows,you can choose and he notices her from the crowd but doesn't get the chance to go talk to her and maybe 1 week later he still has her on his mind and luckily he finds her talking to Jerry or someone and maybe he traps her like Rapunzel? Sorry if I'm asking for too much,it's okay if you can't do it! Maybe Priscilla isn't in here because I love her too much to have her heartbroken or anything like that!

Thank you for this! I got a bit carried away, I might edit it too but I hope you like it! 🧚

🧚🏻 Masterlist 🧚🏻

word count: 4,641

pairing: naive f!reader x 70s yandere!elvis

warnings: cussing, yandere themes, mentions of abuse, emotional manipulation, stockholm syndrome

You and Elvis were like prey and predator, you were just too naive to see it. You were a lamb to his lion and the moment he laid eyes on you, he knew you were going to be his and only his.

Your older - and wiser - best friend, Betty, had taken you to one of his shows in Vegas, an experience like no other you'd ever had. The loud music, the bright lights, the screaming, was causing you to go into sensory overload and feel frightened and vulnerable. Elvis had noticed you as soon as he did his usual bit of turning the lights on the audience, he was practically bewitched by your beauty and the innocence that was positively radiating off you.

No girl had ever had that effect on Elvis, not in this way, not so instantly.

But Elvis wasn’t to meet you that night. You took off like a little fairytale character, running out of the auditorium as Elvis’ eyes followed you until you disappeared. You couldn’t handle the intense Vegas scene, it was too much for you to cope with and you needed some air. Betty had gone after you, consoling you as you repeatedly apologised for ruining her night and taking off like that but Betty was nothing but supportive, knowing that you were probably not ready for a show as wild as Elvis Presley’s.

Elvis couldn’t get you off his mind, your face was stuck in his head at all times. When he left the stage he was thinking of you, when he cooled off he thought of you, when he jerked off on his trailer he pictured you and as he fell asleep he thought of you.

By the third day of you relentlessly occupying his mind, Elvis knew Jerry had to find you. Funnily enough, both Elvis and Jerry recognised your friend Betty as one of the waitresses from the front of house at the International and Jerry hotel and it didn’t take long for Jerry to scout her out and enquire about you.

Blinded by the idea of getting close to Elvis, Betty gave up your location and contact details to Jerry in an instant and a day later, your phone rang furiously, again and again and again until you picked up.

“Is this Y/N Y/L/N?” A hoarse, deep Southern voice asked.

“Uh-huh! Speaking!” You said chirpily and Elvis melted at the sound of your voice. “Why? Who’s askin’?” You asked, twisting the phone cord with your fingers.

“Elvis Presley.” Elvis said as he heard a little, sweet gasp from the other end of the line, making him chuckle. “I hope you don’t mind me callin’, your lovely friend Betty passed on your number to me.”

“How do I know you’re really Elvis Presley and not Johnny from work because this could really be somethin’ Johnny would do.” You giggled adorably.

“You wore a white silk dress to my show, you ran out just as I began singin’ Suspicious Minds, guessin’ you ain’t too keen on that song, eh?” Elvis said and your stomach dropped, realising it really was Elvis.

"Oh gee." You mumbled. "I, um, I love your songs mister, I just, um, m'not good with crowds, it's silly, I know," You told the man.

"I don't think it's silly, I don't like crowds neither," Elvis agreed. "It's flatterin' to perform to a crowd but I hate bein' in them, I try to avoid them too." Elvis said, making you feel a little validated.

"I betchu get a lotta crowds, mister." You mused softly as if you were chatting to an old friend.

A deep chuckle could be heard on the other end of the line. "You can say that again, darlin'. But I sure was sad t'see you go so soon." Elvis said.

"M'sorry Mr Presley, m'sure Betty probably told ya, but I really am a big fan, I was real excited to see ya and I even wrote about it in my diary and everythin', it's just, it's just that I find crowds and all the loud noises and everythin' all a bit scary sometimes, and a couple of ladies," You paused and chewed your lip. "Well, they were just real big fans of yours I s'pose, pushed me outta the way to try to get to you and it was all gettin' a little intense see, and I just, it got a bit too much, I wish I did stay though, I said that to Betty too, that I felt real bad, I think I ruined her night really, I wrote her a real big sorry note and she says its okay but I know she's just bein' nice. Y'know I wish I'd stayed because that song you sing, Love Me Tender, oh boy, that's one of my favourite songs ever and I was real upset I missed it, you sing that beautifully Mr Presley." You babbled sweetly. "M'sorry, I've been ramblin' on and on atchu. I know some of it sounds dumb, a lotta people have said I'm dumb for not likin' crowds and loud music and, I mean, I don't really like it when people call me dumb, but I guess, um, maybe it is sorta."

Everything in the way you spoke confirmed to Elvis exactly what he'd expected; you were sweet, kind, naive and nervous.

"Now, now. You are not dumb for that and anyone who calls you that is frankly, an idiot." Elvis said, making you giggle. "How's about you and Betty come along down to the hotel tomorrow evening? I'd sure like to meet you without any of those crowds, maybe I can show you how to play Love Me Tender on the piano, I love that song too, little one." Elvis proposed, the pet name making your tummy do somersaults with nervous excitement at the sweet attention you were receiving.

You agreed, almost a little too eagerly, making Elvis realise that you were just like an excitable puppy, and he adored it.

He told you that he'd send his friend Jerry in a car for you and you bid him goodbye, running straight to your bedroom to write down as much of the conversation as you could remember in your pink diary.

You didn't sleep that night with so much excitement bubbling up inside of you. But, before you knew it, you were in a car with Jerry Schilling, asking a million questions about Elvis, the International and about Jerry too. Jerry understood straight away why you were so appealing to Elvis, you were everything that Elvis looked for, but Jerry knew Elvis a little too well and Jerry knew that once you were in Elvis' grasp, he'd never let you go. Jerry almost felt bad as you both sat in the car as he knew this would be the last time you experienced life as you knew it, everything would change when you stepped into the International Hotel.

Weirdly enough, Betty was nowhere to be found as you were escorted to Elvis' dressing room. The nerves were growing inside of you as you smoothed out your lilac dress and made sure no strays of your long, flowing hair were out of place as Jerry knocked on the door. That familiar voice could be heard from the other side of the door, calling for you to enter.

When you walked in, Elvis rose from his seat to greet you. He dominated the space, his aura was powerful and magnetic and he practically towered over everyone. His presence was overwhelming and instantly alluring and addictive.

As he approached you, you couldn't help but panic a little, you so desperately wanted to impress him, yet you'd never been in such a position before. Elvis on the other hand, thought you were simply adorable. You were as beautiful as he'd remembered and you had a gentle and shy demeanour, although from his brief conversation with you, he could tell that you could probably be very stubborn too.

Elvis grabbed you a soft drink after you both greeted each other, letting you relax a little as you took in the atmosphere. You chatted for a little while before Elvis offered to take you on a tour the hotel and the little recording booth that had been installed too.

"Shouldn't we wait for Betty? She'd like to go on the tour too, Mr Presley. I don't know why she's not here yet, but I s'pose her job can make her kinda busy, but I know she'd really wanna be here so I don't know what's holdin' her up."

"Sweetheart, please call me Elvis, I know I'm an old man these days, but you don't have to address me like one." Elvis laughed, making you blush. "But I'm sorry darlin', I thought Jer told ya, Betty said she couldn't make it? She said she was awful sorry but her boss had sent her for some trainin' thing or somethin', I don't know, I'm sorry no-one told you, honey." Elvis said, making you look up with confusion.

"Oh." You said quietly. You knew how much of a fan Betty was of Elvis and that she'd waited for ages to be allowed by her boss to have the evening off to see his show. "She must be real upset, she really wanted to go to your show." You told him.

"You think she'd like a signed picture of me, honey? I'll get one sent over to her straight away." Elvis told you, making you smile.

"Oh gee, that would be real kind of you, Betty would love that! Y'know, I even think she'd put it in a frame and keep it on display!" You giggled adorably. You admired how down to earth and friendly Elvis was for a famous musician.

You followed Elvis around the hotel, in awe of everything he showed you and loving every second you spent by his side as you began to feel oddly attached to him.

Elvis even taught you to play the melody for Love Me Tender on the piano, not getting mad or angry at you for messing it up - even on the twelfth try. That's when you let slip about your upbringing and how your parents would berate you and emotionally abuse you for not being able to pick things up as quickly as they wanted you to. Elvis didn't pry, but he listened intently to what you were telling him and working out how it made you behave and react and how he could use it to keep you as his own.

But when the magical day finally came to and end, the communication didn't stop then. You and Elvis would call each other all the time and he became all you thought about, day in, day out.

You visited him at the hotel several more times, spending hours together, giggling, teasing each other, reading, relaxing and trying to perfect that piano melody.

It wasn't until your sixth visit that you finally bumped into Betty again, dashing away from Jerry who would always escort you to Elvis to go see her at her waitress' post.

"Betty! Betty!" You said with a beaming smile, dashing up to her, only to be met with a less than friendly reception. Your smile dropped a little, noticing the tense atmosphere. "I haven't seen you in ages!"

"I know. I've been tryna reach ya Y/N, but there are whisperin's that you're seein' Elvis Presley? Is that true?" Betty said with slight frustration in her tone.

"Uh-huh! He's one of my best friends now I think, just like you! I even made him a bracelet and he says he's gonna wear it on stage!" You giggled.

"Why didn't you tell me you were seeing Elvis Presley? I'm meant to be your best friend Y/N and I gotta hear from Darlene, the dishwasher that my best friend is bein' snuck in to meet the King? You know how much I loved Elvis, Y/N, you knew it would hurt me if you got together with him." Betty said, making you frown with worry.

You adored Betty, you always had and it was never your intention to ever hurt her - or anyone that matter.

"M'not together with Elvis in that way, he's just a friend and I tried to tell ya but when I tried t'ring ya back, I couldn't get through. But he gave you that signed picture of him as a sorry that you couldn't come to the tour with me, remember? He likes you, promise!" You said, trying your best to make her feel better.

"What are you talkin' about Y/N? What picture? What tour?" Betty said, bewildered and frustrated.

You chewed your lip as you began to feel a bit confused at everything, Elvis and Jerry had told you about how busy Betty and the rest of the staff at the International were.

"Y'know how you were doin' the training so you couldn't come with me on the tour and Elvis and Jerry sent you that signed autograph picture of Elvis remember? Elvis told me that you told Jerry you couldn't come? He said that you'd got the autograph?" You said softly, feeling confused and anxious.

Betty sighed, shaking her head as she looked at the floor, putting the together the pieces and realising what Elvis was doing to you.

"Jesus." Betty muttered. "I wasn't invited to any tour, Y/N, the only time I've talked to Jerry Schilling was when he promised I could meet Elvis with you and then I never heard from him again and now I realise why. I didn't get any goddamn autograph."

"It must've just got lost Betty, I swear, Elvis really wants to meet you." You insisted naively.

"He's just lying to you to get on your good side, he just wants to fuck you." Betty practically spat.

Your eyes widened at the cursing, you'd never experienced Betty like this before and you were beginning to feel upset over it all. Elvis had been nothing but sweet to you.

"No he doesn't, he's not like that. He wouldn't lie to me, Betty." You said defensively.

"God, you're so dumb sometimes, you know that? He's literally manipulating you, Y/N." Betty exclaimed, the words cutting deep, prompting tears to pool in your eyes.

Many people had called you dumb before, but Betty had never been one of them. She'd been the only person you were really friends with since you'd moved to Vegas and now you'd lost her.

"M'not dumb." You said quietly, your voice cracking at the end as you turned away from who you thought was your best friend, running straight past Jerry and through to where you knew Elvis would be.

When Elvis saw you in tears, he became protective immediately, cooing at you as you engulfed him in a hug, needing his love and his attention. He wrapped his big arms around you, rubbing soothing circles in your back, whispering sweet nothings about how he was here, you were safe and everything was going to be okay.

Once you'd calmed down, you finally managed to get your words out, explaining what had happened, telling Elvis that you knew he would send the autographs and that you trusted him. Little did you know, that Betty was right all along but she'd just pushed you straight into Elvis' trap.

"A-and t-then, she, she said I was d-dumb, m'not dumb, Elvis, m'not!" You said through little mewls and sobs, revealing your biggest insecurity to him.

"Oh sweet girl, you're not dumb, I know that, you're my clever girl." Elvis comforted.

Elvis continued to soothe you from your distress, helping to calm you down with soft, tender kisses to your cheeks and the top of your head. You agreed that maybe it was best if you don't see Betty anymore, Elvis didn't want to see you upset again and told you that Betty was just jealous of you now, that she wasn't someone that you needed in your life anymore.

That night, you stayed in Elvis' bed for the first time after he easily convinced you that you were in no fit state to be taken home and left on your own.

A few months had gone by since your first few encounters with Elvis and you were firmly his little girl now. Everyone knew it, his circle, the staff at the International and it hadn't taken long for it to reach the press that Elvis Presley had a shiny new toy locked away in the biggest suite in the International.

The Vegas scene was all a bit much for you, understandably so. You didn't understand how Elvis managed it all, it was a relentless routine of shows, press, crowds, parties and wild antics and you couldn't keep up. Elvis never pressured you to take part in anything you didn't want to, in fact, he encouraged you to stay in the suite, insisting upon it sometimes, for your own good, he would say.

And you trusted Elvis beyond belief. You knew that he wanted the best for you and you ended up being quite content spending your days in your gilded cage of a luxury hotel suite.

Sometimes you wanted to leave, Elvis would never stop you, but every time you went with Elvis elsewhere, things would get out of hand and you'd both be mobbed by fans to the point that you would send Elvis that knowing, pleading look that meant you wanted to go back to your peaceful palace and escape the madness of the lobby or street - and he'd take you back up in a heartbeat.

But right now, you were on the bathroom floor, panicking after reading a magazine that had been left on one of the coffee tables that featured you and Elvis in it. It talked about you suffering 'Stockholm Syndrome', something you'd never heard before and you were frantically trying to find any kind of medicine that would explain, and treat, whatever this syndrome just happened to be.

"Baby, what are ya doin'?" "M'tryna find the right medicine." You mumbled, your mind totally preoccupied on trying to find out whatever was wrong with you and what you needed to fix this so-called 'syndrome'.

Elvis crouched down to your level, his brow furrowed with concern as he watched you routinely pick up a bottle of pills or vitamins, hold it up to your face so you could inspect the label with knitted brows and a lot of concentration before casting it aside when you knew it wouldn't be what you needed.

"Are you sick, little?" Elvis asked gently, a little worried about you.

You huffed, feeling a little bratty and grumpy at the interruptions. You were feeling anxious about what you'd read and it wasn't helping that Elvis kept badgering you with questions - even if it was actually only two questions. "Well, I don't know." You muttered crankily, your bottom lip jutting out as you looked down at the mess around you.

If Elvis wasn't so concerned about you in this moment, he'd actually rather tell you how cute you looked, all mopey and bratty in the middle of the big bathroom floor, your nightgown pooling around you as you sat of the soft shower mat that you'd moved so the cold bathroom tile wouldn't touch your skin.

"You don't know if ya sick or not? Honey, I'm no doctor, but that don't sound right t'me." Elvis chuckled at you, making you get all worked up all over again - this was no laughing matter, apparently everyone that read that magazine in America knew you were sick and you were too stupid to even know it yourself.

"It's not funny!" You snapped, crossing your arms and glaring at Elvis.

"Oh darlin', I'm only playin' with my little girl, tell me what's goin' on in that pretty, lil head of yours hm? You don't seem like yourself." Elvis said soothingly.

"Apparently..." You started but you just felt too shy to even admit that people thought you were ill and you didn't even know it yourself. You felt like that silly little girl who got pushed around by the stage all over again.

"Apparently what, Y/N?" Elvis said, trying to read your face for any indication as to what was wrong.

"Don't wanna say." You mumbled, trying not to let any tears slip.

You were just overstimulated and overwhelmed and that was only natural. You stayed in Elvis' suite for most of your days, you liked it, it was comforting and safe and most importantly, far away from the dangers of your 'old life', but it also meant that if there was any change to your routine, it could take its toll on you very easily - and finding one of the biggest celebrity magazines writing about how you were sick and Elvis knew it, was a big change to your routine that you could never have prepared for.

"You're a big girl baby, use your words. I can't help you feel better if you don't tell me what's wrong, can I?" Elvis chided gently yet firmly.

"Apparently I'm sick and you know I'm sick and I don't know I'm sick." You said with a wobbly voice.

"Who told you that you were sick honey?" Elvis said, utterly confused and bewildered by what you were saying, but his concern was growing.

You rubbed your eyes, trying to stop any stray tears from slipping as you turned your body around a little to grab the magazine from behind you with your small hands. "It says in the magazine, I got a syndrome, it's named after a place in Europe, um, Sweden, no, um, Stockholm, I think?" You said softly, your sweet voice cracking at the admission, as he tentatively took the glossy magazine from your grip.

Elvis eyes scanned the page, and they grew darker when he read the headlines and the nasty, nasty things they had written about your relationship.

'Y/N Y/L/N, Presley's girl in the tower'

'Y/L/N is evidently showing classic signs of Stockholm Syndrome, there are never sightings of her unless she's glued to Presley's side and we all know what he's like when it comes to his women.'

'Maybe one day, Y/L/N will stop seeing her Vegas life through rose-tinted glasses that Elvis has forced upon her and realise just how bad she's got it.'

Elvis could feel his blood boiling and his temper rising. He knew better than to think the press was going to write nice things about him, but he couldn't fathom how the copy of the lurid magazine had found its way into your possession.

"How did you get this, doll?" Elvis said calmly, trying not to scare you.

"It was left on the coffee table, I thought you left it for me, it had a section on pretty dresses to wear to your favourite show so I thought you'd left it for me? Or maybe it was one of the guys?" You said with glossy eyes and a slightly wet, pink nose, from your little sniffles.

Now, Elvis never intended to keep you away in his lavish suite and he truly didn't see that what he was doing was actually harming you. No, Elvis believed he was just protecting you. After you'd opened up to him about your troubles, your anxieties and your intense reluctance to trust others due to PTSD from traumatic events you'd been through in the past, Elvis just wanted to make sure no one would ever hurt you or scare you again. That's just how Elvis viewed it, he didn't realise it was manipulative or detrimental, Elvis just loved you - perhaps a little too much.

Sure, Elvis knew that it was beneficial to him to keep you away from the gaze of other men, he knew how every man would look at you, like you were sent from heaven and as soon as you opened that pretty little mouth of yours and spoke in that pretty little voice, they'd realise you really were an angel. Elvis practically shuddered at the thought of any man having any kind of access to you, he was possessive, dangerously so.

Elvis knew you were a little behind everyone else in many ways, you were inexperienced emotionally, mentally and socially and Elvis simply figured that God, or some higher power, had put you in front of him so that he could be the one to take care of you and guide you and protect you.

It didn't take long for Elvis to gain your trust and manipulate it. He listened to you and cared for you, showering you in love and affection and attention that you were so desperate for.

Whenever you needed anything, Elvis would be right there to provide it, whether it was a band aid after you clumsily fell over and scuffed your knee, someone to hide behind when a scary scene came on during a movie or just someone to give you a safe space to be yourself without judgement, Elvis was the person to do it.

You eventually grew reliant on Elvis as he began to isolate you from the world, but you didn't mind. You began to feel anxious if you weren't around the big, powerful, man and you'd seek him out at every opportunity and Elvis picked up on it quickly. He knew that if he sent for you, he knew you'd come and if he called for you, you'd run to him.

"Am I sick, Elvis?" You whispered, your face painted with worry and panic.

Elvis cooed, pulling you into his embrace and wrapping his big arms around your little frame, rocking you gently as you both sat on the bathroom tile.

"No, little one. You're not sick, it's the journalists, they're being mean to you to try and get to me and to sell a quick buck. Don't you let your little head worry one bit, you're my happy, healthy baby, aren't you?" Elvis soothed, kissing the top of your head and stroking your hair, trying to quell your unease.

You nodded, wiping away a couple of hot tears that had fallen.

"I want to hear you say it, little one." Elvis encouraged gently.

"I'm your happy, healthy baby." You said softly, looking up at him with those big round eyes that made him melt.

"There we go, that's my girl." Elvis smiled warmly, squeezing you a little.

"Why do they gotta be so mean?" You asked, fiddling with the hem of your gown, a habit that you had when you felt a bit overwhelmed or overstimulated. Elvis could tell you were emotionally exhausted.

"They need to sell their stories baby, bad news always sells more so they want us to be unhappy so that they have more t'write about." Elvis told you and your eyebrows knitted together.

"I don't think I wanna read those magazines no more Elvis." You admitted and Elvis nodded.

"I think that's a good idea baby, a clever girl like you doesn't need t'be reading nonsense about herself. Their words don't matter, as long as you're happy, that's what matters to me, lil mama." Elvis said as he rocked you gently in his arms, the slow movements combined with your sheer exhaustion from the stress and anxiety of thinking you were sick, taking its toll as you let your head rest against Elvis' chest.

"M'happy. I don't like reporters no more, I don't wanna talk to them no more." You mumbled.

"That's my good girl." Elvis cooed, letting you drift off in his arms. "I think it's time for bed sweet thing, you've gotten yourself all worked up and you're exhausted, little one." Elvis said, easily scooping you up in his arms as he took you to bed.

He thought you looked awful cute, all clingy and needy and sleepy. Elvis knew that you needed a lot of care and attention and Elvis was certain that nobody was going to give you that apart from him. You were his little Rapunzel and Elvis wasn't planning on letting you out of your gilded cage anytime soon, and you didn't mind one bit.

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