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crash-and-cure · 1 year

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Hallelujah (Yandere!Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Gif credit to @troubleinapinksuit

Summary: In which Cinderella is a no-nonsense, semi-workaholic nurse and Prince Charming is a drug-addicted rockstar on a downward spiral and newly discovered obsessive tendencies. Truly a fairy tale worthy of sin city.

A/N: Anybody ever open up requests and then disappear for like two weeks or am I alone? I promise that the next ones should be out sooner than this one at the cost of being shorter, but I came up with the opening line and I just went off. Did you know that gatorade used to be in glass bottles? It makes sense but it’s a weird thing to think about. Why am I telling you all this? Becuase I did about twenty minutes of research on this topic for a detail that ultimately did not make it into this story so this is my way of making up for it to myself.

Warnings: Depictions of a person experiencing and accepting death. Depictions and POV of a person experiencing an overdose. Non-consensual drugging for both Elvis and the reader. Dubious consent (Please note this is not related to the non-consensual drugging, this is here due to alcohol and false pretenses being involved). Yandere!Elvis so expect themes of obsessive, manipulative, and delusional behavior. Kidnapping. Explicit sexual content depicted that includes Penetrative sex (m/f), oral sex (f.recieving), and worship kink. Mentions of religion that borders on zealotry and a bible quote. Self-blame. Probably more that I am blanking on. Excessive use of “Angel” as a nickname for the reader. Please do not interact if you are under 18.

Word Count: 10.8k

My Masterlist

They don’t know, Elvis thinks as he starts to sway. These folks don’t know they’re watching a murder.

Elvis can feel it in his bones, that this stage is where he’s going to die. To be honest he felt it maybe five songs ago. He almost takes comfort in how fitting it is, that his life was a stage and now it’s gonna end on one.

He knows he should want to fight it, if not for himself then for Lisa, Priscilla, his daddy, Dodger, somebody else who relies on him, anybody really. But he's so goddamn tired of all of it, and he just wants to rest.

Not even an hour ago he had learned the hard truth about that son of a bitch. How he’s lied to him for years, and how that rat bastard clipped his wings. He had originally come out here with the intention of giving a hell of a performance, firing that asshole right up here, walking off stage and leaving Vegas forever.

But I’ll show him. I’ll show ‘em all, he thinks hazily. I’m gon’ fly away from here, maybe all the way to the rock of eternity if I can.

“I’d like to turn the house lights down,” he says like he has a hundred times before. “Now that you’ve seen me I’d like to take a look atchu.”

He had made that plan before his tongue started feeling like sandpaper in his mouth, his head started spinning like a top, and breathing became far more laborious than he remembers it ever being. He idly wonders if this is how his mama felt when she went. He can probably ask her when he sees her soon. Dying up here doesn’t scare him too much anymore now that he’s had time to accept that that is what's happening. So he figured if this was going to be his last performance, this was undoubtedly going to be his best one.

He never understood that phrase swan song, why sing when you know you’re going to die? But the better question now is why not sing when you know you’re going to die? Why not declare I’m dying and I want everybody to see it?

Let them watch, he thinks venomously as he breathes heavily into the mic for what will most definitely be the last time. Let them all witness what “Colonel Tom Parker” did to me.

“Ladies and Gentleman, you’ve been a lovely audience,” he says, hoping it doesn’t sound too slurred. “Thank you.”

In that single moment before he knows he’s going to collapse he looks one last time out into the audience he loved so much, but his blurry vision makes it impossible to see most of them. This is what he chose, this is who he chose over, everything his family, his friends, his health. The fact he can’t even see most of them, hurts him in a way that the drugs can’t mask. It’s cruel yet fitting really, this is nothing less than he deserves.

But in a sea of faces that all blur and blend together the one thing he can clearly see is you. You’re standing in the front row, your brows drawn together and concern marring your beautiful face, something he appreciates so that he can at least leave this earth knowing that at least someone cared. You're dressed in a pure white dress, something much more simple than he's used to from the women that attend his shows. Even amongst the women you’re surrounded by, you stand out as a daisy in a bed of roses, he’s glad at least the last thing he’ll ever see is something so beautiful.

It gets windy all of a sudden, as he feels cool air blow against the side of his face.

No… wait… he’s just falling.

He hasn’t been sleeping much in the past few days, but if there was ever a time to do so, now feels like the perfect time for it. He simply waits for the inevitable feeling of his head hitting the stage, though with everything he took before coming out here he doubts he’ll even be able to feel that.

But it never comes. Instead he feels his head being cradled in a soft hand, and he opens his heavy eyelids and you’re there again. He watches as you use the table to scramble onto the stage before the curtains close, and he sees you up close for the first time. He doesn’t know if it’s from the spotlight behind you outlining your silhouette or something else entirely, but having a better look at you, your beauty goes from simple to nothing short of otherworldly.

An angel? He thinks blearily. Mama always did say they would be beautiful. He can see that you’re saying something, but his head is too muddled to process any of it.

So you’re here to take me away from this awful place, he thinks with a small smile. He didn’t like to think about death too much before he was faced with. He is was a firm believer in a heaven and hell, and many things he’s done in his life have more than earned him a spot down below. But you’re here now so it couldn’t have been all that bad in the grand scheme of things.

He reaches out to touch you and you grab onto his hand, look at it for just a second. He sees your worry grow as you get in closer to his face and he feels your feather-like but oh-so warm touch to his lips that feel so cold now. He feels other hands on him now trying to lift him up, and he notices his crew around him, but all he can focus on is you. It’s hard not to when you physically keep one of his eyes open, and he sees your worry go into full blown panic.

He tries, but it’s getting hard to breathe let alone speak right now. Please, he wants to say, don’t leave me with them. All he’s able to do to convey this message is a pathetic squeeze to your hand, and suddenly you’re gone just as quickly as you came. He feels his eyes well up so afraid now he’ll die without you there.

Everybody is surrounding him now trying to speak to him, but he’s desperately looking for you, and he feels as though there’s something he’s forgetting to do but he can’t remember what. Jerry comes into view and his mouth is moving and it looks like he’s shouting but nothing is coming out. Billy is there taking off his jacket, bunching it up underneath his head but still he can’t see you. Red’s slapping his face while Charlie’s pouring water on it, though he barely feels either of them. Everybody’s trying something, trying to save him, but he’s only concerned about you finding him and taking him away from here.

All these hands are touching him, most of them he doesn’t know, or at least doesn’t recognize. Maybe he is going to hell or fuck, maybe Vegas is hell for all he knows. It makes about as much sense as everything else in his life, which he doesn’t need to worry about for much longer. He feels like there’s something he’s supposed to be doing right about now but he’s too goddamn tired for any of it anymore and he wants to close his eyes until he sees you once again.

You look more disheveled than he remembers and now you’re furiously swatting at all of the hands on him as you shout at all of them. He feels your hands on his chest now and you’re pressing down repeatedly, before he can even speculate what you’re doing he feels your lips on his and it’s the warmest he thinks he’s ever felt. The kind of warmth that fills up his whole chest…

Oh right… he needs to breathe.

It feels as though he blinks and suddenly he smells the familiar tobacco scent of the casino. He still feels like he’s on his back but he’s floating and you’re above him the harsh lights of the casino floor giving him a better look at you. I was right, he thinks. You’re going to take me away from here. Satisfied with his assumption, he closes his eyes for what feels like the final time and he can feel his lips curve into a smile as your lips meet his once more.

Suddenly what feels like a bolt of lightning strikes through him, and his eyes are wide open again. For a few seconds, everything looks and sounds so much clearer, his muscles seem to have finally woken up, and his breathing has become far steadier. Is this what Captain Marvel Jr. felt like when he would say Shazam? It had to be because in those few moments he felt as though he could take on the world, especially when he finally gets a good look at you.

You’re hovering over him and the smile you give him would have made him weak in the knees if they weren’t already so. He reaches out, desperate to touch you but he feels darkness creep back into the edge of his vision once more. He knows he’s going to pass out right before he does, but he still tries only barely grazing your neck before the weight of his arm becomes too much to bear. But his hand catches on something before it eventually gives way and it finally falls.

He feels something in his hand but he’s far too tired to speculate, only using the last of both his conscious thoughts and strength to grip on tight to it. But he loses the strength to even keep his eyes open and he blacks out.

He can’t open his eyes, but he’s awake. Though that comes and goes and even then there isn’t much to say about it. He hears a mix of familiar and unfamiliar voices, the bed and sheets he’s laying in aren’t as comfy as he’s used to, and all he can smell is an oddly sterile smell. But something he can definitely feel is your parting gift in his grasp. Everytime he feels conscious he would focus on that and spend his energy trying to figure out what it was in his hand.

Ironically enough what does bring him back to the waking world is when he feels a small hand trying to remove it from him. His eyes snap open to try to find the culprit only to be met with his own blue eyes staring back at him.

“DADDY!” Lisa Marie sobs into his chest. “You’re awake!”

The next hour or so is a flurry of activity with doctors and nurses surrounding him asking him questions and checking the various machines around him. Now that he’s awake he is able to get a good look at what you left him: A small crescent made of smooth white stone and a very broken gold chain.

You were real, he thinks, practically giddy before he’s quickly brought back to Earth as he searches the room only to find you’re not there. Even seeing Priscilla after so long since the divorce doesn’t do much to soften his disappointment at your absence.

“‘Cilla what the hell happened that night?” he would ask after Lisa had fallen asleep tucked into his side. He had avoided the topic as long as he could stand by this point, the doctors keeping quiet about it.

She takes a long sigh, her eyes glassy, before she gazes out the window and upon seeing the International in the distance she hardens herself for what she has to say. “You stopped breathing. From what the doctors here told me, Dr. Nick gave you way too much of something and you just stopped. There was a girl in the front row that was able to keep you goin’ until the ambulance got there.”

“Who was she? The girl who saved me.”

Priscilla shrugs at this, “Just some nurse.”

She has never been more wrong about anything, Elvis decides at that moment. “What was her name?” Elvis questions, maybe a little harsher than needed.

Priscilla looks slightly taken aback at his intensity, “I don’t know Elvis. I got here the day after you collapsed and when I learned what she did, I wanted to thank her personally. But even the guys say she was long gone by the time they got here the same night.”

This makes him incredibly sad, that you would leave him so soon after you saved him.

“Elvis,” Priscilla says severely. “I’m not going to put Lisa through this again. So either you shape up and go to that place in San Diego, or…” she cracks at this one. “Or you’ll never see either of us again.” It’s certainly not a light threat for her to make, Elvis realizes, but nobody wants to watch a person slowly kill themself. And as he rubs his thumb along the pendant of your necklace, he realizes why you had to go.

Jerry finally came to see him the next day, looking worse than Elvis felt. Him and his father had been given the hard job of damage control for the whole incident, as Elvis has now found himself without a manager. Apparently some of the “medicine” in Dr. Nick's bag was at best less than reputable and at worst fully illegal, and when pressed Nick pointed the finger at The Colonel. Both of them were taken into custody and were currently under investigation, but considering the world of shit the two have found themselves in, it looks like their best bet will be to pay damages and more.

In real time Elvis heard as their house of cards fell apart, and suddenly the prospect of his life didn’t seem as daunting as it did when he accepted his death a week ago. Even if he had died, this was all inevitably meant to come out, the only difference being he wouldn’t have been here to see it.

But he is still here, all thanks to you. His Angel.

In one fell swoop, you not only saved his life, but made his life worth living again. Even if you were of this Earth, there is no doubt in his mind that you were heaven-sent. The lord works in mysterious ways and ain’t no way this was all a coincidence. You were meant to be in that audience. He was meant to have gotten to this point. You were both destined to be.

To him the message couldn’t be clearer: He had to leave Vegas, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to leave you.

“Jerry this is it. I gotta get clean,” Elvis says, clutching onto the token you left for him. This has been a long time coming, he didn’t listen when he was told the obvious by Priscilla, by his boys, even by himself. “‘Cilla told me about this place in San Diego, and I think I best go.”

“Course, EP,” he says with a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You take the time you need, and I’ll handle everything from the outside.”

“You’re a good man,” he says as he hesitates about what he’s going to request next. Of course Jerry is no stranger to a task like this, but this ain’t like those other times. Because you’re not just some girl he wants to fuck between shows, you’re his angel. But he himself won’t be able to do this while he’s getting clean. “While I’m in there, I need you to do somethin’ for me” Elvis said, surer in his next course of action than he has been in years.

The next few months were hard, honestly if it weren’t for knowing that he had to get better before he could see you again, he’s not sure he would have lasted. So he followed all the rules, took what the doctors gave him, went to therapy, the whole nine yards. There were even days where he could hardly get out of bed, it was so bad.

But it was you, his angel, that gave him strength. Those days in rehab when he felt so cold to the point of shaking, he thought of your warm touch, and he could feel himself steady. When he felt his chest getting tight, he imagined your lips on his breathing life back into him, and he would breathe easier. The nights when he could do nothing but pace around his room restless and irritable, he would press your necklace to his lips and recite a prayer to you, and he would dream sweet dreams of a life with you. He made vows of loving and cherishing you once he found you, and promises of everything the two of you would do once he got clean. How the both of you would never see that hellish place again, and how happy you would be together.

Every single success he had in rehab was because of you, but as his leave date approached he still worried about how long he would be able to keep this up without you. However he trusts Jerry, that if you weren’t already back at Graceland, then at the very least he would know where to find you.

But Jerry failed. He couldn’t find you, and Elvis’ subsequent rage was one for the history books. All of them had the gall to be surprised at his reaction, having never seen him getting so worked up about a girl.

They don’t understand, he thought. You’re not just some girl. You’re my angel.

The only thing that was able to reel him back was their hail mary of a plan to lure you out. The closest any of them could come was that you were in some way associated with the ER he ended up at, but nothing else. He hated the idea of going back to Vegas, but if it brought you back to him, so be it. You walked into hell to save him, so how could he do any less for you?

The days leading up to his last Vegas show, he spends time with Lisa Marie, knowing that he won’t be able to do so again until he’s found you. On that last night she ends up asking for a story, and he could only really think of one that was worth telling. He told her the story of the foolish king, the evil wizard, and the beautiful angel. How the angel was sent by the lord himself to save the king from the evil wizards clutches. And it was with her help was the King finally able to banish the evil wizard forever.

“And did they live happily ever after Daddy?” she asked while drawing you as he described.

He pauses at that and looks down as he fidgets with your necklace before he says, “They sure will baby girl.”

—-----------------------

You were not having a good time.

Of course you would be the one responsible for patching up almost ten men after a bachelor party ended in a knife fight. Only in Vegas, you think as you stitch up your third man that night. You scowl slightly at the crooked sutures before you, but you try to hide that considering that the man before you is one of the more affable (read:sober) ones in the group.

I’m out of practice, you think bitterly. Luckily the rest of your lot seem to only have surface wounds that just require bandaging, so you don’t have to see your work get progressively sloppier. Even though you had been back for awhile since your leave, you had been readjusting to the pace of the ward, and tonight was the first night Verna, your Senior Nurse, trusted you to handle more than administrative work.

You’re not sure if you can blame your poor job entirely on being out of practice as there is still some stiffness in your now mostly healed hand, though you’re not about to go saying anything lest Verna hear anything about it. That traitor, you think, who turned what was supposed to be a two week mandatory vacation, and added a three-month paid medical leave for a broken hand, in spite of your protests. So the last thing you want or need is more time off.

What stings the most about the injury to your hand was that it wasn’t the initial injury that did the most damage it was the fact that you kept using it that really fucked it up. And Verna was able to point that out as a metaphor for why you were in desperate need of a break.

Though it’s not like you had a choice but to keep using it that night. And in all honesty you would do it all over again.

Once you finish up on the lot of them and have them on their way out, all under some light painkillers and apparently the best of friends again, you figure now is as good a time as any to take your lunch. It’s a Friday night, from experience you know things are only going to get progressively crazier tonight, and eating now as opposed to later is the way to go. So you make your way to the cafeteria for the blandest food in the world, and find your work mom.

When you first began at this ER, Verna had all but immediately adopted you as her own, and what started out as an overbearing and slightly annoying mentor relationship, turned into a more endearing friendship than you could have imagined. Though that didn’t mean she still didn’t have those overbearing tendencies of hers, as evidenced by her previous crusade to get you to finally use your accrued vacation days. And the way she’s practically buzzing in her seat tells you that you haven’t seen the last of it.

“What are you planning?” you question as you sit down with your food.

“What do you mean?” she says feigning innocence.

“You have that same look in your eye that you get when you’re scheming something that will inevitably teach me a lesson about my life and/or job,” you say, self-aware as to how these things usually go.

“Bones, you’re being paranoid,” she all but sings, and you can’t help but roll your eyes at the use of your nickname. Nurse Bones the rest of the staff call you, after the Star Trek character, and you can’t say it doesn’t fit. Abrasive and brusque is how you’re usually described by patients, and admittedly you could stand to work on your bedside manner. But to be fair it tends to be the very thing that’ll keep most patients alive. Due to your stubborn attitude, you have found that you have a knack for getting answers out of even the most belligerent patients, which has done wonders in saving time and reducing the likelihood of accidentally causing more damage due to a patient lying.

You narrow your eyes at her, but she still maintains that innocent smile.

“By the way, you have next Friday off,” she casually drops, while taking a sip of her coffee.

“Goddamn it, Verna.”

She puts her hands up in defense with an easy smile. “If you want you can think of it as work considering you’re going to be representing the hospital itself.”

You sigh in defeat knowing you can’t say no to her. “What is this all about?”

“Oh just about a certain rockstar who's doing his final performance in the city and he wants the entire medical staff that saved his life present,” she says, all the while, still able to maintain the coy act.

It admittedly takes you longer than it should to put the pieces together because you honestly haven't thought about that night in a while. When your sisters had come to you with the extra ticket to the concert you had been excited for it, even going so far as to plan for it to be the kick off to the vacation Verna had been bullying you into taking.

“You’re one of my best nurses in the ward,” she had argued. “The last thing I need is for you to get burnt out from working too hard.”

You didn’t expect much from the vacation itself, you just wanted to sleep, see a couple movies, maybe finally get around to saying yes to that drink with that cute x-ray tech.

Only as usual the lord himself laughed at your plans. The girl you asked to sub your scheduled shift came down with a bad stomach flu, and was unable to make it, forcing you to work a double. And even when you were officially over with your shift, you were reluctant to leave due to how full the waiting room looked. If it weren’t for Verna all but shoving you into the cab meant for the International, putting a twenty in your hand, and ordering you to have fun, you probably would have skipped the concert entirely.

You were still dressed for work, so you were forced to try your luck with one of the shops at the casino, and the best you could find was a white sundress. You usually try to avoid white, because something about it being the color of your uniform just made you antsy as though you were still on duty. But the alternative was going to a show in your dowdy nursing gown, so you ended up buying it anyway.

When you were able to meet up with your sisters, they were both in contrast dressed to the nines, making you feel even more underdressed. In spite of the less than ideal start to the night, you were determined to enjoy yourself. After all this concert was supposed to be the official marker to the start of your vacation, and it was also fulfilling one of your childhood dreams of seeing him live. And while your “love” for him had cooled since you were 12, that didn’t mean you were any less excited when one of your sisters had won front row seats to his show.

When he walked out onto that stage all your troubles were seemingly forgotten and you could focus on this captivating man. He was nothing short of amazing to see live, and you truly believe that your younger self simply didn’t think big enough when picturing what it would be like to see him up close and personal, especially with how good the seats you got were. He took all of your expectations of it and blew them all away.

Then he started getting a little wobbly.

Then he started getting very wobbly.

Then Elvis fucking Presley had the audacity to nearly slip into a coma right in front of you.

“Ok, but… I wasn’t officially on the emergency team, so I don’t technically count,” you say in an attempt to worm your way out of the night off, all the while stabbing at your potato salad in your frustration.

“Ok, but technically,” she teases. “You belong there more than anybody considering you did pretty much all the work of stabilizing him.”

“I was just doing what anybody would have done,” you downplay.

“Y/N, you were literally surrounded by hundreds of people that night, and nobody acted like you did. Hell not even that doctor that was there did what you did.”

You huff at that, because thinking about that fucking doctor will always get you heated. You’ve encountered your fair share of inadequate doctors before, but Elvis’ personal physician crossed over into cartoonishly incompetent. What kind of doctor who is not only prescribing morphine, let alone over-prescribing it, doesn’t carry any goddamn naloxone on him. And just as the cherry on this very fucked up sundae he tried to use an amphetamine in an effort to cancel out the opioid effects. That is the kind of logic that has brought many users to the ER or worse the morgue, and you at least expected better from a trained medical professional.

But nothing pissed you off more than the penguin looking man, who you would later learn is/was Elvis’ manager, asking if he would still be able to do the midnight performance. You remember just giving him a look, all the while maintaining your rhythm on Elvis’ chest, and you were able to make that man take a step back in fear. The way he stood there and watched as he shook like a leaf, you could tell whose fault this was.

Truly that entire night experience should serve as a testament to both your focus and your patience. Though you did have to remind yourself after every stupid question and comment that came from either of those mens mouths, that you had to focus on preventing brain damage in Elvis, and not try to induce it in those two. You were so fucking close to trying it when Penguin man had the audacity to criticize you on being too rough with your CPR technique, but lucky for him, the EMTs had finally gotten there.

On the other hand, the luckiest break you had all night was that you were familiar with one of the paramedics, so you were allowed inside the ambulance as an extra set of hands, and because no immediate family could be found. After you were able to stabilize him with the Naloxone and the paddles, you were able to catch up with Verna at the ER, and warn her of what that stupid doctor was trying to do back there.

Though by the time you had gotten there, the adrenaline had subsided and you finally noticed the throbbing pain in your hand. You had caught his head before it could hit the floor, which you knew was the equivalent to a bowling ball dropping on to your hand, so you’re not surprised that it did cause some damage to you. You put a brace on your hand and end up sleeping in Verna’s office until her shift ended and she could take you home. The injury turned out to be more severe than you initially thought, and you were put on Medical leave against your will for months.

“How ‘bout this Bones,” she says. “As repayment for losing your necklace, you’ll be my date to the concert.”

You know better than most that Verna is not one to be messed with, and the fact that she’s resorted to guilt tripping this early, means she desperately wants you to go. The necklace in question is the one she gave you after your first successful year in the department, something she gives all the nurses that choose to stay put in the hell that is Vegas’ premier Emergency Ward. Each one was unique to the recipient and yours, in reference to your nickname, was a small ivory stone shaped like horns held by a delicate gold chain. So delicate in fact you somehow lost it somewhere between here and the International with no clear picture as to when exactly it happened.

You let out a long sigh before conceding. In response she mockingly rubs her hands together like a supervillain, and says, “Haha, my dastardly plan to get you to have a fun night has worked.”

“I had fun at the last show,” you argue.

“Y/N, I worry about you if that was your definition of fun.” she says, and you throw a pea at her. “Also I hear rumors that a certain x-ray tech also got a ticket.” she whispers conspiratorially.

This does get a bashful smile out of you. If you can take one thing away from that forced medical leave was that you did end up having those drinks with Ricky. And a few more after that. And then some dinner. Currently you’re in that awkward “what are we” stage that neither of you are too eager to be the ones to define. But hopefully this concert will be the turning point for that.

“By the way, we were asked to wear all white,” Verna casually drops, as she walks away from the table.

“Goddamn it, Verna,” you curse with a mouthful of jello.

The week passes faster than you would have liked, and suddenly it’s friday night. You didn’t really have the time nor the motivation to buy yet another white dress that would sit in your closet, so you end up once again in front of the International in the same sundress, though this time with notably better company.

Though that feeling of being underdressed is somehow worse considering who could actually afford to go to his final concert this time around. His near death experience and the accusations that his previous doctor and manager were facing had caused his fans to rally around him after this, and factoring in that this is going to be his last performance stateside, the tickets to this show were perhaps some of the most expensive in the history of Vegas. There were rumors that even the nosebleeds would cost you somewhere in the $70 range, so you could only imagine what your front row seats would have cost. But the fact that these tickets apparently sold out within minutes was a testament to how beloved he still is.

It’s not exactly a secret amongst the staff that you had been the mysterious good samaritan at the concert, but by the time you had gotten back from leave, Elvis being in your ward had become old news. You weren’t exactly eager to spill, and no one was curious enough to ask. Though you did get a few questions this week from some of the more vulgar nurses asking if you had tried to slip a little tongue when giving him mouth to mouth. You laughed it off and half-jokingly replied, how if anything he did. You’re seated between Verna and Ricky, who had the honor of making sure you hadn’t accidentally cracked a rib when performing CPR on the King, farther away from the stage than you were last time, though you weren’t too cut up about it. You’re one for one for people nearly dying when you’re in the front row, and you figure if there’s a repeat performance tonight someone else can take over this time.

As you’re talking to Ricky as to what songs he’s hoping to hear, you don’t so much as hear but feel the familiar horns start to blare, building anticipation amongst the crowd, and evidently yourself as you’re teased over the little dance you’re doing in your seat. And as the music starts to build, you have to remind yourself that you’re still technically at a work event, so you can’t get too wild. Though with the atmosphere you find yourself in, you can’t guarantee your best behavior if you can get Ricky alone.

Then he finally steps out and it’s just as magnificent as you remember. He looks alot better this time around, far more sure footed in his steps and the white jumpsuit with its gold accents stood as a nice contrast to his tanned skin, and you and the rest of the crowd show your love when you see the cape in all it’s angelic winged glory. Even the light sheen of sweat already on his face is doing wonders of making him look as though he’s glowing, as opposed to sickly like his last show.

Considering how well you thought his last concert was when he was high off his ass on morphine and on death’s door, it’s no surprise how incredible this one is, when he’s far more present and alert this time around. Though more being the operative word, as he does seem to be somewhat distracted this time around, and he does seem to hover around the two tables the hospital staff are at.

You can hardly fault him for feeling a little uneasy about being back on stage again after he nearly died on one. Oddly enough you can even see the logic of having an entire medical team ready at a moment's notice for his return if nothing but for the comfort of that extra level of security.

But you’re not here to analyze why a famous man does what he does, you’re here to have a good time, so that’s what you do; You sing, you dance, you laugh at Elvis’ jokes, you flirt with Ricky, you take advantage of your tables covered tab, the whole nine yards. All too soon though it feels like the concert wraps up quicker this time, though you figure he’s simply eager to get his world tour started as soon as possible.

“I’d like to turn the house lights down,” he says.“Now that you’ve seen me I’d like to take a look atchu.” This seems familiar, you think flippantly. “Before I go, I wanna give a special thanks to a few people up front here. The emergency staff of UMC Hospital, Ladies and Gentleman.”

There is a resounding round of applause for your group as the spotlight hits the tables, and you’re just drunk enough to not retreat from the praise and recognition and simply give a cursory wave to the crowd. “But there’s one special lil’ lady here that deserves recognition. Without her folks, I can promise I wouldn’t be here tonight.”

You look around expecting to see Priscilla or maybe even his daughter somewhere around here, but you’re quickly wrenched from your thoughts as you feel the table beneath your elbows jostle a little. You look back toward the stage and find that Elvis no longer occupies it. Instead he is walking on top of your table and giving no regard to the glasses or items atop it, your co-workers acting quickly to save what they can. Before you can even put together who exactly he’s walking toward, you find the king of rock and roll crouching down before you.

“What’s your name angel?” he asks you with the biggest grin on his face, before putting the mic in front of you. The room itself is dead silent, everybody apparently eager to hear your answer, and Elvis, even more so, with the way he’s looking at you. You even move slightly to the left in some vain hope that he’s talking to someone behind you only for the mic to follow you. Whatever drunkenly warm feelings about attention you had quickly vanished, and the only thing stopping you from crawling under the table is that you’re not sure he wouldn’t follow.

You’re floundering and also painfully aware of the seconds that are ticking away, making your pause all the more uncomfortable, and you’re barely able to squeak out your name.

Oh my god, do I really sound like that? You think mortified after hearing your answer repeated through the amplifiers.

“Beautiful,” he says, his eyes shining and he looks at you as though you hang the stars themselves. “Folks, y’all don’t know it, but Y/N here is my very own Guardian Angel.” His statement generating “awws” from the crowd. “Last time I saw her, she left something with me and I think it’s high time I give it back.”

And with a flick of his wrists he produces a gold chain with a bright white pendant at the bottom of it, and you’re stunned when you recognize it, truly believing it was lost forever to you. It’s mind boggling to think it had been with him this entire time, having figured it was in a ditch or melted down by this point. You reach out for it hoping this will be the end of the interaction and you can begin to work on forgetting this ever happened, only for him to pull back.

“...but only if she goes to dinner with me first,” he says mischievously. At his proposition the audience responds with a series of wolf whistles and applause, which only amps up your anxiety of being seen, and it’s made all the worse when some women (some of whom you know) are trying to answer yes for you.

Pressure and stress is something you’re familiar with, but the scrutiny you're currently under not only with your co-workers, but an entire room full of strangers makes you want to shrivel up and die. This feeling is only further perpetuated by the dazzling grin he’s giving you. Words fail you and you doubt anything that comes out of your mouth will be even the least bit coherent, so you instead shake your head in the affirmative before you bury your face in your hands.

“She said yes folks,” he says, his grin going from ear to ear at this point, and the crowd goes wild. This is all punctuated by the return of the music as Elvis winks at you and makes his way back to the stage. The music itself stands in stark contrast to how you’re feeling, sounding bold and triumphant, as you’re escorted backstage trying to hunch in on yourself and avoid being seen. You’re even more mortified as you recognize the lyrics he’s singing, and you purposefully try to avoid looking at him.

Take my hand

Take my whole life too

For I can’t help

Fallin’ in love with you

You’re used to the break neck speed that comes with the territory of working in the ER, but even this is going far too fast for you. Not even five minutes ago you were trying to figure out if you were too dressed up for a burger with Ricky, now you’re standing alone in a penthouse suite waiting for the most famous man in the world for a … a date?

Oh god Ricky, you remember. How are you going to explain this to him? Things were going so well, and you planned to finally sleep with him tonight, but now this happened. And oh… fuck, that’s what people are going to assume what’s happening right now isn’t it? Given Elvis’ reputation, you can deny until you're blue in the face that nothing happened and you’re still unlikely to be believed.

…Because nothing will happen, you’ll eat, you’ll make small talk, he’ll thank you for your part in his life being saved, and you’ll never have to think of this night again. It wasn’t so much that the necklace meant that much to you, but you weren’t exactly in a place to say no to him at that moment. So maybe if you leave right now…

Your fleeting thoughts of running are interrupted by the hand suddenly on your shoulder, making you nearly jump out of your skin. “Woah there angel, settle down now. It’s just me,” he says softly.

That’s hardly comforting, you think. You open your mouth determined to leave at this point only for him to hold up a finger to you before grabbing a folded piece of paper from the piano and handing it to you. You’re hesitant to open it until he says, “my daughter begged me to give this to you if I ever saw you again.” You unfurl it to find what is clearly a child's drawing of an angel with a nurse cap, though with seemingly your general coloring as well as your necklace. The bottom reads “thAnK U 4 sAVing mY dAdY, love lisA.” You can’t help but crack a smile at this, and you feel yourself lose some of that tension you walked in with.

He seems pleased with your reaction, rubbing the back of his neck as he explains how his daughter came up with the angel moniker for you and it kind of stuck for him, considering how he didn’t know your name.

“It’s fine,” you wave away. “I get trying to explain it to her in a way she’d understand.”

“She’s been sayin’ for awhile now that she wants to be a nurse when she grows up,” he admits with a bit of a chuckle. You can’t help the way your heart melts at that. “Hope you don’t mind, I ordered food already. I-I figured you’d wouldn’t want to eat so late.”

“I don’t mind,” you reassure, amused at his slight stutter. “The job’s made me a bit of a night owl, so I’m more on lunch time right now.”

“Guess we got time then,” he says, settling down with a bottle of wine at a table by the window.

“I guess we do,” you say, unable to hold back a smile..

The longer you stick around though, the easier it is to talk to him, his hair is messy and he’s out of the jumpsuit so it’s easy to forget that you are talking to the one and only Elvis Presley. So engrossed in your conversation you hardly notice when the food arrives, and the two of you hardly touch it. He looks at you with that same dopey smile as you talk about your life, your job, anything really. And he reciprocates talking about the places he’s been, the places he’s going and beyond. He even bashfully admits he came back to Vegas for the last time in order to find you and thank you properly.

“I swear Angel, I tried lookin’ for ya after I got out,” he sighs, sending a dirty look at the city right outside the window, his face highlighted by the neon lights below. “I was afraid this godforsaken city swallowed ya whole.”

“Yeah Vegas’ll do that to you,” you commiserate with him, a smile on your face gazing out the window. “It’s an absolute cesspit here.”

“You ever think about leavin’?”

“No, not really,” you say, hardly needing a second to answer, as you take a sip of your drink. You grew up here so you hold no illusions to the glitz and glamor that the city holds. Not to mention your job primarily consists of dealing with patients who are often the byproduct of this awful city. But this is still the city where you were born, where you’ve made your life. A life you’re honestly proud of.

He looks taken aback by your response, and in that moment you have the pleasure of seeing a man who has been nothing but confident and sure of himself stumble over his words. “Re-really? There ain’t no place in this whole world y-you’d rather be.”

“Nah,” you say casually, holding two fingers up. “There are two types of people who live here, ‘This place is a pit and I’m leaving’ or ‘this place is a pit and I’m never fucking leaving.’ No real reason beyond just… liking it here,” you guess shrugging your shoulders. “Besides, I just got back from medical leave, I think I've had enough of a vacation for awhile,” you say, your drink having loosened your tongue.

“What happened?” he asks, his brow furrowed, looking genuinely concerned for you.

“Oh, umm…” you say, sucking your teeth. And that’s really the elephant in the room neither of you are addressing. The fact that you’re only here because of what you did for him. “Well I kinda broke my hand… that night… when I caught you.” You follow this with perhaps the most awkward laugh, which you quickly cutoff when you see the guilty look on his face.

As you're floundering for some sort of recovery, he gently takes your previously injured hand in his, as he places a small kiss to the back of it. “I’m sorry I put you through so much trouble.” he whispers against your hand. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“Oh don’t worry about that,” you say, trying to even out your breathing, suddenly going from pleasantly to too warm in a matter of moments. “I would have done the same for anybody else.”

“But not anybody else coulda done whatchu did.” he says. “It’s almost sounds like it was all meant to be,”

“That’s one way of looking at it,” you say, sipping your drink. “But if this city has taught me anything in all the years I’ve lived here, it is that luck, good or bad, has its hands in almost everything.”

“You’re too good for this rotten city,” he says, softly rubbing his thumb along your knuckles, his ocean blue eyes piercing into your own. “Y/N, this city ain’t good for no one,” he says. “You gotta get you outta here.”

“Elvis…” you say, putting down your drink. “I’m not saying this city is good, but I’m not saying it’s all bad. It just… is. And I’m fine here. I’ve built my life here and I’m really not interested in leaving.”

“Not even for me?”

That catches you off guard and you’re at a loss for words, because who says that to someone they’ve only just met. And instead of giving an actual answer, you give a short, nervous laugh, and make a comment as to how funny he is. Though internally you’re questioning if his eyes have always been this intense.

“You know when I was in rehab,” he trails on looking at your connected hands. “That necklace a yours, got me through some of the darkest times I been through.”

You swallow thickly at his admission. “Well rehab is one of the hardest things to do. If you want to hold on-”

“No, no Angel,” he chuckles in that deep baritone of his, as he removes the pendant from his wrist. “I’m a man of my word. And I promised to give it back.” He stands up from the sofa, and holds out his hand to you. “But first, I at least want to see you wearin’ it.”

You’re not really thinking anymore, or maybe your thoughts are being drowned out by your pounding heart beat, as you stand up and turn away from him, allowing him to put it on you. Whether it’s the heat radiating off of him from his close proximity to you or the way his hands feel brushing lightly against your neck, your decision is made even before he plants a kiss behind your ear.

Your relationship prospects with Ricky are shot, most of the people you work with saw you leave with him, and they are all gonna assume what they want about what the two of you did. So why not do what you’re going to be accused of? Really there are other reasons not to, but they all die as soon as your lips meet his.

It only occurs to you now that this is not the first time this has happened, but you could hardly compare either experience. The mouth that ravages your own is worlds different from the cold lips you breathed life back into, and you find your hand even wandering into his open shirt as you relish in the now strong and steady heartbeat beneath your palm. He stops at that, noticing what you’re doing, and you see his eyes go glassy for a moment before he goes right back to kissing you, though this time around it’s slower, more… tender, as he leads you back to his bed.

He probably has reasons of his own for this, though you struggle to understand them. Initially you think, rather crudely, that since he’s leaving in the morning, never to return, you suppose you’ll be his final ‘what happens in Vegas.’ But everything he does once you’re in his bed doesn’t quite match up with this assessment.

The way he touches you, it’s not sex, it’s not fucking, it’s not even love making, if you had to call it anything, more akin to worship. Leaving not a single inch of your body untouched as he undresses you, he takes his time to kiss every spot and blemish on you, even paying special attention to the hand he had inadvertently broken, as though in penance. He whispers something into your skin with each kiss, and you’re not able to make out what, but he has an almost reverent tone, as though he were praying. Though any curiosity you had for his words is quickly lost when you feel him bury his face in your cunt.

He’s still fully dressed, you notice, the silky caress of his shirt on the back of your thighs, as you feel his wicked tongue spear inside you. The idea of being so exposed is usually horrifying to you, but now, here with him, you don’t even think about that, truly lost in the pleasure he’s giving you, and you’re sure to be very vocal in your appreciation. He eventually removes his mouth, and you let out an embarrassing little whimper at the loss until you feel the cool metal of his rings brushing your burning core. You can only imagine what kind of image you make right now writhing and unraveling on this man's fingers, wearing nothing but your necklace. From the pleased rumble that emanates from his chest he approves wholeheartedly as he sits on his knees to get a better look at you. He even goes so far as to readjust your necklace so it rests prettily between your breasts, looking for that perfect image of you.

Much of the night proceeds like that, his own pleasure apparently put to the side, as he adjusts you into whatever position he cares to see; sideways, on all fours, above his face, on your knees with your hands holding the headboard, standing up with your back against the window, etc. For his part, he simply watches you fall apart over and over again on his tongue, his fingers, or whatever body part of his you wrap your legs around.

You begin to suspect that this is some fucked up form of repayment for what you did, and several times through out you quite literally paw at his belt in an attempt to get him to join in. Each time he gently takes a hold of your hands, reassuring you each time he’s focused on you alone.

What finally gets him to crack is when you beg tears streaming down your face, “please I need it,” your voice whiny and your eyes frantic to behold all of him. You bring your mouth to his as you whisper, “I need you.” He’s quick to strip down after your plea, and seeing him fully leaves your mouth as dry as the mojave. For both personal and professional reasons, you’re no stranger to the male anatomy, but seeing his is… baffling, simply put.

You feel like a teenager fantasizing in your room about your favorite celebrity again, simply due to how perfect this all feels. Too perfect in fact. You’ve lived long enough to know that things that are too good to be true, usually are, especially in this town. But these lessons are far from your mind as he goes at an agonizingly slow pace to push himself into you, reaching depths you’ve never even imagined ever reaching. You’re left a panting mess beneath him savoring the delicious stretch he’s causing you, and you’re only quieted as he takes your lips once again.

Once you’ve had time to adjust to him being buried to the hilt within you, you beg him to move as you feel that knot in the pit of your belly begin to form once again. He seems charmed by how needy you’ve become, going at a near snail pace within you, telling you to say how you were his. So desperate were you, that you agreed without even thinking about it.

He rewards you with a sweet kiss, as he starts to pick up the pace. You throw your head from side to side as aching whimpers escape your lips, eyes squeezed shut because dear lord, does he know how to move his hips. He takes a hold of your chin, “look at me Angel. Look only at me.” he orders, his lips barely brushing your ear. You're in no position to argue, and especially as he pins your wrists above your head.

He’s so beautiful, you think to yourself as you open your eyes to see him; the light shimmer of sweat on his brow, the slope of his nose, the fullness of his lips, truly this man is too good to be true. But as he picks up the pace to be far more brutal and punishing, you become lost to all the sensations he’s causing you. Despite the tears streaming down your face you can’t say you’re not enjoying yourself, reveling in his incoherent whispers in your ear and begging for him to fill you up over and over again.

By the time you both finished, the two of you have been at it for what feels like hours at this point, and it is only now as the early morning rays of the sun hit the side of his face do you realize how late (or early?) it is. And as he takes in the image of you below him in the light of day for the first time, your angelic image is only further cemented in his mind, he gives you a tender kiss as he has the curtains closed and he’s absolutely sure of what he has to do next.

You wake up to the sound of voices and rummaging in the other room, and the taste of regret on your tongue. Regret tastes a lot like dehydration, you think, helping yourself to both the full glass of water and the tylenol on the nightstand. The curtains and your pounding head make it impossible to tell what time it is or how long you slept. You know you’re in no condition to work, but contemplate going anyway, as you can only imagine what kind of shit you’re going to get from doing so. But with the state of your back right now, you don’t really have a choice.

You’re using the low light peeking beneath the door to gather what you can of your outfit, though as you blindly scour the room, you would settle for your dress and purse at this point. Your head is fuzzy at best so you hardly notice that the white dress you put on is completely different from the one you arrived in, nor did you pay any mind to the salty aftertaste on the back of your tongue that the pills left.

There’s no getting around that you’re about to embark on the most humiliating walk of shame in history, but you were at least grateful that he hadn’t been there when you woke up. You’re glad to have avoided that awkward encounter at the very least. But this small mercy was quickly snatched from you as you open the door only to walk right into the back of the man you were hoping to avoid.

Wait… how did I miss that? You think blearily. You don’t have the luxury of an answer as he quickly turns around and you watch as his face lights up upon seeing you.

“Sorry for waking you Angel,” he says, as he wraps an arm around your waist to give you a quick peck on the lips. “Just had to pack up a few things before we go.” While you aren’t someone prone to having one night stands, you also can’t think of anything to say to this man whom you’re never going to see again. At least he won’t see you, while you’ll probably have to live the rest of your life seeing him as a celebrity.

“It’s fine” you say as you look around the room behind him for your purse. A hopeless endeavor as there are far too many men in the room, who all quickly avert their eyes from you. Though you do see it’s well past sunset, and that just adds to your embarrassment.

“How ya feelin’ Angel?” you hear from him as he puts a hand on your forehead. The cool metal of his rings feel heavenly, but you are also a woman on a mission. The mission being get the hell out of here.

“I’m okay,” you answer, pulling away. “I-I hope you don’t mind I used the aspirin on the nightstand.”

You see his smile lift ever so slightly at that, “That’s why it was there Darlin’. Why don’t I take you home now?”

“Oh you don’t have to do that,” you wave away as he’s walking you to the door.

“You don’t gotta worry Angel,” he reassures you, his arm already slung around your shoulder. “I don’t mind one bit. Hell it’s probably on my way.”

“...ok.” You answer, unenthusiastic at the prospect of having to see him more. But being seen by others as you are right now doesn’t sound any more appealing.

As you're making your way down the hallway with him, you remember your purse that is back in the room. And as you swivel around, you feel the night hitting you all at once, and you’re forced to lean on Elvis to keep your balance. He catches you and with an arm around your waist he helps you to the elevator.

“Wait,” you say weakly. “My purse.”

“Don’t worry, Angel,” he says, kissing your hand. “It’s downstairs already.”

That’s not where I left it, you think, when you do in fact find it already in the backseat of the town car. You tell the driver where your apartment is before pressing your head to the cool glass of the window, your eyes closed. Even with the tinted windows, the neon lights of the strip are doing a number on your eyes (later you would wish that you had chanced it and gotten one last look at home). You don’t understand how you’re this tired considering how much you’ve already slept and you simply lean in further into him, waiting for that aspirin to kick in.

You’re not sure as to how much time passes, but eventually he does help you out of the car and up some stairs. You’ll kick yourself later for not realizing sooner where you were until you felt Elvis start to buckle in your seatbelt. You open your eyes, but even with your blurry vision you recognize that this is definitely not your apartment.

You struggle at your harness, but your fingers aren’t cooperating whatsoever and you’re left helplessly pawing at it. You see others enter but your pleads that you have to leave fall on deaf ears as they all conspicuously avoid looking at you.

You don’t understand why you’re like this, because other than the drinking from the night before you hadn’t had anything other than… the aspirin.

How could you be so stupid? How could you have walked into this trap? Why did you think you could trust him? You start sobbing as you hear the cabin door close, because you have no answer for any of these.

“Please I have to go home,” you weep.

“I am takin’ you home Angel.” and you have no choice but to lean on him as he brings you closer.

Finally once you’re in the air he unbuckles and stands the both of you up. Men you vaguely recognize from the hotel, all again avert their eyes as Elvis proceeds to walk you down the aisle and you beg them to help you. You’re still feeling the effects of whatever he gave you so you don’t really put up much of a fight until he opens the door and you see a bed on the other side.

“I ain’t gon’ hurt you Angel,” he says soothingly. You don’t believe him. “I know you’re mad right now, but I know one day you’ll forgive me. Because this is for your own good.”

“Why?” you sob into his shoulder as he lays you both down. “Why me?”

“Because the lord himself brought us together, Angel.” he says and you see that manic look you’d only gotten glimpses of in your short time together on full display. “And what God has brought together, let no man separate.”

“What?”

“Angel I know you may not believe in all of it,” he says, rubbing your cheek. “But I don’t believe it was just a coincidence that you were there that night. I know someone up above sent you to look out for me. And I ain’t gon’ let you slip away again.”

This man… this man had no issue ripping you away from your life all under some delusion that you needed saving, because that’s what he needed. You’re under the control of a man that cast you as his savior… and god forbid should you ever turn out to be otherwise. This is your life now, because no good deed goes unpunished.

“You and me, Angel.” he says merrily into your hair, holding your hand that rests above his heart, giving you a tender kiss on your forehead. “Today we’re flyin’ away for good.”

Taglist

@venus-haze @djsjs13949 @ilovehobi101 @butlerslut @richardslady121 @giabelia @sydneyyyya @meetme0614 @tacozebra051 @myradiaz @thelifes-world @maythesunshineagain @rakitirakiti @lostteenagetale @j-v-9-2 @eliseinmemphis @dkayfixates @immi547 @thatbanditqueen @marriedtoeddie @cuteejeno

#elvis 2022 #yandere elvis #elvis x reader #yandere elvis presley #elvis #yandere x reader #yandere!elvis x reader #yandere austin!elvis x reader #yandere #austin!elvis x reader #austin!elvis #austin butler x reader #austin butler #elvis presley x reader #elvis presley

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sassy-ahsoka-tano · 1 year

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DADDY ISSUES: Part Twelve - Without You

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Prompt: Since Elvis is busy, you get to spend all day snooping around his place and, hopefully, getting to know him better. But when he comes back from a stressful day, you know what you have to do. [ Fem!Reader ]

TW: a little tinge of angst, some sexual references, i think that's it? please let me know if you see more!

Rating: Pg-13 || Word Count: 4268

A/N: i just need to hold him that's all. i hope someone held him when he was sad :(

Song Rec: without you - the kid laroi

This is Part 12 of Daddy Issues. Find the rest of the series here!

[ masterlist | taglist ]

🦋 mila

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

When your eyes eventually blink open in the morning, it takes you a moment to remember where you are. You catch a glimpse of a golden record hanging on the wall across from you and everything comes back rather quickly. You glance over your shoulder to see whether Elvis is there or not. As you expected, he's not.

You sigh and groan as you roll onto your back. You feel dirty and disgusting, badly in need of a shower and fresh clothes. You swing your legs over the side of the bed and your eyes land on of a piece of paper resting on your nightstand. Unfolding it, you read.

Princess, I have some business to attend to and will be gone for most of the day. Feel free to stick around as long as you like. There’s a little bit of food in the kitchen, not much but have at it. I’d love to see you again tonight if you’re not busy. D

You sigh and rub a hand over your face before putting the note back down on the table. You stand and reach for a blanket that's strewn over the back of an armchair next to the bed. You pull it around your shoulders and yank it tight. His room is freezing but you don’t feel like it’s your place to change the temperature. You pad toward the kitchen and swing open the doors, searching for something to snack on. There aren’t a lot of options: bananas, bread, a tupperware of unidentified leftovers, a pack of Gatorades, bacon. Lots and lots of junk food.

You smile when your eyes land on a box of doughnuts on the counter. You take one out and bite into it, the sweet tangy taste of jelly stinging your tongue delightfully. You hum in happiness and then head toward the living room.

With the light shining into the room now, you can see things better. You realize that you've never been in this room during the day, only at night. You trail your fingers along the back of the couch, feeling the soft fabric of the velvet. Your eyes wander over toward a bookcase. Not many of the titles are familiar to you. Most of them look like spiritual books or religious books, although a few of the literary classics that you read in high school are shoved in between. You reach up to select one of the books which looks worn, like it's been used a lot. Right next to the Bible, you pick it out and read the title: The Impersonal Life.

With a shrug, you shove it back into the case and continue your walk along the perimeter of the living room. You pause in front of Elvis' record collection, thumbing through the albums shoved onto the shelf. The Blackwood Brothers, Johnny Cash, The Jackson 5’s Christmas album, Hank Snow. All familiar titles.

You wander from the living room back into the bedroom and approach his dresser. You open the top drawer. Your eyebrows raise at all of the golden jewelry so carefully laid out in each individual velvet box. There are at least seven solid gold watches, most are encrusted with diamonds and other expensive gems. You bite the inside of your cheek as you notice a ring. Carefully lifting it from its place, you see the letters EP spelled out in diamonds. Other than the letters, it's almost identical to the ring he gifted you a few months ago. You put it back and turn toward the bed, your eyes latching onto the frame of his daughter.

You lift it up and tilt it so that the light coming in from the window can illuminate the photograph. Your eyebrows knit together and you feel that familiar lurch of guilt surging in your stomach as you stare down at Elvis’ daughter, Lisa Marie. You swipe your finger over the glass and smile sadly. She’s a gorgeous little girl who looks a lot like her mommy.

Your head tilts as your mind takes you on a journey you weren't prepared for. Closing your eyes, you give into fantasy for a moment, imagining what a life with Elvis would be like. You can’t help but smile at images of beautiful rolling green pastures, dreamy white-bricked Graceland covered in white snow and decorated for Christmas, sitting by the crackling fire with Elvis and your children, and watching happily as he helps them play with their toys.

Those idyllic images soon fade into the harsh reality of what life with him would probably really be like. Difficult, cruel, and lonely. You think again about Priscilla’s face when she stormed out of the room last night, the hatred and sadness all mixed up together. You wonder what she tells Lisa when the little girl asks about her father. How lonely must it be to live so far from your husband? To barely see him and to have to tell your child that daddy isn’t coming home for a long while?

You shake your head to get yourself back to reality and put the frame back in its place on the bedside table. As you step away from it, your foot accidentally hits something sticking out from underneath the bed. Bending down, you slide out a flat cardboard box. Sitting on the edge of the bed, you open it to see a mass of written documents piled on top of one another.

You start to sift through it, careful to remember the order in which you take each item out and not to crumple the corners. You find an old set list for one of his shows, a grocery list that has apparently never been shared, and letters from a variety of people close to E.

You know you probably shouldn't, but you start to read the letters. The first one is from a friend back home, someone you’ve never met or heard of. A few of the letters are from various women and you wonder who they were to him. Were they women he dated or were they...more like you? Just friends? Part of you hates them despite the fact that you don't even know them. There it is again, that angry jealousy you felt the first time you watched Elvis kiss another woman during his show.

You spend most of the day flipping through the letters and reading them all. Some make you laugh and you have a good time imagining what Elvis would have said in response. Others are deeply personal professions of love and some are just sad, full of old memories.

Toward the bottom of the stack, you get into some letters from Priscilla. Your eyes hungrily gloss over the words. Her beautiful script helps to clear up some of the questions you have. You lean against the bed as you read voraciously, smiling, laughing, and even feeling a little giddy when you read some of her writing. It almost feels like reading a romance novel through the eyes of the characters.

You wonder what his letters to her were like and you wish you had one with you now to see. You suddenly want more than anything to have Elvis write you letters like these. These love letters in which he compares you to the sun or tells you how beautiful you are or just calls you his sweetheart. The notes he sends are a form of business communication only. He's never written anything romantic in them and you wouldn't expect him to. That's not your relationship. Yours is sex not love.

As you read along, you can tell clearly that Priscilla loves Elvis with her entire heart. That much is painfully obvious in the way she writes about him, what she says and how she phrases it. Each cursive stroke is characterized by love and affection.

In some small ways, you feel like you know him better now. Every day you spend in his life, he becomes more of a human being. Not just Elvis Presley the celebrity, but Elvis Presley the person, the man, the flesh and bones. The way Priscilla writes about him says so much about who he is and the type of person he is with her. You've seen glimpses of that man lately but nothing like what she describes so beautifully. But you crave him more than you'd care to admit. You want that man.

You're surprised to have reached the bottom of the box. Although it's taken you almost the entire day to read through the contents of Elvis' life, you're glad you did. Glancing over at the clock, you read five in the evening and you suddenly realize that you never took a shower.

While it feels a little strange, you undress and flip on the water to Elvis' shower. As you rinse off you can't help but click open the bottle of shampoo on the ledge and take a sniff. You hum in pleasure at the lovely smell that fills your nostrils. It really does smell like him. You place it back and finish up. When you get out to dry off, you stop, realizing that you don’t have any clean clothes to change into.

Once dry, you make your way to his closet and step inside, hoping to find something suitable there and half-terrified that you'll find something another woman left behind. You flip through some of his outfits, smiling at the ones you particularly like. Finally, your fingers clutch onto a t-shirt, just a plain white shirt. You shamelessly hold it up to your nose and sniff it, closing your eyes and smiling at his familiar scent. You shrug it on and steal a pair of clean boxers to wear as shorts.

After accomplishing that, you pad around the apartment for a while, investigating some other items before finally settling on reading that spiritual book you saw earlier. You’re sitting on the couch, deeply invested when you hear the sounds of the door clicking open.

“Hi,” you say excitedly, bouncing up to the door with a smile pasted on your face.

“Hi,” Elvis replies glancing over at you as he shuts the door behind him.

Your smile falters a little when he doesn’t return a happy expression but you don’t fault him for it. He looks tired, exhausted really.

“How was your day?” you ask, feeling slightly awkward about asking him something so trivial, something his wife might ask him.

“It was...a day,” he replies with a quiet chuckle. He shakes his head and you notice his eyebrows knitted together. He releases a deep sigh and then rubs his hands over his face, pulling the skin down. “A day I’m glad is over.”

“Oh?” you ask. “What happened?”

“Nothin, darlin. Don't worry bout it,” he says and waves dismissively.

“Are you hungry? How about I make you something to eat and you tell me all about it?"

Elvis glances up at you, his eyes soft and glinting. A small smile spreads across his lips and he nods slowly. You mosey into the kitchen and open the door to remind yourself what you have to work with.

“You don’t have much, but…”

“Banana, bacon, and peanut butter sandwich’ll do just fine.”

“A what?”

“A sandwich.”

“Yeah, no, I heard that part. It's the other part that I don't get. Did you say…banana and bacon?” you ask, leaning over the table to get closer to him. He shrugs and nods.

“And peanut butter. Yeah, darlin, you got it.”

“You have to be joking. That sounds disgusting!”

“Don't knock it till you try it, princess."

"Okay..."

You laugh, shaking your head. He smiles and you turn around to get the ingredients out and get started on his weird ass dinner. As you cook, you ask him about his day.

“So why don’t you tell me what happened? What was so bad about today?”

“Just shit with the Colonel’s all.”

“What kind of shit?”

“Just a disagreement we’ve been havin for a long time now.”

“About what?”

“Oh the same old thing, ya know. I already told ya that I wanna take the tour internationally but he just…he don't get it. He don't think it’ll be worth it. He don't think the security detail can protect me, I guess, I don’t know. I’m ain't even worried bout the money. I know that can’t be a problem. I make so much…I don’t understand why he won’t just let me go to Europe and take the show there. We could do so so good there, I know it. And I can see the world.”

“And you can see the world, like you've always wanted to," you add as you work on his sandwich. "I remember you telling me this weeks ago. And I remember telling you just to go for it, with or without him."

“Nah, I couldn’t do that,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. “I owe Colonel way too much for that. He got me started, got me to where I am. I couldn’t go behind his back like that.”

You slide the finished sandwich in front of him and lean against the table as he delves into the food.

“I guess but you do realize that you don’t owe your life to him, right? He’s not the one with the talent. You are.”

Elvis glances up at you as he munches on his sandwich. You wrinkle up your nose as you watch how much he’s enjoying it.

“What?” he asks, tilting his head as he looks at you.

“Nothing,” you say, flattening your lips to try and hold in a laugh. “I just can’t believe you’re actually eating that. It hardly looks edible. I cooked it and I wouldn’t eat it.”

“Nah, it’s delicious! Here,” he says, carefully ripping a portion of the sandwich out for you to try. You wave your hands and shake your head.

“No, thank you!”

He holds it out to you again, wiggling in your face. You lean back to avoid taking a bite but laugh and your mouth opens. He takes that opportunity to push it toward your teeth and you concede, leaning forward to take a bite. You giggle as you chew, your eyebrows shooting up in surprise when the taste isn’t actually as bad as you expect it to be.

“Damn…” you say, nodding. “Okay, I admit that’s actually not terrible.”

He smiles, holding out the rest of the piece he’d torn off and wiggling his eyebrows. You roll your eyes but lean forward, taking it from his fingers. Some of the peanut butter gets stuck on his fingertip and your lips and you absentmindedly start to swirl your tongue around his finger. When you realize what you’re doing, you glance up at him, a playful lust in your eyes. He shares the playful expression but not so much on the lust side of things. You release his finger with a quiet pop, licking your lips. Silence settles as Elvis drops his eyes down to his plate and continues eating.

“Do you…need me tonight?” you ask, leaning over and sliding your fingers onto his hand. “You seem stressed. I can help you relax if you want.”

He closes his eyes, tilting his hand so your fingers slip into his grasp. He curls his fingers over yours and heaves a deep breath before lifting his gaze to yours. A small smile rests on his face.

“No, honey, I don’t want that. Too tired for that. I’m sorry,” he says.

“Don’t apologize,” you chuckle, adding your other hand to the pile and rubbing small circles on his skin.

As you gaze across the counter into his bright blue eyes, your stomach tingles with butterflies again. Every time you feel this way, you also feel fear. You're terrified of falling in love with this man and you know it simply can't happen. As Steve warned you so long ago, he's dangerous. And it's that memory that makes your fingers twitch as you consider pulling your hands back. As much as your brain tells you to pull away, you find that you can’t move. You’re caught in his trap. His eyes are staring so intensely into yours, unwavering and searching deep inside you.

“Stay with me again tonight,” he says quietly and the butterflies in your stomach start to do somersaults.

“Mr. Presley...That's not what I'm here for. I can-"

“I don't wanna be alone tonight. Just for a while, princess.”

You breathe deeply and nod.

"Okay."

You get started on the dishes while he goes off to take a shower. As you swirl the soap around the pan, you momentarily consider surprising him in the bathroom, but you don’t want to overstep and he said he wasn't interested tonight.

Instead, you make him a hot cup of tea and fix the bed for sleeping, fluffing the pillows and pulling the blankets up. The cover falls from your fingers as you realize how domestic it all is. You've made him dinner, comforted him, all but tucked him into bed, and apparently you'll be beside him for the second night in a row. Again, you're thrown back into visions of soft summery days with Elvis and your fantastical children.

You shake your head as your heart tightens with panic. What the hell is happening? As you finish pulling back the sheets, you notice a piece of paper on his nightstand.

You quickly glance toward the shower before picking it up and turning your back so he won’t be able to see that you’re reading his mail, in case he gets out of the shower. Your eyes quickly scan the words and your heart pangs in your chest. Hearing the shower curtain being pulled back, you jump and quickly place the paper back down on the table. You busy yourself tidying up as your mind flashes through the information you just read.

It was a receipt, a breakdown of the costs and payments that Elvis Presley Enterprises has paid out over the last month. You didn’t read it all but what you did happen to see was a payout to Colonel Tom Parker for roughly $4 million dollars, which composed 50% of the total that you saw at the bottom.

“Oh, princess, you didn't have to do that,” he says and you jerk around to see him smiling with a towel wrapped loosely around his waist.

“Oh, it’s not a problem,” you say, your eyes nervously darting toward the piece of paper before returning to his gaze. “Ready for bed?”

“Not quite,” he says as he shrugs on a pair of underwear. “Let’s watch some television first.”

You do a double take and watch with furrowed eyebrows as he pours some pills into his palm and shoots them down with a gulp of water. Pills? When had that started...you'd never noticed it before. Maybe he just has a headache or something...

You wait patiently for him to climb into the bed first and help get him settled with the tea and a blanket. You flip off the lights and join him on the bed, sitting uncomfortably propped up against the bedframe. You blink hard as you see images of your fingers grasping and gripping that very bedframe white-knuckled as he rams into you from behind.

You have absolutely no reason to feel this awkward. You slept next to the man for a whole night last night. But for some inexplicable reason, you feel uncomfortable and don't know how to react with him next to you. You’ve shown him the most vulnerable side of you. He’s seen your asshole for god’s sake, but still, you feel more naked than ever. And if there's one thing your relationship isn't, it's vulnerable, you remind yourself.

You gulp nervously as Elvis stretches his arm out and moves it toward your shoulders. You glance at him and awkwardly shimmy down so that you can fit underneath his armpit. You flip around and gently place your hand on his chest although you don’t dare snuggle any closer to him than that. You redirect your gaze toward the television to see that Elvis has sports highlights rolling on the many screens across from the bed. His arm curls around your shoulders and pulls you closer. You close your eyes and bite your lip momentarily to try and ignore the butterflies going crazy in your stomach. But it's very, very hard when he starts to gently stroke your back with his fingertips.

You don't understand how you can be so utterly comfortable buck naked and whimpering pathetically before him but experience the highest level of anxiety now, when you're fully clothed and just snuggling innocently. You watch the screens silence for a few minutes.

“I’m goin on tour,” he says unexpectedly.

You push yourself up so you can look into his eyes.

“I thought you said the Colonel doesn’t want you going on tour,” you say confusedly.

“He don't, internationally. But we’ve come to an agreement on a US tour. Fifteen cities in fifteen days,” he responds.

“Oh…wow, that sounds busy. You must be excited.”

“Sure, I guess. We'll go to some places that I ain't never been to fore but nothin too special.”

A few moments of silence pass as you consider what he just said.

“I don’t mean to be...needy but what'll happen with us? While you’re gone, I mean?”

“You get a well-deserved break, princess,” he replies, shifting so that he can look back into your eyes. “I can’t take ya with me, so you’ll stay here and just take some time to yourself. You can go back to LA if ya want. Build ya stamina back up."

He chuckles and you smile fondly. You feel your eyebrows angling upward and your eyes begin to sting as you trace the parts of his beautiful face.

“When do you leave?” you ask.

“Tomorrow.”

“That soon?”

“Yep.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“Three weeks with travel and such. Why? You gonna miss me?”

You giggle, saying nothing. You could never show him, or let him know in any way, but your heart aches at the thought of being so far from him, of not seeing him for three weeks straight. You're bored without him as it is and he's only a phone call away. You can’t imagine how lonely it will be when he’s not here to entertain you and keep you on your toes.

You waver in the air between you, your head bobbing forward ever so slightly as your eyes drop down to his lips. You look back into his eyes to see them trained on you firmly. His head lazily rolls over, dropping onto the pillow near your head. His eyes drop down to your lips and his hand finds its way to your cheek. He strokes your cheekbone a few times and lifts his head forward toward you. Your mouth pops open and your heart slams against your chest as you anticipate the feeling of his lips on yours. But his mouth opens wide with a yawn instead.

You chuckle nervously and pull back as Elvis sinks deeper into the pillow, his eyes shuttering closed. You gently lean up to get a better glance at him. His face is calm, drawn down in a relaxed expression and his chest is rising and falling rhythmically. You wave your hand in front of his face.

“Mr. Presley?” you whisper as quietly as you can. “Mr. Presley?” then a bit louder.

No response.

He couldn’t already be asleep...could he?

Your mind flashes back to the pills that he took and you wonder if they could have been sleeping pills. He’s probably exhausted anyway. He said so when he came into the room. As carefully as you can, you pull yourself out from under him and swing your legs over the side of the bed, preparing to leave. You turn back toward him and resist every urge in your body that tells you to lean over and press a chaste kiss to his forehead. He looks so calm, so peaceful, so beautifully undisturbed. Just leave him be.

You gently pull the covers up and around him to tuck him in. You smile softly as you stare down at him and gently reach your hand out, stroking his hair back from his forehead and then allowing your fingers to trail down his warm, soft cheek. You let your fingers linger for a few seconds before removing them and turning to leave. Before you can even manage to take a step, his fingers are wrapping around your wrist. You freeze immediately and glance over your shoulder at him. He’s barely moved. His eyes are still closed but he's turned his face toward you.

“Stay with me,” he whispers, “please.”

Your heart tumbles in your chest along with those pesky butterflies in your stomach. You can’t stop the big grin that spreads onto your face, pulling the corners of your mouth up into your cheeks. You climb back into the bed, shimmying underneath the covers next to him. Without giving much effort, he expertly maneuvers you so that your leg is drawn over his and your hands are resting on his chest. You absentmindedly start to trace shapes on his chest. He hums softly and you nestle into his skin. His fingers find their way to your back and he gently drags them up and down the skin underneath your shirt. When he finally falls still, you whisper into the dark, honestly not meaning for him to hear it or respond.

“Goodnight...Elvis."

“Goodnight, my princess.”

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