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venus-haze · 2 years

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If I Were You (Yandere!Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Summary: Elvis takes up Priscilla’s offer to go to rehab for Lisa, and decides to take the steps to break from the Colonel personally and professionally. Elvis is referred to you, a Memphis-based therapist who specializes in helping patients work through codependent or otherwise unhealthy relationships. While he ultimately hopes his turning his life around will give him a better chance of reconciliation with Priscilla, the level of emotional intimacy you allow him in the context of your sessions makes him redirect his attention to you.

Note: This is based on an anonymous request. Reader is a cis woman, but no other descriptors are used. I appreciated having an excuse to rewatch some of my favorite Sopranos episodes because I got a lot of inspiration from seasons 1 and 5. It’s more dialogue heavy than my other fics because of the therapy sessions. I’m not a psychiatrist and nothing in this fic should be treated as legitimate advice regarding mental health, please refer to licensed professionals for that. Look at the warnings before deciding whether or not you want to read this fic because it’s extremely dark. Do not interact with my blog or my posts if you are under 18 or post ED/thinpso content.

Word count: 6.5k

Warnings: This is a yandere fic, so expect dark themes such as emotional blackmail, obsessive and manipulative behavior, and abuse of power, which some people may find disturbing or triggering. The therapy session scenes involve discussions of codependency in relation to parenting and relationships as well as self-blame, death, and drug and alcohol abuse. Explicit sexual content which involves force and coercion and brief daddy kink. Elvis’ mommy issues. Do not interact if you are under 18.

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 (all other parts by @crash-and-cure)

When you received a phone call from Dr. Wilson, one of your colleagues who worked at a rehabilitation facility in San Diego, asking if you were taking new patients, you hadn’t thought much of it when you answered that you were. He elaborated that while the patient was doing well in rehab, he thought he could benefit from continued therapy sessions, particularly because of your specialization and proximity to the patient’s home in Memphis. He informed you that he’d reveal more information about the patient and provide you with the clinical notes he’d taken throughout rehab once he received the patient’s agreement and approval to begin seeing you.

A few days later, you got the follow up call. The patient was interested in being treated by you and had given Dr. Wilson permission to send you copies of the clinical notes. He finally revealed who your Memphis-based patient would be—Elvis Presley. You nearly dropped the phone when he told you. Him going to rehab made sense, his drug and alcohol-fueled antics on stage frequently made entertainment headlines, but you certainly hadn’t expected that he’d need the specialized therapy that you offered.

Elvis still had two weeks left in the rehabilitation program, and you’d receive the clinical notes before then to get an idea of what Dr. Wilson had already addressed with him. When you received the packet at your office’s mailbox, marked with a large ‘CONFIDENTIAL’ stamp on it, you almost hesitated. While aware of his career, you weren’t a huge fan of Elvis’, so that wouldn’t pose a conflict of interest, but you wondered if you could truly be impartial and fair toward a man whose existence permeated almost every aspect of American popular culture.

From what Dr. Wilson had said, Elvis needed help, not as a rockstar but as a man. You were one of less than forty therapists in the country who specialized in helping patients break down codependent relationships. Your office wasn’t far from Graceland at all, ensuring Elvis wouldn’t have to go out of his way for regular therapy sessions.

Finally opening the packet, you were faced with a manila file folder with Elvis’ full name and birthdate printed on the tab. You grabbed your notebook, preparing to write what was relevant for the sessions, but the more you read, it seemed like everything was relevant. A deceased overbearing mother whom Elvis revered as a saint, a manager who exploited his career for decades, and an ex-wife who was burdened with being the man’s stand-in mother and therapist from an alarmingly young age.

You sat back in your chair, exhaling deeply to ground yourself. Taking on Elvis Presley as a client would not be easy, that much was obvious. Most of your clients didn’t have webs as intricately woven as he did, as much to unpack and consider as Elvis. Yet, from the notes, he wanted help. He wanted to change. He didn’t want his daughter Lisa to grow up without a father, but he also wanted a career and a life that he could finally be in control of, where he could be sure of who to trust.

On a Friday afternoon, when you were in between appointments, your phone rang. You answered, resisting the urge to gasp when you heard who was on the other line, despite expecting his call.

“Hello, is Dr. Y/L/N there?” Elvis asked.

“Speaking,” you answered.

“Oh.” He sounded surprised. “Dr. Wilson didn’t mention you were a woman.”

“Is that a problem, Mr. Presley? Because I can refer you to another specialist—“

“No, that’s fine. I just thought you were a secretary or somethin’—no offense.”

“None taken,” you said.

The two of you discussed what his goals for therapy were, and that he wanted to attend twice a week, which was how often he was seeing Dr. Wilson while he was in rehab. Many people were hesitant about therapy since it had an unwarranted stigma attached to it, but you supposed the group therapy and personal sessions in San Diego had proved its effectiveness to him. You agreed to schedule appointments for Monday and Thursday afternoons at 4:30pm and leave the service door to the building unlocked for him, so he could come in at the end of the work day and not have to worry about passersby and other patients seeing him there and causing unwanted attention.

The conversation was short yet pleasant, but if you were being honest, you hadn’t been so nervous about taking on a patient since you first opened your own practice. You had tried to reason with yourself, that he was just a man seeking help like all of your other patients. None of your other patients, however, were Elvis Presley. You managed to calm yourself down the day of his first session, focusing on the other patients you had scheduled.

He arrived fifteen minutes early the day of his first appointment, a non-issue as you had made sure the session before his was wrapped up by four, giving him a window of time to arrive while the office was empty. You took a deep breath before opening the door to the waiting room from your office, and found him staring at a painting on the wall. He turned to you, giving you one of the most dazzling smiles you’d ever seen in your life.

You greeted him with a friendly smile and an outstretched hand. “Good afternoon, Mr. Presley, it’s nice to meet you.”

“Same here, Dr. Y/L/N,” he said, shaking your hand.

“Follow me, and take a seat anywhere you like,” you said, leading him into your office and closing the door behind you.

“Is this some kinda test? You can tell something ‘bout me by which one I pick?” he asked half-jokingly.

You laughed. “No, no, it’s just that we’re going to be sitting for an hour, so I want you to be comfortable.”

He sat in the armchair in front of the bookcase, rather than the one in front of your desk. You grabbed your notebook and sat down across from him. The two chairs were nearly identical anyway, so it didn’t make that big of a difference where either of you sat. Taking a moment to study him, you couldn’t help but acknowledge to yourself how good he looked. You always thought Elvis was a handsome man, but post-rehab, he seemed to be glowing in a way that seemed almost youthful. After allowing yourself to ogle your new patient, you cleared your throat.

“Now, before we begin our first session, I want to establish doctor-patient confidentiality and inform you of your rights as a patient. Is that okay?” you asked.

“Sounds good to me,” he said.

“Wonderful. I take doctor-patient confidentiality seriously. Anything you say in this room will stay in this room. However, if at any point during our sessions you indicate that you intend to seriously harm yourself or others, I would have to go to the police.”

“Seriously harm?”

“Any intentional action that would result in the hospitalization or death of yourself or another individual,” you elaborated, and he gave you a silent nod to continue. “I may encourage you to dig deeper into your psychological and emotional state, you don’t have to answer any questions that you don’t want to, but keep in mind that I’m trying to guide the conversation in a direction that will help you achieve the breakthroughs you want.”

“You know, my mama used to call you psychologists ‘headshrinkers’. Hell, I even do sometimes,” he said with a laugh.

You smiled at the comment, it certainly wasn’t uncommon for people to be skeptical of mental healthcare, but since he’d already brought up his mother, you didn’t want to lose that momentum.

“I completely understand. When I told my parents I was getting my doctorate in psychology, I might as well have told them that I was going to clown school,” you said. “Some people turn to religion for their psychological guidance. My parents are like that. Were yours?”

“Oh yeah, mama was always quotin’ scripture.”

“And your father?”

“He went to church with us sometimes, but it was usually me and mama. I stopped goin’ to church once my career started takin’ off. Didn’t have the time to, but I still love those old gospel hymns.”

You nodded, taking quick notes as he spoke.

“You writin’ that I’m some religious nut in there?”

“No, just general observations, things you’ve mentioned that have appeared while treating other patients. The more I treat people who’ve struggled with codependency, the more I can help others by recognizing patterns of behavior,” you explained. “I read from your file, which thank you for letting me look at by the way, that you experienced this codependent abuse from your former manager, Tom Parker.”

He exhaled, and you made note of his utilizing the coping method to calm himself down.

“The Colonel thought he was entitled to half of everything I made, even though I was the one workin’ myself sick. He had that hack doctor put all kinds of junk in me to keep me movin’ like some walkin’ dead man. That cost me my family and half of everything I ever earned. I’m suin’ the son of a bitch, but I can’t let this happen again.”

“Elvis, I’m sorry that happened to you. You were taken advantage of by someone you trusted. You have every right to be upset and angry. I encourage you to express those emotions while we're here,” you said. “I want to challenge you to stop referring to your former manager as ‘The Colonel’. I think that language is detrimental to your progress as it sets him in a place of authority over you, when in reality, he isn’t and never was.”

He scoffed. “What should I call him then? ‘That piece of shit’?”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “If you’d like, yes.”

For the rest of the hour, he spoke about his former manager, and while you had an idea of what went on from the notes your colleague had given you, the extent was just as bad as you’d expected. As a doctor, you were particularly horrified by the so-called ‘Dr. Nick’ who exacerbated Elvis’ addiction to prescription medications in the name of the almighty dollar. Elvis peppered in mentions of his mother throughout the session as well, and you made a note to dig into that in the future. You weren’t the biggest proponent of Freud, but you knew many people went through life subconsciously mirroring the behavior of their parents unless they made a conscious decision not to.

At the end of the session, you let Elvis know that you admired the progress he’d made so far, both in rehab and his first session with you. He smiled at that, and confessed that even though he wasn’t sure about seeing a woman therapist, as soon as he saw you, he knew there was something different about you, and he already felt comfortable around you. You stayed in your office late to work on the notes for his file while they were still fresh in your mind, and left around a quarter to seven.

The Monday and Thursday sessions continued consistently for the next few weeks, and you were thrilled with how much progress Elvis had made, both in therapy and in his personal life. He was more involved in Lisa Marie’s life and had her over at Graceland regularly, making sure his days were completely clear whenever she was over so he could focus on spending time with her. His sleep pattern had become more regular, with some bouts of understandable insomnia. You and Dr. Wilson had already agreed that with Elvis’ history of addiction, holistic approaches to any psychological conditions would be best, and prescriptions would only be given as an absolute last resort. When he told you that he felt better than he had in years, physically and emotionally, you considered it a huge success, and encouraged him to acknowledge and celebrate that.

Understandably, most of your sessions with Elvis were spent discussing his former manager and the influence and control that he had on Elvis’ career and personal life, particularly the strain it caused on his mother. That was a sensitive issue for him, and he tended to deflect when you tried to bring her up or discuss his relationship with her further. About four months into your treating him, however, he mentioned feeling some resentment toward his father for mismanaging Elvis’ finances, making an off-handed comment about how it wouldn’t have happened if his mother were still alive. You saw this as the opportunity to get him to finally elaborate.

“Your mother was the dominating figure in the family unit, then?” you pressed.

“Mama was a good woman, the best woman. She put food on the table when daddy was in jail. She believed in me before anyone else did.”

“I never said your mother wasn’t a good woman,” you observed. “Why did you jump to that conclusion, that I was attacking her?”

The room was silent for a few moments as he considered your question. “Everyone else did. You know, she was right about not trustin’ the Col–Parker. It’s like when I signed that contract with him I was signin’ her death sentence.”

“Do you blame yourself for her death?”

“I know it was the alcohol. I learned that much in rehab, but in her heart, it was me. She died while I was in basic training, doctor.”

“I’m glad you’re talking through this. It’s going to help with our future sessions, but I want to establish that you’re not responsible for your mother's death anymore than you’re responsible for her other actions throughout her life.”

He shook his head. “Me leavin’, that killed her.”

“Why would your leaving kill her? As I understand, you were drafted. You didn’t have a choice.”

“Because I was supposed to take care of her. My daddy wouldn't, so I did.”

“Do you think it’s right for a child to take care of their parents?” you asked.

“It’s not about what was right,” he argued. “I had to do it.”

“How old were you, when you first stepped into this pseudo-parental role?”

“What?”

“How old were you when you began taking up the household responsibilities that belonged to your father?”

“I was real young, when he went to jail and we had to move. I had a good childhood, though. We didn’t have much, but I had friends and I went to church, did alright in school.”

The hour was almost up, but you knew you were close to reaching a pivotal point in his treatment. As soon as you got him to consider that his codependency issues started with his mother, you could work through his relationships with Tom Parker and even Priscilla, but it’d be easier said than done to drag his mother off of the pedestal he put her on. She’d been dead for over a decade, and yet she still had a spectral stranglehold on her son.

Your intention wasn’t for him to walk out of your office hating his mother, but to recognize the unhealthy behaviors he emulated and to work through the grief he clearly never fully dealt with.

You figured you had time to ask him one more question, and chanced it with, “What do you miss most about your mother?”

“I could tell her anything, and she’d always have something to say. Maybe not what I wanted to hear, but she always meant what she said. I trusted her like no one else. I don’t know if I ever will.”

“It’s hard for you to trust people, with the position that you’re in and how people have taken advantage of you in the past. That can be lonely, and some people engage in self-destructive behavior in an attempt to get the care and attention they yearn for. I believe that you will be able to trust again. Just something to think about as the session ends today,” you said. “You’ve made a lot of progress, and I want to acknowledge that.”

He smiled. “Thank you. You really know your stuff, but I guess that’s what you went to school for.”

“I appreciate that,” you acknowledged. “I hope you have a great rest of your day, Elvis, and I’ll see you at our appointment next week.”

After Elvis left, you worked on your notes from the session to add to his file. You weren’t just paying him lip service before, he had made a good amount of progress, and even despite some of his hesitations, worked through some aspects of the treatment that you expected to be more challenging for him.

The next few sessions, you pressed him more about his mother, and while he pushed back against your insinuating that some of his codependent tendencies originated with her, he did acknowledge that the pressure of not upsetting her did cost him his participation in his high school’s football team, which he loved for the brief amount of time he spent playing. She had been worried about him getting hurt, a pattern you noticed as Elvis spoke to you about his childhood.

You weren’t expecting to find that the root of her anxiety over Elvis’ well-being came from losing his twin, Jesse at birth. Elvis was born into the world having to be two men instead of one, and when his father fell through as the family’s provider, he had to pick up the slack for three. It was a lot for someone to handle even without the challenges of fame. The more you worked with Elvis, the more convinced you became that he could have benefitted from therapy a decade sooner.

In all honesty, you were glad Elvis’ appointments were at the end of the day, because they began to become almost as draining for you as you figured they were for him. Still, he never missed an appointment and always arrived early. The work you did was always difficult, and you couldn’t help but empathize with your patients, but Elvis seemed to take everything out of you.

One weekend, you had plans to get dinner with Mark, a man around your age who you’d met in grad school and had an on-and-off again relationship for a while, before deciding to stay friends. Out of habit you both referred to whenever you’d get together as ‘dates’, and the one you planned was at a higher end restaurant in Memphis. The two of you had been so busy with work that when he called you to catch up, you hadn’t realized it’d been months since you’d seen him. The restaurant was the type of place where you had to make reservations in advance, and so with this in mind, he made one a few weeks prior.

When you and Mark arrived at the restaurant, there was a crowd of loud and restless people overflowing into the street. The two of you pushed your way through to get inside and waited to speak to the host, who informed you that due to unforeseen circumstances, there’d be a thirty minute wait for your table despite your reservation.

The two of you considered leaving and going to a different restaurant, but decided against it, since you had the reservation anyway. To your relief, the wait only ended up being less than five minutes, even though you could tell by the reservation list on the host’s podium that several couples were still ahead of you and Mark.

A waiter led you to your table, and after taking your dinner orders, Mark excused himself to go to the restroom. While waiting for him to return, you could hear people gasp and murmur behind you, until a familiar shadow fell over your table.

“Dr. Y/L/N, funny meeting you here,” Elvis said.

You raised your eyebrows, not expecting to see your high-profile patient of all people in the restaurant. “Mr. Presley, how are you?”

“I’m doin’ just fine.”

“That’s good to hear. I’m glad.”

“Are you here alone?”

“No, my date is just in the restroom.”

His expression shifted, but he nodded agreeably. “Well, have a good night.”

“You too,” you whispered as he walked away.

Fuck. He was upset you were there with someone. It wasn’t uncommon for your patients to temporarily redirect their codependent tendencies onto you, considering the level of emotional intimacy that was involved with the therapy. It’d only once escalated to a level where you felt obligated to refer the patient to another therapist, but you hoped that wouldn’t be the case with Elvis. He’d been making great progress with each session.

When Mark had returned to the table, you gave him a strained smile but continued on with the date as usual. About halfway into your meal, the waiter approached with a bottle of wine neither of you had ordered.

Before you could question anything, the waiter said, “Compliments of Mr. Presley.”

“As in Elvis Presley?” Mark asked.

The waiter nodded and set the bottle on the table. You weakly told him to thank Elvis, and he left to do so. As soon as he was out of earshot, Mark leaned in, “Is Elvis Presley your patient?”

“I won’t answer that, Mark.”

“Holy shit,” he said, opening the bottle of wine.

You didn’t recognize the label from the wine rack at the supermarket and figured it was some expensive brand that was either old or imported, or both. As Mark poured himself a glass, you contemplated whether or not to drink it. Refusing so would confirm that Elvis was your patient, but drinking it would mean you accepted a gift from a patient, both situations required you violating your own code of ethics. Sighing, you let Mark fill your own glass with the wine.

The rest of the night with Mark was fun as you caught up on your personal lives, and Elvis didn’t make a reappearance at all. When Mark walked you back to your car, the two of you promised not to go as long without seeing each other again, and parted with a quick kiss.

You spent Sunday lazily reading in the comfort of your apartment, adjusting the radio in your living room to different stations every so often. All of them seemed to play at least one of Elvis’ songs at some point, and you wondered if you were only noticing the frequency he was on the radio now that he was your patient. Some artists were just radio mainstays, and he was one of them.

On Monday, you knew you’d have to address the situation with the wine to Elvis, but to your surprise, he beat you to it.

“So, how was the wine?” Elvis asked.

“It was kind of you to go out of your way to have something so nice brought to my table, but I can’t accept gifts from patients,” you said. “I hope you understand.”

He narrowed his eyes, leaning over so his elbows were resting on his knees as he asked, “That guy you were out with, he your husband?”

“No, just a friend.”

“You married?”

“No, but–”

“You ever been married?”

“No,” you repeated, “but while we’re on the subject, let’s discuss your marriage and Priscilla.”

You noticed him hesitate to answer. “Is that okay?”

“Sure,” he said.

“How did you meet Priscilla?”

“Her daddy and me were both stationed in Germany at the same time. I met her when she came to a party at my house one night.”

“What attracted you to her?”

“She wasn’t like anyone else I’d ever met in my life. She was beautiful and sweet. I just knew there was somethin’ different about her,” he said, quickly adding. “I was respectful, ya know. She put up with a lot from me, but she was there when I needed someone.”

“You mentioned in a previous session that your mother died while you were in basic training, and after the funeral you were sent to Germany, where you met Priscilla. Do you think you incorporated her into your grieving process?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

You kept pressing him for more details, knowing it wasn’t a coincidence that he happened to meet the woman he’d go on to marry after such a devastating loss. The more he elaborated on his relationship, the more you came to understand the codependent nature of it as well. Priscilla became a stand-in for his mother despite her youth, and he began to depend on her the same way. You found it particularly interesting that he encouraged her to dye her hair and gave her the same nickname he had given his mother.

“I understand you and your ex-wife are still close, and she’s part of the reason you’re here. Can I ask you, when you and Priscilla divorced, what you were feeling?” you asked.

“I–I’m sorry, can we talk about something else?”

You nodded, making a note to revisit that later. For the rest of that session and Thursday’s session, the two of you spoke mundanely about how his day to day life was going, the strides he was making to live a more sustainable lifestyle. He informed you that he wanted to make music and perform again, but wouldn’t tour while his lawsuit with Tom Parker was ongoing. Even then, he planned to take it slow, scheduling dates more spaced out to give himself time to rest. He did mention trying to work something out with his team to do one-off performances in the Memphis area in the meantime, to figure out how this new era of his career would go.

The following afternoon, when you usually had an hour or so break between sessions to have lunch, you were interrupted by repeated knocking at your office door. You opened it to find a gift basket on the ground, looking back and forth in the hallway to see if the person who left it was still there, you picked it up and brought it over to your desk. The basket was filled with an assortment of goods that you knew must have been expensive from the brand names that you actually did recognize, and all of the gifts were perfectly suited to your taste. For a moment, you thought it was Mark’s doing, but when you read the attached card, you sighed.

Early on in your career, you had made it a rule to not accept gifts or favors from patients. It helped establish to your patients that you were their doctor, not their friend, as much as you did care for them. You took your ethical responsibility as a therapist seriously, and so you contacted the company where the gift basket had come from, informing them that you’d like them to pick it up and inform the sender that you couldn’t accept it. You’d been expecting the phone call you received about an hour later.

“I tried to get what I thought you’d like,” Elvis said. “Guess I don’t know you as well as I thought.”

“Mr. Presley, I told you in our last session that I don’t accept gifts from patients. I appreciate the gesture, it was extremely thoughtful, but it violates my personal ethics.”

“You drank the wine I sent over to your table,” he argued.

You pursed your lips. You knew letting Mark accept it was a mistake. “That was a completely different scenario. If I had publicly refused, it would have confirmed to my date that you were my patient. I made the decision to respect your privacy.”

From the way he huffed over the phone, he was frustrated. He always did so in sessions when you pressed him to dig deeper into the aspects of the major relationships in his life that he didn’t want to confront. “I understand, doctor. I just wanted to show my appreciation for you, is all. I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Have a good night, Mr. Presley. See you on Monday,” you said.

The next few months went on without incident, and you were pleased with the progress you were making with Elvis. He was willing to open up to you much more, and you found yourself revealing some information about yourself to him as well. Sometimes, it unnerved you how he seemed to remember things you had mentioned in passing weeks or even months before, as if he were taking his own notes on you.

Once in a while, you’d run into him while you were running errands and minding your business in Memphis, having quick and cordial conversations before going your separate ways. Part of you suspected it was deliberate, as a man as famous as him knew he couldn’t step foot anywhere outside of his home without making the news.

On a Friday evening, as you led your last client of the day out of your office, a man you didn’t recognize was standing in the waiting room, looking around at the decor in your office. When you walked out, he looked at you as if he’d seen a ghost.

Before you could speak, he said, “You look really familiar.”

“I don’t know how that could be. I don’t believe we’ve met before,” you said. “I’m Dr. Y/L/N.”

He hesitated before answering. “I must be seeing things, then. I’m Jerry.”

“Nice to meet you, Jerry. May I ask what brings you to my office?”

“Elvis sent me. He’s doing his first show in over a year next weekend, and he wanted me to bring you this VIP pass. Soundcheck, front row seat, backstage access, the works,” he said, holding out the small plastic card to you. “It’s in town, so he’ll send a car for you.”

You shook your head, feeling like a broken record when you declined. “I appreciate the gesture, but I don’t accept gifts from patients. Please send my regards and tell him thank you anyway.”

Jerry nodded. “Alright, nice to meet you, Doc.”

As soon as he left, you collapsed onto the couch. You were making great progress with Elvis, serious progress, but it was clear that he was shifting his codependent tendencies onto you. As much as you didn’t want to, you had to consider referring him to another therapist. It’d be a hassle for him, as the closest therapist with the same specialization as you was located in Nashville. It wasn’t uncommon for your patients to exhibit similar behavior toward you, especially early on in their treatment, but you’d been working with Elvis for nearing a year. You decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, as his case was far more complex than any of your other clients, past or present.

While you were in the supermarket checkout later that evening, you glanced at the tabloid magazines that were displayed next to you, and your eyes nearly bulged out of your head when you saw the cover of most of them–various photos of Elvis, out and about in Memphis with different women who all looked almost exactly like you. Suddenly, you felt as though everyone in the store was staring at you, and you abandoned your cart, rushing out of the store and to your car where you had your first panic attack in years.

As you cried into the steering wheel, attempting to catch your breath, your mind raced at the implications of what you just saw. The women were stand-ins for you, but they weren’t enough for him, they never would be. You knew that if you continued to spurn his advances, they’d only become more elaborate and unavoidable, and by giving him some of the attention he desired, you’d only be encouraging his unhealthy behavior. Your next session with Elvis was that upcoming Monday, and you’d make sure to let him know about your colleague in Nashville and cut all ties with the rockstar.

By the time Monday morning rolled around, you wanted to cancel all of your other appointments for the day, but your other patients didn’t deserve to have their treatment interrupted because of one patient. The day flew by, to your dismay, and 4:30 arrived far sooner than you were ready when he walked through the door and into your office. He sat down in his usual seat, and you resisted the urge to glare at him. You didn’t appreciate being manipulated for personal gain, and you figured he of all people would have understood that.

“Mr. Presley,” you began sternly. “I have repeatedly tried to enforce the professional nature of our relationship as doctor and patient, and yet you insist on sabotaging the massive strides you’ve made in your treatment by repeatedly making attempts to violate that. I think that continuing to see me as a therapist would be detrimental to your recovery, so I’m referring you to a colleague of mine with a similar specialization. After this session, I will no longer be your therapist.”

He stared at you incredulously before becoming stone-faced. “Well, since you won’t be my therapist anymore, I guess you can accept all those gifts now.”

Your mouth nearly fell open at his boldness. “Mr. Presley, you’re missing the point entirely.”

“No, I think I get the point loud and clear, Y/N.”

Your chest contracted as his use of your first name. “Mr. Presley, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Now.”

He stood up from his chair, and instead of walking out the door, crossed the few feet of space between you and caged you into your chair. He stared down at you intensely, silently, for what felt like hours. Too frightened to move, you held his gaze until he cupped your chin in his hand, gently rubbing his thumb against your skin.

“You’re doin’ this for us, mama,” he whispered, “so we can be together.”

“I’m doing this for my own safety.”

“I knew you felt the same way about me, how much you wanted me too.”

“Elvis, please, let’s just sit back and discuss this. I won’t refer you to another therapist,” you lied, trying to appeal to whatever sense of rationality he may have had.

His other hand drifted to your thigh, inching its way up your skirt. Feeling a rush of adrenaline, you pushed him off of you and hoped that it would disorient him enough for you to run out the door. Instead, he beat you to it, pressing you against the wooden door that stood between your freedom and captivity.

“C’mon, mama, we’ve had this date since the beginning,” he purred in your ear.

Perhaps you had been too preoccupied with having Elvis Presley as a professional success story than acknowledging the delusional and obsessive tendencies he displayed. Where did you go wrong? You tried to think back through a year’s worth of therapy sessions to figure out when exactly you’d given Elvis the impression that you were interested in him romantically or sexually, but were torn from your thoughts when he kissed you aggressively. He must have mistaken your attempts at protests for moans, because he only deepened the kiss, biting your bottom lip so you’d gasp in pain, giving his tongue access to your mouth.

You put your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself and tried once again to push away, but he was too strong–and determined as he backed you into your desk, the impact from both of your bodies bumping against it sending some of the items to the floor.

“Elvis, you don’t have to do this,” you pleaded. Why were you still coddling him?

“You want this, mama,” he groaned, grinding his clothed erection against your exposed leg like a dog in heat. “I know you do.”

He didn’t give you an opportunity to argue, bringing his lips to yours again and hastily unbuttoning your blouse. He rid you of your bra just as quickly, and took one of your breasts in his mouth. Guiding one of your hands to his crotch, he rubbed your hand against it, and you let out an involuntary whimper as his moans vibrated against your sensitive nipple.

Thrusting against your hand, he pulled away from your breast, muttering something about cumming in his pants if he didn’t do anything about it soon. He shed his shirt, throwing it aside. The reality of the situation hit you as he lifted you back on top of the desk and pulled down your panties. He dragged his ring finger up your slit, and you shivered at the sensation of the cold metal of his rings against it. Apparently satisfied with how wet you were, he wasted no time unzipping his pants and ridding himself of them to reveal he hadn’t been wearing any underwear. You stared wide-eyed at his cock, as he stroked it before positioning it at your weeping cunt.

“Just take it, mama. Be real good for me and take it like I know you can,” he cooed in an attempt to placate you as he slid himself into you.

You choked on air at the sensation, not expecting how big he’d be, and tears began to run down your face. He kissed them away as he thrust into you, whispering about how good you were being, how perfect you were. Two of his fingers played with your clit, and your felt your vision go hazy at the pleasure that was building up in your core. You’d never felt that good in your life. Maybe you did want it after all.

“Fuck, daddy,” you moaned, nearly throwing your hands over your mouth at the realization of what you had said.

That seemed to stir something in him, because his thrusts became harsher and more erratic while you berated yourself for actually enjoying it. The moans that came from your throat sounded almost foreign to you.

“You got no idea how often I thought about this, mama,” he managed to groan. “Come for daddy.”

With a grotesque cry, you came, feeling yourself clench around him as he kept up his ruthless pace. His own orgasm followed soon after yours, and as you felt him cum inside you, you weren’t sure whether you hated him or yourself more. What felt like hours passed before he finally pulled out from you, leaving your inner thighs wet with cum and lightly bruised.

You looked at him through your tears, knowing your mascara was surely tracked down your face. He reached for you, and you flinched back, nearly falling off of your desk until he steadied you, and you broke down into humiliating sobs into his shoulder, your nails purposely digging into his skin. You wanted to hurt him, somehow, make him feel how you felt. Instead, he seemed unfazed, releasing you from his grip when your crying had settled down to hold your face in his hands.

He looked into your eyes with all of the delusional affection you’d feared and whispered, “You’re my girl, my bestest girl.”

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

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headfullofpresley · 6 months

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𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐧' 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐬

Pairing: Elvis Presley x reader

Word count: 4,5K

Summary: You and Elvis are always playing pranks on each other. This Halloween, you come up with a prank that goes horribly wrong as Elvis doesn't think it's so funny and gets genuinely upset. But like always, your partner eventually comes around and gets his revenge.

Warnings: strong language, playing with a ouija board, fake demonic possession, mentions of the devil, elvis being upset, elvis calling reader a bitch, pranks that you probs shouldn't use on other people, tiny bit of angst, reader and larry gellar disliking each other. guess that's it?

A/N: hello, hi! i guess this isn't really spooky but felt like it fit the season! there's pranks in this that i don't advise you to use on anyone unless that's you're kind of humor. wrote this in an hour or so because it randomly popped into my mind and well... i thought it was funny 👀. just want to make clear that this is in no way me making fun of elvis' spirituality in any way, nor is reader, if some people might think thatttt or if it comes across as that. just wanted to write something else rather than a vamp!elvis fic like my brain already was thinking about for halloween, AAAAH. also, this doesn't include all members of the mm or any of the other guys because i didn't know where to place them. okay, bye. p.s: be a smart cookie and don't use a ouija board.

Elvis didn’t care for Halloween.

Never did when he was young and never did as he was growing into an adult. Sure, when he was a little boy and his friends would drag him along to go trick or treating he could appreciate the free candy, but that was about it. After complaining about the people in scary costumes on the street when he was around 7, his mother stopped him from going out on All Hallow’s Eve and he appreciated her doing so.

As he got older, he’d usually be working on the last day of October and whenever he wasn’t, he would rent out the Memphian and watch horror movies with the guys, other friends and some of his fans. He enjoyed playing pranks and scaring the shit out of the people around him, but that’s where celebrating Halloween ended for Elvis.

His Christianity or beliefs didn’t have anything to do with it. He simply preferred holidays that involved lots of homecooked foods, spreading joy, giving gifts and being surrounded by his loved ones. Like Thanksgiving and especially, Christmas.

You on the other hand are obsessed with Halloween. You always put a lot of effort in your costumes and Elvis allowed you to put carved pumpkins by the front door with a lit candle inside of it, but he wouldn’t celebrate with you in any other way than watching movies. You were too old to go trick or treating, so you were happy when Lisa Marie was over at Graceland on some Halloween evenings to do so with her, but this year she unfortunately was in California with her mother.

This Halloween you put little effort into your costume, opting for a black cat suit with a tail, some drawn on whiskers that complimented the dark eye make-up you were sporting, and a pair of black cat ears. Elvis wasn’t complaining because you looked smoking hot in it, but he wasn’t aware that you chose this simple outfit because you had bigger plans for tonight that involved… well, let’s say, a lot of action.

After watching a few movies at the Memphian with Elvis, some fans and the guys, you all made it back to Graceland. It was only around 1 in the morning which was early for the bunch you were living with, so nobody was tired yet. Which was good, because you and Charlie Hodge had come up with the perfect prank to play on Elvis and the two of you managed to convince everyone to get involved in it.

The only one who wasn’t up for it was Larry Gellar and you were slightly worried that he’d out your little plan and ruin the whole thing. You were praying that he’d just go home already, but much to your chagrin, he was sitting on the couch and conversing with Elvis, not looking as if he’d leave any time soon. You were just going to have to risk it.

“Let’s play a game!” You chirped happily as you held up a plastic bag, pulling off your cat tail and throwing it by the side of the couch. “I found this today at the store. The sales girl told me it’s the perfect game to play during Halloween, because then you know it really works,”

Elvis watches with curiosity as you pull a large box out of the bag, turning it around and showing him the front. As he realises you were holding up a ouija board, he was immediately intrigued. Ever the curious person, especially when it came to things about spirituality, Elvis slides to the edge of the couch and takes the box out of your hands, opening the lid to take the board out and inspect it.

“Hell no, I ain’t playin’ that,” Lamar immediately says as he glances at the board and you try to suppress a grin. His reaction was the one you told him to give. If Lamar would play, Elvis was going to take the chance to tease the hell out of him for a week straight because Lamar scared easily when it came to these things.

“Ah c’mon, Fike. It’ll be fun,” Elvis grins as he places the board in the middle of the coffee table. You give Charlie a quick thumbs up and he grins, agreeing to play the game. Sonny and Red agree as well, but Larry decides to sit this one out. You were happy about that and as you go around the living room to dim the lights and light some candles, you feel instantly annoyed when you hear Larry’s voice.

“Elvis, I don’t think this is a good idea. Playing with an object like that can be dangerous, you know?” Larry chimes in, looking at Elvis with worried eyes. Never really having liked Larry, you roll your eyes. Elvis doesn’t see it but Red does and he sticks his finger in his mouth, feigning a gag. The two of you silently laugh and you sit down on the floor by the table, Elvis sliding onto the floor next to you.

“It’s not dangerous, baby. It’s just a game,” you quickly tell Elvis as Larry once more expresses his concern. Elvis looks at Larry once more before he turns to you and grins, kissing the corner of your mouth as he grabs the planchet and puts it on the board. Larry gives you an annoyed glare and you ignore it, happy that he decides to retreat back into the kitchen. Joe sits back on the couch along with Billy to watch the game unfold, simply because there wasn’t enough space for more fingers on the planchet.

“You sneaky sonofabitch. You’re the one movin’ that thing!” Elvis exclaims in slight annoyance as he glares at Sonny who sat on the opposite side of the table. Sonny widens his eyes, trying his best to hold back a laugh as he shakes his head.

“I swear to God, I ain’t doin’ it!”

You and Charlie exchange a knowing look. It was the two of you taking turns sneakily moving the planchet with the tips of your fingers, but Elvis didn’t notice a thing. He was too intrigued and focused on the words “it”, or in this case you, were spelling out. You hadn’t propeely opened communication or whatsoever, so the board wasn’t working at all. You believed that a ouija board could truly work if you wanted it to and you could communicate with… well, someone or something, but that wasn’t the intention for tonight.

You just wanted to play the prank of the century on your man like he has done to you so many times before.

All of you ask random questions at first that require simple answers. Then you decide to take matters further into your own hands and add up the dramatics a notch. You needed it to be spooky. Elvis doesn’t scare easily, the morgue trips he often makes with you were proof of that, and you want him to be terrified tonight.

“Someone dies tonight.”

All of you exchange uncomfortable glances, though only that of Elvis was real. He shifts a little on the floor and takes his finger off the planchet, accusing Charlie instead of Sonny now.

“Hodge, stop pullin’ my leg with this bullshit!” He huffs and Charlie widens his eyes, scared that you and him got caught, and just as he opens his mouth to defend his case, you speak up.

“Elvis! You’re not allowed to take your hands off of it without saying goodbye!” You grab his hand and bring it back to the board, putting his finger back on the planchet. He looks at you and scoffs, squinting his eyes.

“Oooh, I see. It’s you, ain’t it?”

You mentally curse yourself. Was your acting that bad? Shaking your head as you give him your most serious face, you tell him that it’s truly not you who is moving the planchet and before he can question you further, Charlie sneakily spells out something else.

“The girl.”

“That’s it. I ain’t playin’ no more. Say goodbye, goddamnit,” Elvis barks in annoyance. He wasn’t going to admit it out loud but he truly believed the planchet was moving by itself and spelling out these things. He was having fun when they started and asked random and silly questions, but now it was getting a little too serious for him.

A little too scary.

This thing was threatening your life and he felt a sense of paranoia fill his chest. What if you’d really die because of this stupid game?

No. No, you weren’t going to die. It’s just a game. It’s not real- he refuses to believe it’s real.

You quickly say goodbye along with everyone else, moving the planchet over the word before taking your hands off. You bite your lip to hold back a laugh and wrap your arms around Elvis’ neck as he leans back against the couch, crossing his arms after he shoved the board across the table. You giggle softly and hug him, planting kisses on his cheek.

“Stop that worryin’. It’s just a game, El, nothing is going to happen.”

Although he doesn’t believe you and is still worried, he slides his arms around your waist and pulls you onto his lap, hugging you back.

You spent the rest of the late evening playing some music and Elvis doing a spontaneous jam session, which got his mind off of that damned ouija board. After all, it was just a game. Nothing was going to happen and tomorrow afternoon, he’d wake up with you in his arms.

Alive and well.

But as you two got upstairs to his bedroom and got ready for bed, he wasn’t going to take no risks. There was a baseball bat leaning against the wall by the door and a hand gun laying atop of his Bible on the bedside table. You look at it as you got into bed where Elvis already was, sitting against the headboard with the TV on.

“What are you gonna do? Shoot a ghost?” You joke with a soft snort and he looks at you, simply nodding his head.

“Hell. I will if I have to,”

“My protector,” You swoon playfully as you run your fingers through his hair, laughing. He chuckles softly and sighs, kissing your lips before he allows you to settle in the bed. You pretend to watch some TV with him but couldn’t contain your excitement, curious to know what his reaction was going to be when the best part of the prank would play out.

Since you fell asleep pretty quick most of the time, Elvis didn’t think anything of it when he heard you lightly snoring as you had turned your back to him. He had his arm leaning across your hip, needing to touch you in one way or another, always. Unbeknown to him, you were wide awake and looking at the alarm clock on your side of the bed. You had told Charlie to give you twenty minutes before you’d set things into motion and as that amount of time had passed, you started off your little prank slow.

Ease Elvis into it, so to speak.

Pretending you were having a nightmare, you twitch lightly while mumbling some soft incoherent sentences, moaning uncomfortably. Elvis who was still wide awake moves his hand from your hip to your hair, caressing it soothingly as he sits up a little to look over at you. Figuring you’re still sleeping, he leans back against the headboard of the bed but only a split second later, you suddenly shoot up to sit in the bed. Startled, his heart skips a beat and he quickly sits up again too, moving some of your hair over your shoulder. He’s familiar with sleepwalking, but he has never seen you do it before. He knows not to wake someone when they’re in a state like this nor call out their name, but his worries grow by tenfold as your body slumps against him.

And then starts twitching and goddamn near convulsing as you throw your head back. He widens his eyes in shock as your eyes roll in the back of your head, your arms hanging limp by your side. Holding your frame, he tries to keep you still as he cups your face.

“Y/N! Y/N!” He slaps your cheek softly, unsure of what to do in a situation like this. He curses loudly as he reaches over to the phone on the bedside table, putting it to his ear as he calls downstairs and yells to whoever is on the other end of the line to come upstairs.

Like clockwork, Charlie comes running in not much later and feignes a gasp at the sight of your state. Elvis looks over at him, desperate for help.

“Goddamnit, Charlie, do somethin’!” Elvis yells as your body seems to be twisting and turning into uncomfortable positions, arching your back as you let out deep groans and grunts. You didn’t even know your voice could get that low, but you were impressed by yourself.

An eerie feeling washes over Elvis and he slowly lets go of you as you push yourself out of arms, standing on top of the bed. And then you just start… laughing.

Like an absolute maniac.

The sound sent shivers down Elvis’ spine and he quickly got off the bed, standing next to Charlie as they both look at you, unsure of what was happening. Well, at least one of them. Charlie was completely sucked up into his role though and he took a step back, fear in his eyes.

He was a damn good actor.

Something clicked inside of Elvis’ brain as you look at him with a menacing look in your eyes, smirking like the Devil himself just walked into the room.

That goddamned board.

“Get my Bible,” Elvis orders Charlie, never taking his eyes off of you. Charlie does as he’s told and grasps the Bible from the bedside table, handing it to Elvis. The singer takes off the necklace he was wearing with a cross pendant hanging on the silver chain and hands it to Charlie, looking at the smaller male.

“Put this on her forehead,”

“Elvis...” Charlie widens his eyes, holding onto the necklace and pretending to be terrified of going near you. “Can’t we.. can’t we just call an ambulance?!”

Charlie was going to do whatever Elvis told him to do anyways because it makes the situation seem more natural but even if he wouldn’t be acting, the glare that Elvis gives him is enough to have him sprint into action. He runs over to the bed and pulls you down, keeping you down on the mattress as he presses the cross against your forehead. As you look at Charlie, you have to try your damnest not to ruin things and laugh, but luckily you manage to stay in your role.

Writhing on the bed and trying to get out of Charlie’s grip with what truly is little effort but looks like a lot, you let out a bloodcurdling scream. Elvis comes closer to the bed while he is quickly reciting any kind of prayer he thinks might work, reading psalm after psalm. He’s taken back for a second when you did what Charlie and you rehearsed- kicking the brunette off of you and making him land on the floor. You swear you could hear Charlie chuckling, but Elvis is only focused on you.

Now you are the one that is taken back as he gets on top of you and grabs your wrists, holding them above your head as he’s still reciting prayers. He’s yelling at the non existent demon inside of you to get the hell out and Charlie has to muffle a laugh in the palm of his hand, curious about what you were going to do because neither of you expected this.

You felt a laugh bubbling in the back of your throat, so before it could come out, you stop writhing on the bed and drop your head to the side, pretending that the prayers worked and it has all come to an end. Elvis sat on top of you for a few more minutes until he releases your hands and gets up, closing his Bible. He watches you, ready to once more go into action as he sees you casually sit up and get up from the bed. He frowns a little as you walk over to Charlie and hook your arm through his, clearing your throat.

“The end.” You and Charlie gracefully bow, bursting out into uncontrollable laughter.

Until you notice one person in the room isn’t laughing.

Feeling the mood shifting in the room and as if a thunderstorm just passed over Graceland, you stop laughing as you see Elvis glaring at the both of you. You walk over to him as he throws his Bible on the bed and cup his face, but he’s quick to swat your hands away and get back into his bed.

“Elvis, c’mon. Don’t be mad, baby. We were just having a little fun,” you laugh softly, sitting on the edge of his side of the bed. He turns his head to look at you, his blue eyes icy cold. You weren’t unfamiliar with that look but usually it was something more serious that brought it on and you never liked it.

But what you weren’t realising is that this was serious to Elvis. He thought he was going to lose you to some freaky demonic entity.

“Get out.” He simply states in a low voice, turning his head back to the TV that was still on. You look at Charlie and he gives you a little nod, taking you out of the room with him.

You succeeded in pranking the prank master, but you’re afraid you pushed him too far and that simply wasn’t worth it.

You figured Elvis would be over it by the day after Halloween and things would go back to normal. But then again, you know Elvis like the back of your hand and although you were not surprised by him ignoring you for a week straight, you were still hurt.

When he learned that all of the guys were involved in your little prank, he let them have a piece of his mind and that was that. But you were walking on eggshells. He even made you sleep in Lisa Marie’s bedroom for that entire week.

By Sunday night, you were fed up with it. Maybe you had taken things too far, but it was just idiotic that he wouldn’t even let you sleep in the same bed as him.

“What do you think you’re doin’?” He snaps as he watches you burst into the bedroom and get into the bed next to him, fluffing your pillow.

“What does it look like?” Maybe you don’t have the right to be annoyed with him, but you are. He knows how much you hate to be ignored and you’ve been worrying yourself all week with all sorts of doom scenarios, like him ending the relationship.

He grabs your arm to pull you out of bed but you sit up and pull your arm out of his grasp, the words flying rapidly off your tongue. “Good God, Elvis. I’ve told you I’m sorry about a thousand times, but you don’t wanna hear it! You haven’t spoken a word to me in a week. At least yell at me, be angry with me, do something!”

His nostrils flare as his jaw clenches and he sits up more straight, turning his body into your direction.

“You want me to yell? Be angry? Fine!” He barks harshly, his loud rich voice booming off the walls. “I thought I was gon’ fuckin’ lose you that damn night! I thought you really were gon’ die, Y/N. That there was some sonofabitch inside of ya who was takin’ ya away from me. If you think that’s so hilarious, well hell, then you really are an evil bitch,”

You weren’t hurt by him calling you a bitch. You and Elvis fought enough times in the past that involved ugly name calling but you always made up minutes later. It never lasted for days. But learning that he was truly afraid of losing you in that moment causes your heart to clench uncomfortably in your chest. You feel a pang of guilt in your gut and your shoulders slump, tears burning in your eyes as you could see a tear rolling down Elvis’ cheek. He quickly wipes it away and looks at the TV set, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Elvis, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” You exclaim breathlessly as you crawl closer to him and hide your face in his neck, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. His body tenses up but then he quickly relaxes under your touch and wraps his arms around your frame, placing one hand on the back of your head to press you firmer against him. “i didn’t mean to scare you like that, I really didn’t. I just thought it would be a fun prank for Halloween. I never thought it’d turn out like this.”

It was never your intention to truly hurt Elvis or emotionally scare him. Deep down inside, Elvis knows this and he feels a little guilty about giving you the cold shoulder for a week, but he doesn’t feel the need to apologize to you for that. Instead, he accepts your apology with a long tender kiss and then cups your cheeks as he looks into your eyes.

“You can prank me, baby, jus’… no more pranks like that, okay?” He whispers as he brushes some hair out of your face, thumbing a tear away from the corner of your eye. You nod, promising him that you’ll never do something like this again and keep it at small pranks only.

That same night, you and Elvis stand outside at the back of Graceland, watching the ouija board melt into mush in the firepit.

He wasn’t going to take any chances and forbids you to play with a board like that for the rest of your life. You have no problem promising him that you will never touch another ouija board again and content with your answer, he wraps his arm around your shoulder and looks at the flames.

“Don’t ever do that to me again, Little,” he whispers as he presses his nose into your hair, inhaling the scent of your shampoo before he kisses your head. You wrap your arm around his waist and hold him close as you nod, resting your head against his chest. “I can’t lose ya. Ever.”

“I promise, Elvis,” you say as you raise your head and look up at him, kissing his chin. “You’ll never lose me. Even the Devil can’t take me away from you.”

He grins at your words and pecks your lips, but then he pulls his head back and looks past you, frowning. Curious, you look over your shoulder and a hot feeling of fear immediately spreads throughout your chest, widening your eyes as you see two man wearing scary wolf masks stalking toward you and Elvis.

It was only you and your boyfriend at the house tonight, but still when one of the men grabs you and a few others that came from the other side of the premises grab Elvis, you scream at the top of your lungs for help. It doesn’t do much and your vision is taken from you as you’re being blindfolded, a hand being placed firmly over your mouth.

You were thrown in the back of a car and after driving for what felt like hours, you were being lifted out of the car. You couldn’t speak as one of the men had shoved what you guessed was a tie in your mouth because you wouldn’t stop cussing at them in the back of the car. You were surprised they hadn’t knocked you unconscious yet.

You were terrified of what was to come, but more so you were worried sick about Elvis. The last thing you had seen were a couple of masked maniacs overpowering him and dragging him away. Having no idea where he was or if he was even still alive, you were determined to break free and get out of where ever you were.

You needed to get to Elvis. The thought of never seeing him again made your head spin, feeling like you were about to either faint or be ill.

Despite your inner turmoil, you didn’t stop fighting your kidnappers. Not even as you were being placed on a chair, your hands tied behind your back and your ankles tied together. As the fabric was pulled out of your mouth, you were about to scream again until your blindfold was taken off. As your eyes adjust to your surroundings, you widen your eyes when you see Elvis and the Memphis Mafia standing in front of you, all wearing shit eating grins.

You realise you’re sitting in the pool room.

The guys all burst out into rumbling laughter, Elvis included, and he bends down to be at your eye level, his hands placed on his knees as he grins.

“Honey, I’m gon’ say this once and for all,” he bites his lip as he laughs, that mischievous little boy gleam in his eyes. “Don’t prank the master.”

You sarcastically laugh along with him as he unties you, glaring at Lamar who was having an uncontrollable fit of giggles when he tells you you should’ve seen yourself when him and Sonny were driving you around the block to make you think you were being taken somewhere else.

You stand up from the chair as Elvis has let you free and grab a poolstick from the wall. Red snickers.

“We should probably start runnin’ now, huh?”

“Yup.” Elvis smirks, popping the ‘P’ as he shoves the guys out of the way and starts making a run for it. You were immediately hot on all of their heels, your main suspect being Elvis, as you yell profanities at them while trying not to laugh.

Both you and Elvis know that this was only the start of what would become a very, very long prank war and you’re determined to take his title away from him, although you doubted you’d succeed at that.

As long as it didn’t involve ouija boards and any kind of demonic possession, Elvis was ready for whatever you had planned for him. But just to be absolutely sure, he made a mental reminder to have Lisa Marie stay at Graceland for Halloween next year so he could benefit of the free candy and admire your matching costumes with his daughter rather than thinking he was going to have to give you up to the Devil.

Because one way or another, he would shoot the sonofabitch.

taglist: @notstefaniepresley @powerofelvis @breadsquash @generoustreemystic @ab4eva @marriedtopresley @steph-speaks @notstefaniepresley @ellie-24 @dollksj @re3kin @wivette @eliseinmemphis @18lkpeters @rosepresley @ccab @whatstruthgottodowithit @dkayfixates @lettersfromvenus @elvisalltheway101 @that-hotdog @robinismywife @jaqueline19997 @raginginkedslut @joshuntildawn13 @claire-elvisgirl

#elvis #elvis presley #elvis x reader #elvis presley x reader #elvis prompt #elvis presley prompt #elvis headcanons #elvis presley headcanons #elvis smut #elvis presley smut #elvis x y/n #elvis presley x y/n #elvis halloween #elvis fans #tamwrites

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be-my-ally · 4 months

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Snowballs and Kisses

Hello darlings!! Merry Christmas! I hope everyone celebrating has a wonderful day, and everyone for whom it is a usual monday has a better than usual start to the week!!

I have been MIA the last few weeks on here, but never fear I have been busy behind the scenes and hopefully more things and fics will be finished very soon!! I cannot wait for my little new year break, and *finally* catching up on all the stuff I've missed!! In the meantime as a ittle teeny tiny Christmas gift please enjoy this timeskip for my Splashing Around ‘verse to Christmas Eve 1960 and my shameless OC self insert of what I’d like to gift Elvis.

a/n not totally accurate weather references: it didn’t actually snow in memphis in the latter half of 1959 but, this is fanfiction after all and it *was* very cold november 18th 1959. (I also cut a whole 4k of angst that will come out at some point as a separate chapter, Anita getting a poodle, and the colonel dressed as santa because honestly i just wanted to write and read fluff, but here's a warning that there may end up being more festive fics posted…a little late).

warnings: 18+, smut lite; gentle fingering and references to cumming in pants. UNEDITED

Graceland - December 1960

The excitement of having Elvis back at home for the festive season was only slightly tempered by the knowledge that it was his first Christmas at home without his mother. He’d not really tried to celebrate properly in Germany; sure they’d done the best they could, and he raved about the gift of a fully dressed tree for weeks, but it hadn’t been the same as it would have been at home.

This year though, Elvis seemed determined to restore the festive spirit. Perhaps even further than just restoration - an attempt to make it as bright and jolly as possible in response to both his mother’s passing, and missing the last two. He’d bragged to anyone who would listen about how excited he was to give out presents, his plans for even more lights than ever before; signs and lawn decorations.

While Louise was excited, it had left her in an almost constant state of anxiety, Christmas wasn’t just about the gift-giving… but it was a large enough part of it that it’s where her mind immediately went. From the moment he suggested they hang at Graceland that first year, from the first time they’d all pored over the letter to Frances, and his promises to “have a ball next Christmas”, giggling and whispering about what fun they were going to have the following year. From all of those times Louise had been preoccupied with what to get him and whether her secret plan was good enough for Elvis of all people.

That first year he had reiterated to them all and was absolutely adamant no-one needed to gift him anything and wouldn’t hear of anything being sent over to him. But his frequent calls and mentions of the upcoming holiday belied his actual feelings and besides, Louise wanted him to feel special. Wanted him to know they’d been thinking of him as much as he must have missed being home. It wasn’t until the 27th of November and the slightest of snowfalls had occurred, tiny little snowflakes, delicately falling down when the temperature had dropped just enough for the rain to crystallise when a flash of inspiration hit her. She couldn’t send it, so instead she’d waited patiently, adding to her bundle throughout the months. Now that it was almost time to give it though she was second-guessing that two year decision. Was it too juvenile? It’s just so tricky to buy for the man who literally has anything he could ever wish for. As the festive period hurtles on she resigns herself to having to hunt for a back-up gift…maybe a nice sweater. Maybe that will do. Or maybe it’s best to have options.

Elvis’ melancholia about the holiday doesn’t seem to stretch into Christmas Eve, and he encourages them with all the enthusiasm he’s ever had. The party starts from mid-afternoon and stretches long into the evening and night with all the makings of an excellent time from the music to the food until eventually they all find themselves around the extravagant tree to exchange presents. It’s a little chaotic, so many people about and frequently someone’s having to dive from room to room to fetch people or hidden gifts. Louise finds it almost dizzying when she finally manages to take a seat on the long sofa, catching her breath from being sent to find someone. She was already finding herself struggling to think whenever she glanced over at Elvis - he looked outrageously good in a white shirt, black trousers - well, he looked outrageously good all the time at the moment - but there was something about the feeling in the air of the day that made it all the harder to act natural around him. Elvis had been quiet for a moment, but now he was sat on his armchair across the room, looking for all the world like a king on a throne ready to bestow his generosity on the peasants. Except, that’s not the feeling in the room at all; it’s jolly and wonderful, picture perfect - all of them slightly tipsy on champagne and vodka cocktails and finding the evening all the more entertaining for it. He announces he wants to give the presents that he’s bought everyone before he opens his own, and Louise dips her eyes when he hands her a little bow-tied box. No-one else’s comes with a ribbon and she strokes it, feeling a glow emanating from her stomach and chest as she imagines his nimble fingers tying it on, totally ignoring the fact that she knows someone else probably wrapped it for him. Still, she tugs it off to hide from the others - not wanting to be teased about how such a little gesture has made her blush so strongly - and tucks it into her palm, fully intending on slipping it into her shoe or around her wrist in a moment, knowing she’ll keep it forever - wear it in her hair like a declaration.

When she looks back up everyone has a similar box and she opens it quickly in case they’re all the same - she doesn’t want to ruin her surprise. There, nestled in a little velvet box is a ring, a huge, gaudy red stone in the centre, almost too big for her finger. Louise is transfixed, staring at it, barely a thought in her head as she tries to wrap her head around the way it sparkles in the light. Despite the size of the gem, the band was more than a little small when she tries to slip it on, and she quietly puts it back into the box, not wanting to draw attention to her apparently larger than expected fingers. She glances around, suddenly coming out of her shocked obliviousness. Her face falling when she realises that everyone around her is unboxing similarly precious jewellery. She’s resigning herself to having to sneak it off to get it resized and hating herself a little for it, wondering if there are exercises she could do or maybe a special diet to shrink her fingers to size, when she suddenly realises all the other girls are turning each-other around, kissing Elvis on the cheek in thanks, or asking him to clasp their new necklaces. Louise looks back down at her box and the others. What does a ring mean? It’s been gifted with such casualness that it can’t possibly mean anything can it? When she looks back up Elvis is staring right at her, and she makes eye contact with him - her wide eyes meeting his laughing ones. He winks, and turns back to Red. She tries her best to distract herself from it, ooh and aahing over everyone else’s and keeping quiet about the little box clutched tight in her hand.

Half hour later Elvis is admiring his own little haul, when he catches her eye again,

“You forget about me Lou?” Louise cringes at being called out so publicly,

“Of course not!” She looks around the room, at the large group gathered there, “No, uh, why don’t you, well I’ve gotten you something else….It’s a sweater. It’s not great really, but I… your real gift I’ve made you, but,” She swallows building her courage, unsure why she’s so nervous suddenly when she’d been so excited for so long; the whole idea just seemed juvenile and silly now. “… you’ve gotta follow me for it.” He stares into her eyes for a second, before nodding and standing up, gesturing at her as if to say ‘lead the way’.

He grins at the boys when they walk out, making a salacious movement as if to suggest her gift may not be all too family-friendly to accompanying guffaws of laughter. She ignores it, even as her tummy churns; should she be offering that? Is that what he wants these days?

“Don’t laugh.” She asks nervously as they walk into the little pantry. Elvis looks bemused to find himself there, leaning against the wall of the tiny space

“I won’t” Louise nods, shutting the door, only to hear Elvis giggle, “You tryin’ to get me alone, doll?”

“You said you wouldn’t laugh!”

“One hell of a christmas present! to be locked in a cupboard with a pretty little gal.”

She rolls her eyes, wiggling past him to get to the freezer,

“Close your eyes.” He obediently does so, and she reaches into an old box of ice-cream to pull out a Tupperware, “Hold your hands out.” And she puts it in his cupped fingers, “Ok…open.” He blinks down at the Tupperware.

“Um. Well, thanks, I’m uh, sure this will be useful.” Louise rolls her eyes, impatiently tugging off the lid herself, “Oh.” Elvis goes silent, staring at the three perfect, teeny snowballs balanced in the tub. Each resting upon a little piece of paper with Louise’s very best cursive handwriting spelling out the date; December 12th 1958, 18th November 1959, and 20th December 1960.

The silence stretches as Elvis stares at the box, and Louise starts to ramble nervously, “I was starting to panic this year, but at least I’d thought to pick some up back in January — it snowed so heavy on the 5th. I think it was, or maybe the 15th? I’ll have to check my diary… so I mean it isn’t entirely accurate that it’s all from the 20th - but I mean, I had to have something and well I know how much you loved it when, when your mother… and I wanted you to know I’ve been thinkin’ of you non-stop while you were away. So, here, the first snow from the garden from every year you missed.” Elvis is still staring at the box, one finger poking each little round ball.

“This really snow from two years ago?”

“Uh-huh… I mean I don’t know what you’re gonna do with it now, but it really is… been in that box in the freezer this whole time…I hid it from everyone. Every time someone said they wanted some ice cream I panicked.”

“Lou.”

“‘M sorry this is really stupid, god - what are you gonna do with some snowballs, I should’ve gone in with the other girls, got you something really good… I just - well, I thought you’d like it and I know you misse-”

“Baby, I don’t, I don’t know what to say. I… I didn’t think anyone would think of me like this, like mama did, ever again. I - well, thank you, Lou darling, this is, well, its the best damn gift I’ve ever gotten.” He grabs her arm, tugging her to him - pressing a hard kiss to her forehead, the force of it surprising her. “I’m gonna show everyone - c’mon - quick before they melt.” He runs out of the kitchen, leaving Louise to follow meekly behind.

He shows them off like he’s a new father, proudly holding them up in the box, delicately picking one of them up and sighing at it, holding it up at the light for everyone to marvel at. It’s a little ridiculous in some ways - everyone in the room had been gifted something hugely lavish, and yet the thing everyone was talking and gossiping at was a snowball.

Hours later the party finally winds down enough that Louise realises she’s one of the last few stragglers of a night so late it’s turned into Christmas morning. How she’d ended up in this position she’ll never know, and she questions it herself as she stands quietly in the doorway, watching Elvis fumble on the piano. Just his fiddling is beautiful, little snippets of remembered carols, before he hammers onto the keys, singing along to Santa Claus is Back in Town. Louise can’t help the breathy gasp that escapes her and he looks up at her, smiling almost teasingly, perfect glint in his eye as he pauses for a second to run a hand through his hair before he continues for another verse and a half. He stops almost abruptly, standing up to stretch before turning to her. She’s trying to find the words to explain how beautiful it was, how perfect he sounds - how she can feel it throughout her whole being, but before she can express those sentiments he’s in front of her and grasping her hand.

“C’mon,” He tugs her over to the armchair he’d been sat in earlier in the evening, “Over here hon, that’s it - you’re the last.” Elvis throws himself onto the chair, holding onto her, pulling her stumbling body against his. “You’re the last of my girls left…” He sighs melodramatically and Louise giggles uncontrollably back at him. She’d had an illicit two glasses and a half of champagne earlier in the evening; Elvis had playfully wagged his finger at her as she’d accepted it from Red although she’d seen him have more than a few drinks himself. She can feel the bubbles still settling into her tummy and head, fuzzing her thoughts a little and making her giggly and affectionate. Still, she wasn’t so tipsy she couldn’t call out his overdramatic behaviour.

“They’ve just gone home for the night. They’ll be back tomorrow I’m sure.” She shakes her head. He ignores her, crying out,

“I’m all alone!” He tugs her by her elbow, catching her as she stumbles into his lap, pulling her onto him, flattening her wide skirt. It wasn’t really the fashion anymore but while she’d been momentarily hesitant about her holiday dress she wasn’t self-conscious, and she liked how it made her shape look. Some might suggest the bow and petticoats were juvenile, but it made her feel more adult than the tighter styles that were starting to become popular with her peers, more herself than playing dress-up.

She snuggles under his arm, head pillowed on his chest, cheeks pressed against the little buttons of his shirt. He pretends to choke at her hair brushing his nose, using his free hand to flatten it under his chin and she grins, shivering against him as his breath tickles her skin. They stay cuddled for a few moments, sinking into the kind of happy exhaustion that seems to only occur on holidays. It feels different than before, although Elvis is more similarly carefree than she’d seen him in a long time. He’d grown up a lot over the years she hadn’t seen him, or so it felt, and his adultness didn’t match the image of him playing and fooling around that she had in her head. It’s an awful feeling, she thinks, that even with him right there, surrounding her, she still longs for a little more of the playfulness of the past.

Suddenly though Elvis shifts, interrupting her thoughts and murmuring against the top of her head,

“Y’hear that?” Louise stops breathing, and all she can hear is the solid thump-thump of his heart against her ear, he waits a second but she can’t work out what he’s referring to and doesn’t respond, he gasps “There it is again! Do you hear it?”

Louise shakes her head against him, frowning a little, “No?” She tries really hard to listen out, but other than the faintest hint of the music from the boys in the other room she can’t hear a thing. “The music?”

“No! No, listen.” He puts his finger to his lips, shushing her,

“I really don’t hear anything Elvis.” He wraps his arm around her waist a little tighter, tugging her up so she was sat more upright on his knee, her face close to his. He whispers into her ear,

“I think I hear hooves…” Louise frowns,

“Hooves!?” God, it would be just her luck that he’d gone and bought her a horse or something, and she’d have to act grateful even though she was terrified of them.

“Mmhmm, that’s right.” His hand rises up to brush across her back gently, fingertips dancing around her side, “Hooves. Hooves and bells.” He pauses for dramatic effect, jabbing his finger into her side in a tickling poke. His voice dips lower, as his arm squeezes around her, “Someone must have been a good girl this year.”

Louise grins when she realises what he’s implying and couldn’t bring herself not to play along.

“…You think it’s Santa Claus?!”

“Hmm, definitely…who else would it be, on the roof with hooves and bells on Christmas eve?” She giggles, both in response to his kind-natured teasing and his fingers poking her side with an exaggerated motion.

“Oh, I wonder what he’ll leave in my stocking…” Elvis hums against her hair,

“Mmm. Coal.”

“Nooo!” She giggles back to him, “You just said I’ve been a good girl!”

“You’ve been a very good little girl.” His voice has hit that low pitch that immediately sends a jolt down her spine, right into the pit of her stomach and she swallows, trying to keep up with the joke.

“Well, I’m, uh, I’m sure I’ll like whatever it is.”

“Mmhmm….” His hand brushes up her leg, “Bet ya I’ll like what’s in your stockings more…”

“Elvis!” She shrieks, playfully batting his hand away, he pulls it off of her, smoothing down her skirt, and resting it onto her lap for a moment. Louise feels her breath catching as he presses a kiss to the side of her head, brushing her hair out of the way and shifting her on his thigh so that she’s facing him. It’s almost a struggle for her to meet his eyes, she felt so desperate for his attention - but there was nowhere else to look that made her feel any less heated. His hair, god even his eyebrows were Elvis-enough to make her squirm. It’s only a second of him kissing her jaw, before she’s gasping for him, and before she knows what she’s doing she’s grabbing his hand and shoving it back on her thigh.

She’d kept herself for him, even as it felt that she’d been playing before, doing it for someone who would never notice or care - ostensibly in general, but really if she was truthful - for him. She’d touched herself, hadn’t been able to resist the temptation, especially after his deep voice came through the phone - but the other boys, the boys in school, the ones with blue collar jobs and careers, had all lost their appeal whenever she imagined kissing them, and her imagination interposed the image and feeling of him, his slippery body in the pool, the feel of him in front of her on the bike. He was thinner now, even still, than he was before, puppy fat replaced with lean muscles. His face shape changed just the tiniest bit, perhaps unnoticeable to some, but so very obvious to her, cheekbones and chin more angular than before. But his lips feel the same as they did before he left, and since his return home - she’d expected they’d have lost their eager nature, but still she can feel the hint of desperation as he presses them against her jaw.

She gasps, rocking against him as he roves down her neck - a place no one else has ever touched, tiny points of pressure feeling like a heat was expanding across her neck and chest, matching the clench of her thighs. His hand gently strokes up her stockings before he hitches her up, capturing his mouth with hers and shoving her underlayers up to her waist in the abrupt movement. Louise moves with him, desperate to stay in contact with his lips and she moans in upset when he starts to pull away.

“C’mon baby,” He whispers, “C’mon, Lou-Lou let me - let me say thank you,” He’s barely audible as he speaks against her lips between pressing bruising kisses onto them, “I just - wanna, wanna make you feel good, Lou doll.” She gasps out her agreement, eyes falling closed and her head falling into his shoulder as his fingers find their way to rub against the silk of her underwear. He shifts her again, balancing her so she can rock against his thigh and his hand, whilst also rubbing her leg against his covered crotch. Louise is almost surprised at the heat of him against her thigh, but her curiosity has no chance to be satisfied when he hooks a finger under the leg band of her panties, totally distracting her from anything but the feel of him under her and attempting to stay somewhat upright. His finger feels softer than she’d imagined, and yet, in comparison to her own the pads feel foreign, rougher and surer than hers ever were sliding into the wetness they find there.

“God, you’re so soft baby, so fucking soft in here, perfect for me, you been waiting on me, honey?”

“Uh-huh, waited, waited so long for you Elvis - didn’t, I didn’t want anyone but you.” He groans in response, his fingers moving faster. Until he’s forced to stop, tangled in the fabric and he growls in frustration. Louise feels it go straight down her body, and her thighs clench, trapping his hand even more. He pauses for barely a second to manhandle her up, just enough to roughly tug her panties down enough that it’s now entirely her bare skin rubbing against his hand and clothed thigh, the fibres of his trousers almost giving her a friction burn with her rapid movements. He continues as he was a second earlier, but now with far easier access he’s able to swipe his fingers across her clit, taking her to the edge almost immediately. She has no idea if this was something he’s always done well, or if this is a trick he’d picked up while he was away, but whatever the reason she was grateful. She doesn’t even consider how they were still, essentially, in public, too distracted by his slender fingers to be concerned about her now partial nudity. The only noise to break up their combined breathy moans is the layers of of taffeta rustling between them, as she continues to rock against his thigh, but this all changes when he delves his thumb into her wetness, bringing it back up to stroke circles on her clit, gently but repeatedly running it over her.

“Oh, Elvis?” She cries out,

“What baby? You’re so - I can feel you’re close,” His own breathing is getting heavier, and he holds her steady with his other hand grasping her thigh while his thumb continues to stroke her,

“I don’t - I don’t…” She doesn’t even know what she’s trying to say, and before she manages to turn it into a complete sentence she’s shaking on him as she rides out her orgasm. He sees her through it, continuing to stroke her with the same pressure before rapidly shoving his hand down his own pants, roughly rubbing himself off to quick completion. She watches him closely, unable to do anything but stare as his own eyes slide closed, head falling back against the couch and mouth opening as he gasps out a high-pitched moan. It was about enough to make her shudder again against his thigh, the look on his face, his mussed hair, open collar and the noises of sheer pleasure. Louise finds herself bouncing on his chest as he breathes rapidly from the effort, and he holds her tight for a few moments while they both regain use of their limbs. Louise feels almost a little shell-shocked and she only really comes to her senses when Elvis shifts, wiping his hand on his trousers with a grimace and patting her thigh,

“Gosh that was, I, um, thank you El,” He grins at her, clearly pleased with his success, and he pats her leg again,

“Thank you, honey, for just about the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me earlier baby, it was just - I’m gonna treasure them snowballs forever, you’ll see.” She grins back at him before an unstoppable yawn takes over her face, “C’mon lil girl, time for bed.” She gulps, thinking about all the people on the house - worrying what will happen next,

“D’you…where am I gonna sleep?” Elvis frowns, little furrowed line marring his previously relaxed face,

“With me?”

“Oh,” Louise swallows, “Um, I think my parents will be expecting me - you know, Christmas morning’s all about -“

“Don’t worry honey, I’ll drop you home at the crack of dawn,” He winks, “-gotta make sure the house is all in order in any case anyway.” Elvis pauses, “Or, or you could invite your mama and pops over. They’d be more than welcome…nothing my mama liked more than a full house - especially at Christmas.” He’s looking at her with that earnest little boy expression again and it takes everything in her not to just suggest she should stay forever, it was so absurd that he’d want her to stay, instead of the other way around.

“Well…maybe I could stay. And, well, I mean, I could come over in the evening? If you swear you’ll make sure I get home in time -“ He’s quick to interject,

“Cross my heart darling,” She hums at him, and he motions the crossing of his heart across his chest, solemnly holding eye contact, “I swear.”

“Ok then, I’d love to stay.”

Somehow, and (despite his promises) to Louise’s surprise, she’s dutifully shaken awake and dropped off home, albeit not by Elvis himself, only a few very short hours later. Coming up the driveway of her childhood home it feels almost inconceivable that she should have spent the day and night how she has, and she wonders for a brief moment if she hadn’t knocked her head or something and just hallucinated the whole affair. She’s so in her thoughts that she doesn’t yet notice, as she traipses past the lounge and kitchen where she can hear her mother singing to quickly change, a new set of boxes under the Christmas tree. Elvis’ script on the gift tags declaring “To Louise, a very good girl, from Santa.”

taglist: (it's been so long that I've lost the list for this verse - lmk if you want to be added, or taken off!)

@lialocklear @ellie-24 @vintageshanny @thatbanditquee @lookingforrainbows @whositmcwhatsit @from-memphis-with-love @missmaywemeetagain @peskybedtime @powerofelvis @dkayfixates @shakerattlescroll

#elvis presley fanfiction #elvis smut #elvis fanfic #elvis x oc #be-my-ally #splashing around #elvis x louise

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precious-little-scoundrel · 6 months

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Welcome to Germany, Mrs. Presley

A Sarge & lil Mama fic

Summary: After the birth of your firstborn twins and his subsequent deployment, you and Elvis reunite for the first time at a German Airport. Sweeping romantic scores and idyllic kisses in the rain may have to wait for hungry babies and overly full breasts…the latter problem your husband may or may not have a chivalrous desire to aid you with

Warnings; yes, this is the lactation “kink” you were promised, I tried to not make it icky, I swear I did, but beware if that’s not your thing 💋

Also note: I will be changing lil mama in this series eventually to an original character instead of reader insert. This one has remained an insert as I started it that way, although the reader is referred to by the name “Elaine” at the very end 🥂

“Welcome to Germany, Mrs. Presley!” the kind hearted stewardess pulled you away from your panicked survey through the window of the crowd on the tarmac. Prompted by the stewardess’ concerned smile you turned yourself to the task at hand -bundling up the babies in their carriers to prepare them for the torrent of snow outside.

October born Memphian babies as they are, they’ve barely seen the outside of Graceland as the season turned cold, and impromptu as this flight has been, you were still prepared with blankets and woolen caps and fuzzy socks on their tiny feet. With all these precautions in place only their noses were susceptible to freezing off in the blizzard and that really couldn’t be helped without suffocating them and- oh god, you were a nervous wreck.

Elvis had been arranging for you to join him in Germany since he married you, right after going into the army, it had always been the plan. But his first plan -to make a family with you, out of you- had worked a little too well, and you had been stuck at home with a complicated pregnancy of twins contracted on the wedding night, a terrible bout of mastitis following that, while he got shipped off across the globe. Evocative letters and the few stilted phone calls were all that had kept you going, a keen awareness that both of these could be intercepted having cooled the initial honeymoon ardour of your arranged union. A kind friend had alerted you to these available seats on this commercial airline and, tired of waiting for arrangement to come together for private jets, you’d torn apart your room to pack and roped Dodger into being a traveling companion and pack mule, and the four of you made it to the terminal with ten minutes to spare. Vernon had called ahead to tell his son that his young wife was hauling herself and her twins over the ocean posthaste, and you hoped to god that Elvis' previous insistence on you waiting to take a private jet had been out of concern for your comfort, not desire to prolong separation.

When you’d said as much aloud to his grandmother she’d scowled at you and made a significant face at the twins, as if to remind you that he’d been the one hell bent on having you, not the other way around.

You scan the waiting crowd outside in hopes of seeing him, noticing multiple fan signs held aloft in greeting for you and his babies, and wondered how rumors could spread that fast. And there was always the shock you felt that some people would freeze their toes off just to catch a glimpse of the gal Elvis the Pelvis had wedded and bedded.

You grab a baby carrier in each hand, your “yittle” hands and arms having grown strong and defined in the past months just from hauling your progeny around, and Dodger determinedly manages the luggage. You bump between the airplane seats, shuffling sideways and maneuvering yourself and your precious load, smiling when making eye contact with one gawking passenger after another, even having to make small talk when the disembarking line stalls only a couple yards away from the exit door. There’s a bottle neck happening up there, just out of view, no more passengers managing to get out the door and passed a charmingly stuttering young husband who’s giving the plane Captain the same working over he gave his commanding officer - the one that procured him a furlough to come pick his wife up from the airport with zero notice.

“Elvis!” you holler, ignoring the fascinated way people’s necks swivel to watch two individuals they've only read both filthy and devine things about in the newspapers interacting in real time.

“Mamas! that really you?” a very darling and familiar voice carries over a couple dozen heads in the tubular space and it makes you want to giggle over how desperate he sounds. Like he’s rescuing you from the lion’s den instead of a commercial airline.

Elvis has a massive trust and appreciation for the common man, the set he came from, except when it comes to their treatment of you. Public feeling towards you has been exacerbated negatively by the newspapers stirring up filth and he’s nearly gone nuts with worry in the ten hours it took the plane to arrive in Germany.

“Yessir, it’s me alright.” you yell after a giggle and the rest of the crowd joins in good naturedly.

“W-w-well, well come o-on o-o-out then!” he booms in exasperation.

“Can’t.” you holler, “you’re clogging the drain, daddy.”

“Oh well, I’ll be-“ and then there’s a sudden shuffling and the Captain starts waving people on again.

You make eye contact with a withered little lady who is right up ahead of you, her ancient smile lines craggy and you feel a little validated as she alone beams at you from where she is still pressed against the side of her equally weathered fella. You’ve found it’s this ancient generation, the one before the commercialized, sterilized, American household set, who didn’t really bat an eye upon reading a tapped phone transcript of Elvis assuring you that he’s “gonna stuff your yittle cunt to the brim as soon as you’re back with me again, gonna pump you full, darlin. Yer gonna be gushin out with every rut but I ain’t gonna stop, ain’t gonna stop till we’re half dead the both of us, and you got a gallon of baby gravy leakin outta ya. I swear it lil mama, I’ll get you full again, just hang in there, hang in there, oh goddamn, I hear ya whinin, those tiny fingers of yourn ain’t doin near enough, are they….”

‘Soon as you were back with him. That was the promise, and here he was now, he couldn’t even wait for you to disembark before trying to get to you. And the weathered dame smiles at you, and you wonder if she’s thinking of the times she rolled in the hay with her man, sat on him under a blistering sun when he was working his tractor, maybe made a dozen children in a room shared with two other couples. Back when no one gasped at the notion that married couples must entwine and rut and spew in order to make those “three little curly heads in a row” that everyone still sought after.

She looks happy for you, she looks passed you back at Dodger and you know grandma is proud that someone’s out there not being a hypocrite and just acknowledging, revelling even, in the fact that marriage is a very primal thing.

Elvis, feels close to vomiting as he smiles and waves and even signs a few crinkled napkins as people file past him onto the jetbridge, standing ramrod straight in his uniform beside the rest of the plane crew who politely act as if he’s a member, not an embarrassingly frantic husband. A famous, frantic husband. A husband who keeps spinning his service cover round and round by the bill in desperate need to see his little woman come into view.

He’d left you to fend for yourself at Graceland, still hemorrhaging and fighting a life threatening infection in those pretty tits of yours that he had been so sure would feed his children as dutifully as the rest of you had proven to be. But they’d rebelled, they’d swelled up, they’d grown hard knots and made you sob in pain and still you went down to the Memphis train station and clutched his hand smilingly until the locomotive's gaining speed had torn him from your grip. He’d never been more proud of a human in all his life. And then he’d been worried sick ever after.

Not even married a year and he had inadvertently broken his promise that you’d always have him, always be a family, never be apart if you’d just be his wife. You’re healthy now, you’d assured him over the phone. Been feeding the children like a prize milk cow, even feel well enough to go down to the Graceland gates and stand and chat with the fans, have even stuck your dainty hand down south and played with the previously torn little petals of your cunt. You assure him all is back to normal.

You can be a dirty, dirty liar, though, you don’t know it but Elvis does, he has seen the way you convince yourself you are grand so others don’t worry, when you’re not well at all. Your welfare and wellbeing is hai to ascertain, he’s your husband and he’ll be the judge of that, thank you very much. If he could just see you over all these ‘tarnal heads —

—god what a vision. His wife. Twelve hours on a plane and all it cost you was a droop to your eyelids that vanishes the moment you catch sight of him. That old spark in your eyes lights up and your face burns red as a smile splits your cheeks apart and he loves you so badly, loves knowing this ravenous joy hasn’t caressed your face since last time you saw him, he alone provokes that look.

You are easily managing two carriers between the rows of seats and your hat is fetchingly tilted, your hair is curled and your coat is the one he ordered from the magazine and he’s gonna have fun peeling those nylons off your legs and — there’s still an ocean of people between you two but despite your moderate height, you two manage to keep the grinning eye contact as the distance jostles and ebbs closes and he plucks you forward by a outstretched hand, making you trip over your heels for the first time in this whole ordeal and he squats with you to let you set the carriers on the ground and before you can rise back up to your height, he’s kissing you ravenously in front of all the onlookers. My god he is comforting, his hands cup your cheeks with fevered concern and his warm tongue plunges familiarly and without prelude, his powerful embrace engulfs you, crushing you into himself like he’s gonna tuck you inside his heart. He’s your sanctuary and you slump into him, nearly knocking his hat off in your desperation to rake through his growing locks.

“Ma darling” he pants against your cheek and you both rise up from your semi squat.

Below on the tarmac, through the glass of the jetway, a dozen flashbulbs pop to capture this moment, the crowd of fans is screaming and the crew beside him titters. It’s what you signed up for, life and love in the fishbowl of fame, and he gives you an apologetic grin before you smooch it off him, and move to the side so grandma Dodger can pat his face. He gives you his arm and you both swing up a child apiece with ease, shuffling along the jetway to the immense relief of the remaining passengers. He can’t choose where to look, your face or down at the infant swinging at his side, peering over to look at Miss Ella as you carry her. He finally looks straight as the terminal comes into view, a literal light at the end of a tunnel, and he gnaws his lip and slows his stride and squeezes your hand rhythmically.

“I’m sorry it’s so public.” you murmur, knowing a private jet would have spared him all this. “I just couldn’t bare it any more.”

And even if he had been of a mind to begrudge you your rash action, hearing you unabashedly admit you missed him that much soothes everyone little worry he has harbored that now you’ve got these babies you wanted, you may have gone off the idea of a husband. Particularly one as testy and hungry as he can be. He is starving for you and it only grows as he registers in relief that you’re eyeing him up appraisingly, taking in the adjustments that “rigorous army life” has made on his physique and face.

He looks older, he knows that, but not in the way of it being the sad, sulking, pudgy fella of before, he’s chiseled and broad and virulent now and he sees you lick your lips in between smiles. You married a sad boy, you’re returning to a capable man. You knock your forehead against the patch at his shoulder like an interested cat and he snickers happily just as you both walk into the gauntlet of the terminal.

“C'mon Dodger, stick close.” he commands her and keeps craning his neck to make sure she’s not separated by the crowd despite her gripes that she’s quite capable.

“Don’t mind me,” she says, “it’s your wife you should be frettin’ bout, get ‘er a room to relieve them yams of hers, they’re near burstin and she’ll catch another bout of the clogged ducts if she keeps being so damn prudish bout nursin in public-“

“W-what the hell is all this bout y-you, you -?” Elvis comes to a full halt in the middle of the busy thoroughfare and looks frantically from her to you. You want to curse her for her tactlessness in scaring him after all the fretting he’s subjected himself to, but in all honesty, you have not nursed in eight hours and the agony you forgot for a brief moment upon seeing him again comes to the fore at the mere mention of your engorged state. You can feel yourself leaking and each shuffle rubs the fabric pads against your nipples and makes you want to whimper.

“I need a room to feed the babies before we get in a car.” you whisper the plain truth in his ear while standing atiptoe as more flashbulbs go off, capturing his look of recognition and the scarlet flush that burns his face at your confession. The tell tale vein in his neck thumps to life and you aren’t sure if it’s panic or desire sending his adrenaline through the roof. Neither will the captions under the photos in tomorrow morning’s paper.

The thought of his wife’s breasts full and heavy and warm with his hands still so cold from the winter chill makes him want to hold them and bury his chilled nose between them and -he needs to get you a room. Hates himself for being so hungry for you when your eyes are watering upon closer inspection and his children must be close to starving. Oh god, how often do infants eat? Will they be stunted for having to wait? He’ll spank the hell outta you if this little plane ride costs Jesse or Ella a single inch of height or a roll of fat.

You can see all this chaos flit underneath his crimson blush until Dodger grunts in so suggestive a way that it rouses him and suddenly he’s a man on a mission, the same man who got a furlough in record time and arranged your status on the board of the March of Dimes.

Mr- umm, that’s Private now- Presley snaps his fingers and tells a man he needs a room, the man gets him a whole lounge, Elvis gets you all guided through a throng to it, and Elvis thanks the man with such charming profusion the fella downright forgets the brusque order preceding it.

He spins around a few times in the lounge as if he can’t figure out what to fix first and you laugh and make your way to the couch, setting your carrier down and starting to undo your heavy mink.

“Right, right.” he mutters as the obvious hits him, your presence working that old steady calm on him. He feels like he takes his first true breath of German air then and sets to work.

Always, he doesn’t know how you manage it for him, but a soft smile, a head tilt and eyebrow arched in gentle direction and suddenly he’s got his feet back under him, even here as he arranges his children by the sofa -dear god he has kids, those are his kids-

and helps you with your coat. You sit yourself down and he stands ready for the next softly spoken order.

“Could you help me unbuckle them, darling?” your sweet guidance spurs him and he’s squatting, face to face with his baby he hasn’t seen since it was fresh popped into the world.

“Hey lil mister.” he whispers, half astounded to see something so little and fragile with his eyes staring back from beneath a mountain of blankets. He has to will his hands not to shake and has to try about five times to get the buckle undone, he’s being so timid about the clasp and maybe pushing too hard on his baby son’s belly. He swivels around to you after he loses track of time watching his child stare back, but baby boy starts to scowl and of course, of course there’s a point to this, so he swivels back to you and finds you undoing the buttons of your silk blouse and you’re so damn lovely as the inches of creamy skin begins to swell into view and he longs to touch and then there’s a wet patch and those pretty little nipples peek into view and a dribble of white from them startles him, and he makes a noise he hasn’t ever heard himself make.

“Whoops!” you laugh pained, leaking and swiping the flood from the one released breast before popping the wet finger in your mouth.

You reach for the baby and he pulls his gaze from your leaking breast to hand him over, and you smile shyly in thanks, and he wonders if it embarrasses you for him to watch but he can’t help it, you look so perfectly in your element as you tuck Jesse in the crook of your elbow as your other hand guides your nipple into his shiny little mouth. He latches on eager and you moan in pain and relief. Elvis hears his own breath come out in a ragged exhale as if he were sharing your feeling.

“This place sells soft drinks, yeah?” Dodger’s voice shakes him like a rocket going off as he remembers his grandma is here too, he nearly falls back on his ass in his haste to turn towards her.

“Yes’m, reckon they do.” he agrees, “different currency though, and you’ll get mobbed by the press outside.”

“Well, hand me some of them Nazi bills or whatever they use over here.”

“Dodger-“

“Hush boy, I’m in need of a coke and you’re in need of a minute alone with your family, I can handle it.” she makes a motion with her hand and he stands up and digs in his pocket and places enough currency in her palm to buy her a coke and a few mink coats, too.

She rolls her wise eyes and he suddenly hugs her hard, missing her and the home she represents. She strokes his back for a good minute before patting him and disentangling, going straight to the door and exiting without giving the sea of cameras even a sliver of a view of your makeshift oasis.

Poor little Ella has begun to fuss in her carriage and he spins around and drops to his knees to tend her, joints cracking hard against the frigid airport tile.

“No, no, no you’re ok my girl, you’re gonna be ok, oh no, oh shh it’s ok, it’s ok.” his worry for his daughter makes him forget his unease and he collects her out of her own mound of fluffy blankets and hold her to him, rocks her back and forth on his knees, face looking torn between adoration and terror that she won’t be pacified. It’s just a small cry and some baby faced puckering whimpers but you’ve never seen him look more devastated that she won’t respond. “How long’s it been since ya fed her?” he asks, voice raised and tone a little harsh.

“Just a couple hours,” you soothe, running a pacifying foot up the top of his thigh since your hands are occupied, he understands the gesture for what it is and his posture softens and he starts patting Ella more confidently. “I brought formula, Elvis, it’s just me that needed…”

“Course, course.” he swallows and hates how unsure he is, how stilted he’s making everything by this strange brand of insecurity, “I’m sorry for bein’ all -for doubtin your capabilities.” he makes amends and you can’t help but feel terrible for the lost look on his face. “I don’t got any nowhere to speak from, do I? -leavin my wife and children behind after all I promised.”

“You didn’t leave.” you reiterate the point you’ve hammered on him over the phone a dozen times, putting Jesse on your shoulder to burp him as he was so lackadaisical in his nursing he nearly fell asleep, “You were commanded away, and no one here blamed you for that except yourself, and I forbid it.”

“It weren’t right-“ he’s got Ella calmed down now he’s looking down at her with all of the remorse of a man who orchestrated a family for himself and then left them high and dry the minute they came to fruition.

“-really Elvis, I forbid it, that kinda talk,” you whisper and he looks up at you with those big eyes and a curious set to his mouth, like he wants to protest your command but it’s also everything he needs and more, “I forbid it ruining here and now, what we’ve got now -which is us, together, just as you promised. This!” you gesture between his kneeling form and yourself, each with a child you so lovingly made, “This is what your promised me, or nearly, if you could just, just not dwell on it any longer. Be here with me, please?”

He grabs your hand from Jesse’s little back and kisses your knuckles fervently, all that gentlemanly sweetness he showed you on your wedding night when he told you that it would hurt, but he’d give you babies and love and joy and forever in return. You’d sat atop him and done the deed yourself, impaling your virgin body on every hefty inch of him, and in return he had given you those babies you’d always wanted. And love, he gave you that, security, direction and a devotion you weren’t quite sure you had a large enough heart to match, but my god you wanted to try.

“Yes, yes Darlin I - oh god you’re…you’re d-d-dripping all over the place.” the mood shifts towards comic as he watches your neglected breast splutter out sweet milk into your silk shirt and you offer him Jesse in exchange for Ella.

Jesse’s head lolls back alarmingly once his daddy’s got him, his blue eyes half lidded in a mommy’s milk coma. Elvis giggles at it. “Son of mine, you’re plastered.” he takes an elegant finger and traces the tiny nose down to the little button chin, “Guess I should tuck him back in.” he sighs regretfully, hating having him out of his arms for even a minute, but also knowing he needs to get you back to the house in order to have any real and extended privacy.

You hiss as Ella latches on vigorously, and he looks up from his work on Jesse’s carrier in concern.

“All’s good.” you put on a brave smile, the one you gave him as the contractions started to hit, the one you gave him when you sank down on him fully for the first time and tried to be brave about the feeling of a cucumber in your keyhole. He may have not had that much quality time with his family as a whole so far, but he’s been studying you for years. He spots bullshit.

“You’re dirty little liar.” he tsks but he can’t help his smile, you look so bashful and then haughty about it.

“I just, I hope she’s hungrier than him.” you explain, and somehow you have a great deal of elegance about you, he thinks, sitting in your pressed skirt and heels and hat and curls with your shirt open and leaking ripe tits gushing at every mewling sound the infants let out. Its fascinating to him just how, well -full- they look, how it’s like a leaky faucet or a break in the hose or…precum, dribbling and oozing without coaxing and it’s making your whole breast shiny from the mess of it and -he can’t help it, he licks his lips, and you don’t miss it, even as he blushes scarlet at the desire that flashed across his brain.

You don’t out him, the jive of your relationship still feeling somehow precarious, like there’s a old shyness in the air. You pat at Ella’s bottom encouragingly, trying to keep her eager as her daddy still kneels and watches. She’s already starting to slow. And your breasts ache, they ache terribly still despite the munchkin’s having their dinner. You wonder about this shyness, you wonder about the way he’s shifting on the floor, the way his licked lips shimmer and the way you have a sneaking suspicion that the force of both your yearnings is so strong you’re playing safe until it can explode in some contained environment.

At some point he stopped just watching and took to leaning over your lap, the better to watch and stroke little Ella’s cheek as she sucks down what you give her. “A goddamn miracle, she is.” he whispers in awe and you nod in agreement, “We made this.” he states as if in shock, “We made these!” he boyishly exclaims, swiveling back to look at a conked out little Jesse before he turns back to you.

“We did indeed.” you grin warmly and he bites his lip, hands running up and down your thighs atop your skirt.

The familiarity of his old touchiness soothes you, and you lean over to kiss him gently, Ella already having let the nipple slip from her lips, sated with a measly meal after all that formula. You dribble on the cuff of his sleeve during the kiss and his eyes lock on the white stain seeping into the wool. You watch as he impulsively brings the sleeve to his mouth and sucks the moisture. His eyes blow wide, and you suck in a breath.

“I d-dunno what I-I-“ he protests his rash action.

“No, no, Elvis, would you -do you…” you lick your own lips and look down at Ella as she snoozes in a tremptohan dream, your engorged breast neglected.

You gently set her beside you on the couch while he clutches at your legs, waiting breathless to see if your mind is as compatibly wicked as his own.

“I need you, Elvis, I really do, please.” you whisper it so pained that he’s drawn closer as if it were a sirens sing -his woman needs him. “It’s not wrong, is it?”

All you’ve ever learned about any of this has been from him and the good book, and neither said nothin about forbidding anything done between couples in love. His tongue darts out and he shakes his head vehemently, even as his face burns scarlet across his cheekbones.

It’s like a slow movie kiss, the way you both gravitate towards each other, he rising up higher on his knees and leaning over your lap and you inclining yourself towards him.

You lift up a heavy breast and he’s so close to it his hot breath makes your wet nipple burn and tighten impossibly more, he pauses, open mouth puckered right before, eyes flicking up to yours with a wild need for assurance.

You put your other hand to the back of his head, knocking off his army hat and lacing your fingers through his shorn locks, gripping and guiding him that last inch, and then he’s there, his searing mouth engulfing you just as you remember from when you were a milkless maid.

“Please, please.” you gasp out, pushing his head closer and you see the broad line of his sturdy back ripple beneath his army greens in a shudder before he gives you what you need, mouth tightening, tongue dipping, cheeks hollowing. He sucks.

You moan in agonized relief, tugging his hair unconsciously and he moans back as the shockingly sweet deluge of you coats his tongue and slides down his throat. His heavy lidded eyes fly open at the taste, so sweet and refreshing and he finds that it’s not just the heady eroticism of it, or even the soothing closeness you’re both finally managing here and now that makes him float -it’s the truly comforting state of being clasped to your breast like this and being looked down upon so adoringly by the mother of his children. His arms wind round your waist and he locks his hands together at the small of you back. You’re a wonder of creations, an unfairly beautiful creature with a near unbearably impressive use. Rather like your tits, he thinks, and that makes him snicker around you little bud and you “oh ha!“ prettily in surprise at the vibration before settling and stroking his face.

“That’s it, that’s perfect, daddy, please a little more.” you whisper as he guzzles down his children’s sustainance.

He wouldn’t think of stopping, redoubles his efforts just to show you how invested he is, that this is no favor he is doing you. The painful throb between his legs, pressing as it is against your shin, ought to be proof enough to you he finds this nothing less than agreeable. His frostburned nose is warming up, nestled against burning hot flesh as it is, and he takes a chilled hand away from your waist to reach out and grasp your other breast. You gasp in shock and pain as out dribbles more milk, running in rivulets over and between his knuckles, down to his wrist.

“Oh my lord, there’s so much.” he groans in appreciation, greedily switching his spigot of choice and latching onto the other tit eagerly and your head falls back from the overwhelming feel of being taken care of.

“So good to me.” you marvel, dragging your hands through his hair, anchoring him still to you and he hums, his eyes growing heavy and milk settling warm and calming in his gut. “Always so good to me.”

You’re not suprised to feel the hot splash of what must be a tear on your breast, his sniffles just a little audible above the lewd noises of his suction and moans. This is you two, this is back to how it ought to be. You can feel him as he settles back into place with you, his whole body relaxing and leaning in. You flex your foot and it makes your leg brush against where he’s pressed to you and he bucks against your shin helplessly, a hand back on your waist and the other hefting your breast to his mouth. He ruts against your leg, months of absence and abstinence turning him into something no better than a dog in heat as he leans across your lap.

He pulls away with a gasp as if he’s been submerged this whole time. His face is glossy and his lips puffy and the collar of his shirt is wet from some of the milk he couldn’t catch. He looks wrecked and dazed and you thumb at the messy corner of his mouth. He reaches out and squeezes the breast he just deflated and laughs at the way it sags.

“Don’t.” you whine, a little shy but he just giggles harder and keeps jiggling it until you have to laugh, too.

“You all better now?” he asks soft, and your face is swimming in front of him, his hand staggers upwards on its way to clasp your cheek.

“Heavens, are you milk drunk?” you laugh, his whole expression hilariously childlike.

“Feel a lil funny.” he nods, slumping back on his knees but keeping his hands on your knees.

“That is becasue all the blood is down there.” your shiny black shoe toe nudges the tent in his pants and he grins bashfully.

“Well, hang on now!” he speaks up after a moment, frowning at one of your breasts and you look down to find a bead of milk gathering to drip again, “I just drained you!” he protests with wounded pride to your offending breast, “I just drained ya, and you're already drippin, what’s the big idea?”

“Elvis baby,” you laugh merrily, “It makes up to replace what comes out. Nursing encourages more production.”

“Sure but -but this is excessive!” he’s being louder than usual, inhibitions gone out the window the minute he’s sucked titties like a starving newborn while wearing his country’s uniform. “Hell, they ain’t gonna win this time.” he shakes his head and leans in again, “Gonna keep you comfy now you’re here wi’me.” he swears competitively before latching on again to the fuller breast and swallowing down the fresh brewed batch.

You can feel the relief mounting in your chest as that final little bit gets drained, soon there won’t be any more for him to suck out, so while you can, you take the opportunity afforded to you, one you never thought you’d have. You place your hand against his throat to feel it work as he swallows you down, a motion he is familiar with, one he does around your throat every time you swallow his release. It makes him growl in want and he laps around your bud as he ruts and stares deep into your bright eyes. The fan of his eyelashes flutter against your breast and you push back his hair, thumbing at his eyebrows, he goes a tad crosseyed as his pupils blow out and suddenly the desire for a nap is mighty powerful in him. He giggles, nipple falling from his lips, and you giggle too, through your blush, and cradle his head.

A hard knock on the door snaps both this pretty moment and the line of drool from his lips to your nipple. He rolls and scoots out of your lap and back on his ass like a soldier out of his foxhole and you hear Dodger’s voice saying something about the car being ready through the muffle of the partition.

“Right, right, ok.” Elvis hollers, vigorously wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand as he watches you do up your soaked shirt with nimble fingers.

“You’re really drunk, I think. You sure you’re alright?” you murmur, watching as he blinks and shakes his head as if he’s got water in an ear.

“Maybe.” he hiccups and then looks horrified by it, “Lordy, really don’t know what’s wrong with me, I-I-ill be fine i j-just a lil…what’s in that stuff anyway?” he nods at your now (sadly, deplorably, regretfully, criminally) covered breasts.

“Nutrients and sugar, I guess.” you chuckle, choosing to strap Ella in yourself, since he seems a little woozy.

“More like moonshine.” he gripes and then gasps in shock and you see what he does about the same time, a massive wet patch on the crotch of his khakis that he pokes at as if he isn’t sure when he’d spilled a drink in his lap.

“You didn’t!” you exclaim in gleeful shock and he gives you a warning look but you’re too far gone in smug satisfaction at making him blow a load just from tiddy sucking that you keep grinning down at him manically.

“I-i-I didn’t!” he insists, flustered and bewildered, “I don’t remember doin it! Wasn’t even touching m’slef.”

“You looked pretty happy there for a minute.” you tease merciless.

“Hell mama, how am I gonna stand up without makin it run ery’where? Gonna be goddamn humiliatin goin out there with wet pants.”

“Your jacket covers that area.” you soothe, ascertaining that the patch is high enough up.

“Not when I stand up it won’t, whole load is gonna run down ma leg an’drip on the floor. That’s three loooong months worth of cream right there, lil mama.”

Dodger knocks again and he looks up at you half panicked, “I’m coming in, all this press doin my head in.” she hollers in warning.

“Yes of course, come on in!” you encourage her while reaching down into the carrier and snagging the burp cloth, “Here, sop it up!” you hiss at him, extending the cotton cloth and he looks at it incredulous for a brief moment before the door opens and he spins away to shove his hand and the fabric down his pants and collect the mess so it doesn’t streak his pant leg upon standing up.

He has to give ya credit, it sorta works. He pulls the sodden rag out of his waistband and turns around to see his grandmother helping collect the luggage and you smoothing out the wrinkles in your skirt. He thinks he sees a shiny patch of fluid on the shin of your nylons. He shivers again.

Dodger makes no comment on your wet blouse, she expected as much and the mink you don again covers it just fine. Elvis she observes with a critical eye and a shake of her head, he’s a hopeless case really. He looks a mess, not in any particularly blatant way, just the dazed light in his eyes and the plump of his lips and the wet around his collar, the glow to his cheeks. He looks like he just enjoyed himself somehow, though the HOW remains a bit nebulous. One can only hope the papers put it down to familial affection.

There are reporters from every paper outside, American and German and British, and then the fans to boot. It’s all rather rude just to plunge ahead through the well wishes and welcomes so you and he walk arm and arm through it all, a baby carrier strategically carried in front of him, and dish out pithy replies to an abundance of questions.

-“You look lovely, Mrs Presley! So glad to see you recovered!”

-“Oh my god I can’t believe it’s them!”

-“Did she really fly commercial?”

-“How do you feel about her going spring unaccompanied, Elvis?”

“She weren’t unaccompanied,” he shakes his head, “she was with my Grandma.”

-“Can we see the babies?”

“Sure ya can!” he tugs the blanket down past Ella’s chin but as the bulbs go off and her eyes crinkle sadly he quickly snaps back the hood of the carrier, “Aww, she ain’t a fan of your lights, man.” he apologizes, a huge smile on his face as the crowd coos and he almost forgets in his pride to not raise the carrier up and expose his accident.

“You look a little, uh, wet, Elvis.” an oft encountered American journalist has the audacity to reach out and touch the soaked collar of his shirt, a shit eating grin on his face.

Elvis tenses and his stride beside you gains speed but the slimey columnist keeps pace, “So much meltin snow out there, man,” uour husband tries to grin for the cameras, “I’m from Memphis, I dunno how to handle that stuff, gets on ma trousers and collar and er’ryrhing.”

“Sure, sure.” the reporter nods, “Bet you’re glad to have your wife on this side of the pond but there’s gonna be a lotta disappointed Frauleins.”

“They won’t be disappointed for long once they get to know ‘er.” Elvis states with jovial certainty. You can’t help but beam.

“You can’t blame them for being sore,” the guy won’t be put off or dislodged from your side as you exit the airport out onto the frigid sidewalk, “not every dame was born to be a cum guzzler.” the guy acts as if he’s agreeing with something Elvis said while throwing this tabloid trash back up into your face.

You positively refuse to flinch at the reference to the bugged phone call but Elvis stalls to a complete halt right beside your shiny ride, looking over at the man with deathly hate in his eyes, “The hell did you just say?” he inquires, terribly quiet.

“I was just quoting you, man.” The guy throws his hands up defensively and you duck and scoot around Elvis to help Dodger load the car, watching your husband coil up for an attack out your periphery.

“You’re quotin a newspaper that coughed up a couple million in damages for illegally tapin’ a private call!” he explodes and if anyone was unaware of what spurs him to grab the fellow by the shirt front and pin him to the hood, they are now informed. “If you ever, and I do mean ever,” he goes on, fist crushing the guy's diaphragm and voice shaking in terrible, hushed rage, “say or repeat or even so much as think of my wife like that again I’ll ruin ya. I don’t mean your job, I don’t mean your life, I mean I’ll ruin ya so bad you’ll wake up everyday wishin your mama washed you out with a douche when she had the chance. You hearin me? Yeah, yeah, what’s that? You’re sorry? That’s reaaalll nice of ya, you should be sorry. Alright, alright, I’ll take your apology but yer gonna apologize to my lil wife, too, you hear me? Go’on now, you scummy sunnuvabitch, you don’t even deserve to look at er.”

You lean against the inside of the car door, straight backed in your heels, family all packed inside the cab and await the windless reporter to get his voice back enough to stammer out a “apologies, Mrs. Presley, I didn’t mean to be inappropriate, I didn’t mean to-“

“We all know what you meant to do, you ungentlemanly bastard,” your husband shakes him by his collar and you glance uneasily at the gathering crowd but they seem mostly sympathetic, “You’re tryin to shame an admirable woman for her God given talent of pleasin her husband -and for likin it while she’s at it. Well you ain’t gettin away with it, not this time.”

When he lets go of the man, the guy nearly catapults into the crowd from the force of the shove. He meets no helpers among them and ends up face first on the cement.

Elvis saunters back and holds the car door open wider and motions you into the cab, you take your seat. He clears his throat before turning back around and dipping his hat to the throng, “Night yall, god bless.” before scooting in beside you and the ride takes off to your new home, your new life here in Germany.

Dodger’s eyes are smiling around her coke as she sits between the babies, watching proudly as Elvis settles next to you and heaves out a long breath.

“Always some bastard tryin to ruin a nice day.” he murmurs but it fades into a happy little sigh as you reach out and take his hand, your head leaning on his shoulder, finally snug beside him again. You smile, knowing he’ll raise your son right, kindly, respectfully.

Elvis’ pant leg beneath your fist is wet and you sneakily pat him there beneath his coat flaps. He nuzzles your hair with his nose and you feel his hot breath tickling your ear as out comes a deep whisper, “Don’t fret o’er that, Elaine, there’s more where that came from.”

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@myradiaz

@ash-omalley

@arianatheangelgirl

@steph-speaks

@burningloverdoll

@angelface-555

@lookingforrainbows

@missmaywemeetagain

@coolgirl462

@kingdomforapony

@18lkpeters

@richardslady121

@from-memphis-with-love

@lillypink

@artlover8992

@pennyroyalcreep

@notstefaniepresley

@ellie-24

@renaissingle

@waiting4brucewayne2adoptme

@presleyenterprise

@marriedtopresley

@ashtag2887

@dkayfixates

@vampireindistress

@ashtag6887

@i-r-i-n-a-a

@obsessedvibee

@peskybedtime

@goth-cowgirl-03

@stephthestallion

@fav-fanficssss

@loving-elvis

@honeyorangess

@soloangel

@xenaspace3-blog

@60svintage

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aconflagrationofmyown · 1 year

Text

Welcome to Germany, Mrs Presley

A Sarge and lil Mama fic

Warnings; yes, this is the lactation “kink” you were promised, I tried to not make it icky, I swear I did, but beware if that’s not your thing 💋

Enjoy: AO3 Fic Link

“Welcome to Germany, Mrs. Presley!” the kind hearted stewardess pulled you away from your panicked survey through the window of the crowd on the tarmac. Promoted by the stewardess’ concerned smile you turned yourself to the task at hand -bundling up the babies in their carriers to prepare them for the torrent of snow outside.