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venus-haze · 2 years

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Ever Fallen in Love? (Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Summary: You underestimated what you were taking on when you married Elvis, feeling more and more helpless as he seems to be slipping away from you at the hands of people who have little interest in anything but exploiting him. Despite your good intentions, things don’t go as planned when you confront Elvis about the people he surrounds himself with and his troubling reliance on the cocktail of pills Dr. Nick prescribes him.

Note: This is based on a request by @holy-minseok. Reader is a woman but no other descriptors are used. This was more angsty than the yandere fics I write but still dark, so I hope I did the request justice. I did make myself kinda sad writing it. I listened to Ever Fallen in Love (With Someone You Shouldn’t’ve?) by Buzzcocks a lot while working on this. I used ‘vaporial’ at one point, and I’m not sure if that even is a word. Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: Depictions of drug abuse, violence, fighting, blood and generally dark content which some people may find disturbing or triggering. Literally the exact opposite of what you’re supposed to do for someone who’s struggling with drug addiction. Do not interact if you are under 18.

Being married to Elvis wasn’t easy, as you stood in the long shadow of women who came before you, from the ever-present specter of his mother to his ex-wife of less than a year. You weren’t sure why exactly you’d agreed to marry Elvis after only dating for a few months, perhaps your bleeding heart over the man’s loneliness made you informally agree to be the one to help him emotionally exorcize his demons. Instead, you found yourself flustered and exhausted at the amount of people who, for one reason or another, were content with enabling your husband’s decline.

For as much as they claimed to care for him, you’d often butt heads with members of the so-called Memphis Mafia, finding as time went on they could hardly be considered friends, more like leeches. Having Jerry on your side helped, especially since he was pretty much Elvis’ right-hand man and had the same concerns you did. You didn’t trust the Colonel as far as you could throw him, and Vernon’s own disregard for his son’s well-being shocked you. While you certainly didn’t consider yourself anything close to a saint, you wondered how the hell Elvis ended up surrounded by ‘yes men’ who could give a damn.

You knew there were plenty of people whispering falsehoods about you in his ear—selfish, petty, gold-digger, to name a few. While your relationship with Elvis did start as a fling, you found that he was kind and generous, and it was easy to get caught up in conversations with him about everything from religion to the blues. Things became serious rather quickly, but you didn’t realize how serious until one night, when Elvis presented you with a gold charm bracelet with his initials hanging from the chain. The gift was meant to be a dainty accessory since you weren’t a flashy person and would often forget to wear the TCB necklace he’d already given you. Despite this, the bracelet was your proverbial albatross as the glittering EP tapped against your wrist day and night as if dictating your pulse.

Of course you loved Elvis, perhaps to a fault, but his reliance on the prescription pills Dr. Nick gave him, most of which you couldn’t even pronounce, troubled you deeply. You understood why it was the final straw for Priscilla and knew how much of an uphill battle you faced if even she couldn’t get through to Elvis. To your relief, Priscilla liked you, and since she and Elvis were still close, you’d update her on how he was doing. You hoped that between the two of you, somehow you could get Elvis to go to rehab before things got even farther out of hand.

It seemed hopeless, though. When you felt like you were making leeway during the months at Graceland with him, he was thrown back into the lion's den with his contractually obligated Vegas residency. The past month was enough to undo your convincing that he didn’t need the pills and was better off without them, because there was no way he could humanly perform two shows a day, three on weekends, in Vegas without something. While he welcomed you staying in Vegas with him during his residency, you had little choice but to watch helplessly as he slipped back into the destructive cycle. Part of you wished you had just stayed behind in Graceland, but that would have made you just as complacent.

The evening leading up to yet another set of shows in Elvis’ eternal residency at the International was more hectic than usual, conspiracy in the air as Jerry had rushed over to Elvis with urgency you’d never seen before. You could hardly keep up with their strides as they walked down the long hallway. Jerry was speaking to Elvis in a hushed tone, something about the Colonel. While you strained to hear what Jerry was saying, it must have been a bombshell, because Elvis stopped in his tracks for a moment before collapsing to the ground.

Immediately, you dropped to his side, your hands shaking as you frantically wracked your brain as to what you should do. Everything was a blur when you started crying, babbling for someone to help Elvis. You felt frustration toward yourself at being so helpless in the situation, so close to losing the man you loved that it made you almost sick.

Ice cold water splashed onto your clothes as Elvis’ head was dunked into a bucket a few times in an attempt to bring him back to consciousness. You sniffled as a nurse held his head up a bit as he slowly came to. The water did little to hide the cold sweat that had overtaken his body, his hand clammy in yours. He was exhausted, and the visible rage and a hint of fear that gleamed in his eyes when the Colonel rushed over made you move in front of Elvis, as if to shield him.

“I don’t think he should—“ you began, only to quickly be cut off.

“The only thing that matters is getting that man on that stage tonight,” the Colonel said.

“On stage? He just about died, and you want him on stage?”

“Well, this is a Presley Enterprises decision since it affects tonight’s performance, all of the fans who’ve been eager to see his show,” the Colonel said, looking at Vernon.

“If he were my son, I’d take him to the hospital,” the nurse by his side said.

You nodded. “Let him rest, please.”

“I—is there anything Dr. Nick can do?” Vernon asked weakly.

You felt like you’d gotten punched in the gut. “You all should be ashamed of yourselves. He could have died, and all you care about is getting more money out of him until there’s nothing left of him. I swear to god, you people disgust me!”

“Mrs. Presley is clearly hysterical. Please, would someone escort her elsewhere,” the Colonel said, glaring at you.

“Fuck you! He’s my husband; you can’t do this to him!”

You watched helplessly as Dr. Nick grabbed a syringe out of his bag while you were being practically dragged away from the scene. Jerry wrapped an arm around you, and you covered your face with your hands, sobbing as Elvis was injected with whatever poison Nick had on him.

Just as quickly as Elvis was helped up, he was escorted away, presumably to his dressing room. You couldn’t believe the callousness you’d just witnessed toward your husband.

Sniffling, you looked at Jerry. “What did you say to him?”

“I’ll tell you while we catch up with them,” he said.

You and Jerry trailed well behind the rest of the group ushering Elvis away, speaking in hushed tones as Jerry shocked you with his revelations about the Colonel. When you had first met the man, you expressed as nicely as possible to Elvis that you had a bad feeling about him, and he’d light-heartedly told you in passing that his mother didn’t like the Colonel either, as if it were some ‘girl thing’. As upset and outraged as you were, you couldn’t imagine being in your husband’s shoes, putting your whole career in the hands of a man whose existence was vaporial, only visible through lies and cigar smoke.

There was nothing you could do about the Colonel, it was a business matter. As you’d frustratingly discovered not long after marrying Elvis, most people regarded you as vapid arm candy rather than his partner. You did have some sway in Elvis’ decision making, and at least hoped to talk him out of performing that night and to reconsider who he allowed to be part of TCB–his Memphis Mafia. Besides the Colonel, Dr. Nick was at the top of your shit list for how unaffected he seemed at your husband’s collapsing earlier. Wouldn’t a regular doctor order bed rest?

You felt like you had a cement block in your stomach as you knocked on the door to Elvis’ dressing room. The two of you had a secret knock, childish as it was, but you couldn’t help but give in to the mischievous glint in his eyes when he first proposed the idea to you. It was something you loved about Elvis, he was funny, always with something up his sleeve to keep things interesting and make people laugh. Perhaps that would contribute to his downfall, his need to please, to keep the peace and avoid so much of the conflict he’d experienced growing up.

“Hey,” you said, entering the dressing room to find him sitting on the couch, still in his robe. “You doing alright?”

“Been better,” he said, giving you a tired smile that made your chest contract.

“Baby, you don’t have to do this,” you whispered, sitting next to him.

He shook his head. “I gotta go up there, mama. The fans—“

“Can wait. You’re not feeling well.”

“I’m fine now.”

“Elvis—“

“Just leave it, Y/N,” he said.

You closed the small distance between you and Elvis, wrapping your arms around him and burying your face in his chest. “I love you so much.”

He kissed your forehead. “I love you too. Now go on, I’ll see you after the show.”

You nodded, giving him a kiss before getting up to leave, feeling dejected as ever. Turning around, you took him in, your heart lurching at how visibly unwell he was. There was no way the crowd wouldn’t notice, certainly not the audience members in the front row. They’d be able to see him under the stage lights, how clammy and pallid he looked. In what you assumed would be the more unfortunate reality, they wouldn’t care as long as they got to see your husband run himself ragged for their entertainment while they threw back drinks–bread and circuses while you came so close to losing him.

The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on you. The world loved Elvis, but no one seemed to care about him. His humanity was an inconvenience to them, that he was indeed a man with physical limitations, was a flaw, not a feature. Those snakes would sooner parade him around on strings for a few extra bucks than let him get the rest he needed.

While you normally watched at least one of Elvis’ nightly shows during his residency, you couldn’t stomach it after what had happened before. He hardly got much of a break in between shows, and so you spent the next few hours in the suite, your emotions shifting between sorrow and rage over the treatment of your husband.

You considered calling Priscilla at several points in the night, but decided it could wait until the morning. There wouldn't be much she could do on such short notice, and even still, it’d take time for her to find someone to watch Lisa and then get from LA to Vegas. You wondered if Elvis would even listen to her.

It felt like far too soon, yet not soon enough when Elvis finally returned, hardly able to walk straight after forcing himself to perform through two shows. You fought back tears at his state. He looked so tired and worn out, and if earlier was any indication, it was catching up with him faster than anyone expected. Logically, you knew it wasn’t the right time to bring it up, but you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. Part of you worried that if you waited until the following day, it’d all be a blur to him.

“I need to talk to you about what happened earlier,” you said.

He waved you off. “Save it.”

“No, this is important. All of the shit about the Colonel is just the tip of the iceberg, and you know it.”

“Jerry told you?”

“I got the gist, yeah. I hate seeing you get taken advantage of by these people.”

“I can look after my own damn self, Y/N.”

“I just want to help you,” you pleaded. “I love you.”

“Then get off my back!”

“It’s not good for you, all the shit Dr. Nick gives you. Jerry agrees with me, and Priscilla—“

“What’s she got to do with it? She don’t want nothin’ to do with me, and don’t think I don’t hear you whisperin’ on the phone to her ‘bout how much you can’t wait to leave me too.”

“She calls because she’s worried about you. Sometimes she doesn’t hear from you for weeks.”

He scoffed, rolling his eyes as you spoke. In the months you’d been with Elvis, he had never expressed such cruel disdain for you until that moment. You couldn’t even recall him speaking negatively about Priscilla, of all people. It wasn’t him, not really. You tried to tell yourself it was the junk making him this way, but your vision blurred with tears at the realization that you never really knew him without it.

“Can you please just listen to me?” you implored. “You’re lucky all that happened earlier was that you passed out. What if it was something worse?”

“Then you get it all, mama,” he said, gesturing around the suite.

You looked at him in silent disbelief for a few moments before finally responding with, “I don’t care about that. Don’t you see how much you’re hurting me and everyone else who cares about you? Hey! Where are you—“

He shook his head, walking into the bathroom and slamming the door behind him. As you approached, you could hear the rattling of pills in a plastic bottle and felt rage build up inside you, white-hot and blinding. You opened the unlocked door, smacking the multi-colored pills out of your husband’s hand.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he asked in disbelief as they scattered across the tile floor.

“Me? You’re killing yourself!”

“That’s my business!”

You balled up your fists at your side. “Well you married me, so your business is mine too.”

He stood frozen in shock as you opened several of the dozen or so pill bottles on the counter and began dumping them into the toilet. Sure, it was the exact opposite of every effective way to confront a loved one struggling with addiction that you’d read about, but if it was going to get his attention, you were willing to deal with the fallout. You felt a bit of relief as you watched the pills disappear down the drain when you flushed the toilet as you enacted what would probably be considered the worst intervention possible.

As you picked up more bottles, Elvis seemed to come to his senses and grabbed your wrist, squeezing in an attempt to make you drop them. Feeling the bracelet he’d gifted you digging into your skin, you haplessly threw some of the bottles at the mirror. You weren’t sure what you were trying to accomplish when the glass shattered onto the counter and floor.

You heard Elvis grunt something about you being psycho as he tried to get you to drop the rest of the bottles. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of the struggle reflected in the hundreds of glass shards that littered the floor as you tried to pull your wrist from his grip. Fueled by little more than adrenaline and determination, you’d be damned if you wouldn’t see it through to the end.

“I’m trying to help you! You can’t keep going on like this!”

“Help? Look what you did!” he argued.

Elvis was stronger than you, and you knew he could really hurt you if he wanted to, but even though he was holding back, the force from him releasing his grip from around your wrist while you were still pulling it back sent you to the ground. You landed hard, your forearms breaking the fall but digging into the broken glass on the floor on impact.

He looked at you in horror as he saw the blood on the floor, fresh and coppery as it flowed from your arms. As he stumbled back against the counter, you noticed his knuckles were white as he gripped the edge of it behind him. His breathing was heavy as he took in the state of the room, the state of you, in horror.

“Darlin’,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—“

You hissed as you sat up. “I know.”

“Jesus, let me call you a doctor.”

“Not Nick.”

He nodded, letting out a shaky breath. “‘Course not.”

Pushing yourself up to sit against the wall, you looked around the bathroom and sighed. If you didn’t know any better, it’d have been something out of a murder scene from the broken glass to the blood smeared in the floor. Perhaps it would end up being fitting, a physical manifestation of the death of yours and Elvis’ relationship. You doubted he’d want anything to do with you after what you’d just pulled and wouldn’t blame him if he ended up serving you divorce papers in the following days.

You noticed your bracelet had broken and slid across the floor, his initials imprinted on your wrist from the pressure he’d put on the charm. You stared at the imprint, hoping your focus would distract from the pain in your arms. He hesitantly returned to the bathroom, chewing his bottom lip as he leaned against the door frame. It was almost as if he was afraid to get too close to you while the two of you waited for whatever help he called to arrive. If you were in his position, you’d be afraid of you too.

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

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