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precious-little-scoundrel · 4 months

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Trash Magic

Big Daddy Trailer Park Cop AU One Shot

Summary: it’s 2008 and it’s the pits of recession, not that the suburbs of El Paso would notice, things have been rather shit among the rows and rows of trailers for some time now. With your dad locked up for being a little too ‘entrepreneurial’, it seems your only ally in these tough times is the town‘s scary old softy, Officer Presley, and the more than professional interest he takes in your speeding and footwear.

Era: modern but with that dumbass tumblr dusty Americana feel to it I hope?

Kudos: so many to @eliseinmemphis who was my plot guru, kept this thing alive and gave so many lines and sentences used herein.

Word count: 15k and I didn’t edit this sorry for misspells, etc

18+ and may be thematically disturbing to some please read cautions, proceed at your own risk!! More specifics below the cut

HAPPY NEW YEAR MY DARLINGS!

Specific warnings: sexual content, drug use, stripping, casual prostitution, age gap, reader isn’t a minor for such activities but only eighteen?? which is not touted as a good thing but it’s in here?? if that’s a hard no then be warned. graphic descriptions of kinda gross blowjobs and very gross blowjobs, spanking, officer Presley does take too many pills for his pain ok? driving under the influence, minors drinking, trailer trash lifestyle in general, such as I personally have had experience with, it’s rough out there folks but there’s always the good ones trying their best. Sorry I really threw Joe E under the bus. I’m not really sorry but I’m sorry you have to read about him in here. Please let me know what warnings I missed if I did. Again, could be thematically disturbing due to age, solicitation, law officers, drug use, humans not being tidy little robots.

When you were three years old you recall the smell of plastic heating in the sun, the hot smell of fresh cut grass and the cold splatter of hose water on your skin. A little paradise it seemed, that tiny kitty pool and your mama waving the hose over you with one hand, her cigarette dangling between the fingers of her other, bright warm sun and yellowing grass stretched out in large swathes between the little white shacks stacked row upon tidy row. Always the same and ready to guide you home after each little wander into the thicket behind the clearing.

That was life in the Shady Oaks trailer park. There really was only one mature oak tree and it was a live oak and the sunshine beamed right through its little leaves all seasons of the year.

By five you had a sizable jar of grasshoppers collected and had become too scared of their hoards and awful beady eyes to ever release them, fearful they would swarm you the minute you undid the lid of the mason jar and gave them freedom. You had let one out and watched it hop across the torn Hexagons of the linoleum floor before it jumped in an acrobatic feat and landed in the mac & cheese your mom was making. You never know what she did with those jars, but you were half relieved, half heartbroken at the fact they were no longer your responsibility.

By eight you knew you lived in a trailer park and spending your time collecting ants and moths for the new set of grasshoppers to eat was a peculiar and uncool pastime. As were muddy knees and torn t-shirts on a girl approaching her teenage years. But mama hadn’t been able to take the heat and the rows upon rows of mildewing trailers anymore and daddy was too busy with his “entrepreneurship” to dress you right.

By twelve you had learned that some nights daddy came home, and some nights he didn’t and you couldn’t be sure which you preferred. His drunken state was unpredictable and confusing even though he was not abusive, but his absence left you counting quarters and wondering how long your Fig Newtons would last if he stayed gone longer than a week again.

By fifteen the Dollar Store and its fluorescent bulbs leached the vitality out of you with each long day shift, school was an afterthought, and your days smelled of plastic bags and detergent. You brought that smell home to your musty trailer, seeped into the sweaty fabric of your tank top. The only thing that stayed consistent whether your daddy was home or not was the religious watching of the NASCAR races. Reruns and live, it didn’t matter, where many girls escaped into Disney or Reality TV, you did your dreaming while sitting in the ratty drivers seat of daddy’s Ford, making the engine thrum.

By seventeen, your daddy was gone for months at a time. Sometimes he’d leave the Ford and take off on the road with Benny and Gregg in Benny’s motorhome from a few rows down. Greg had the pale blue trailer with the blinds that were always smashed in the one window. He always left his damn lights on, even when he was gone and they’d glow yellow and demented between the brittle plastic. Some nights when you walked back home from town, maybe a little more plastered than you’d like to admit, you’d keep Gregg’s trailer and his silly window as a landmark to turn left in the maze of trailers.

One night the bulb burnt out. One by one the rest of them did too. The fellas, they’d all been gone so long. Next week the electricity got turned off to yours. The bill hadn’t been paid. Dollar Store wages kept peanut butter and miracle bread in your cabinets and bought you cheap tequila from Terry who lived five trailers down and didn’t care about ID’s so long as there was cash on the counter. What the wages didn’t pay for was electricity or gas money or a new car that could actually accelerate fast enough to give you that thrill you craved.

Despite your lousy education and demotivated upbringing, you had some spark of diligence and ambition residing inside you, it was stoked to a decent blaze by the awful, humid and stale air of the trailer without its swamp coolers humming at night. Not even the fridge stayed cool longer than forty eight hours and you ended up at the seven eleven eating roller dogs.

You weren’t looking for job opportunities while licking corn dog grease off your thumbs but opportunity came to you anyway. As you nibbled at the soggy fried dog and licked at the rancid oil while leaning against the auto supply shelf, you’d have to be some sorta dumb to not know that Carl was hanging around the same aisle for something besides windshield washer fluid.

Carl was a native to the outskirts of El Paso just like you, and he was a married man, married to Clarissa in fact. Clarissa who’s plastic miniature flamingo’s gracing each edge of her weedy gravel drive had a younger you thinking she was the height of trailer park sophistication. That was before Officer Presley, who lived in a spacious double wide down by Gregg’s trailer and its burnt out bulbs, got himself a Tiger figurine made outta real concrete and painted pretty as anything, its blazing feline eyes not missing a speck of paint, unlike the flamingo’s slashed ones. Officer Presley only had the one and it was assumed he was saving up for another, and he placed it by the little porch he built off his trailer door, the proximity to the structure giving it a noble sorta air that sitting statues out by the street didn’t manage.

“If you keep watchin’ me like that I’ll have to start chargin’.” you told Carl and his leering face, and took another bite, munching with the carefree manners of someone actually hungry.

“Can’t do that here.” he wheezed a laugh, then thumbed over his shoulder at the bright lights of the trucker club blazing in the dark sky through the dirty glass doors of the gas station. “But over there it’s legal.”

“You so horny you’d pay to watch a girl eat a corndog?” you were dubious, wondering just how little Miss Clarissa put out if he’d waste money on this, it wasn’t like she was busy repainting her Flamingo’s peeling eyes or nothin’.

“I’d pay for a drink for ya.” Carl offered, fidgety hands wedged in his fraying front pockets. “And you can eat another dog. You like hot dogs? They’ve got ‘em over there.”

“Nah, I need cash.” you declined, aware that you could barter for drinks and end up evicted or else make sacrifices regarding the booze and keep your tin roof over your head.

“Cash?” he repeated like a dumb parrot.

“Yeah, stupid.” you flailed your hands a little in annoyance, fully certain everyone in this run down rural suburb knew you were as broke as you are alcoholic at seventeen.

“Ok, then I’ll pay for your hot dog,” he negotiated with an oil stained finger scratching at the sore on the corner of his mouth, “And you can eat it so long as you do it how I tell ya.”

You sighed and ran your chipping nails along the plastic jugs of car oil. “So long as ya let me eat it.” you stipulate, “And you gotta pay for the show.”

“I ain’t made of money, girl!” Carl protested, “I’m buyin’ dinner, you should be thankin’ me.”

“You were plannin’ on buyin’ me a drink.” you pointed out, “Where’s that money gone?”

“Jeeze ok, ok,” Carl sighed, “I’ll pay you same as a wild Turkey would cost.”

“And a dog?”

“Yeah.”

“With chili on it?”

“Oh c’mon now-“

“-It’ll make for good slurpin.” you pointed out sagaciously

Carl groaned in annoyance and appreciation for the mental image. “Ok, a chili dog and the cost of a shot. No funny shit with the tab and you eat it how I say.”

“Does the club have air conditioning?” You asked your last stipulation.

“Course it does, it would be hot as fuck without.”

Your trailer was hot as fuck and anytime spent loitering elsewhere was greatly desired. “Ok then.” you agreed with a shrug.

By the time you’d crossed the parking lot, with Carl’s guiding hand on your lower back, you were irritable from the heat and exhaust fumes. Inside was cool and almost as dark as the parking lot except for the wild, multi-colored lights swirling around the place, highlighting the girls humping the stage floor in the middle of the establishment. One more underage addition wasn’t remotely as remarkable as the fella in the corner trying to take a bite outta a lap dancer’s boob. He got smacked on the cheek for it and nothin’ more, got his full dance anyway and as you watched her after while sitting up on the bar stool, you noticed her negotiate something similar to what you’d just done. She stayed in his lap after her dance was done and after some gesticulating and her unimpressed sighs, some agreement was reached and you watched them get up and walk to the back of the club, through the backdoor that you knew led to nothing more than miles and miles of desert.

Five minutes later a similar transaction occurred between a trucker and a pole girl. They went out back, too. Ten minutes later the first couple came back in. She went to the stage and he went out the front door Carl had brought you in by.

By that point you were slowly inserting a hot dog onto your pink tongue and swallowing a bite every three minutes or more - at least, that’s what it felt like. Carl’s directions were so slow and infuriatingly erratic that you found yourself grateful for the fact you’d already eaten a bit at the gas station, otherwise this would’ve been the cruelest tease to your belly that hadn’t had lunch and only Raisin Bran for breakfast. You chose to ignore the way his hand moved in the shadow of the bar, wiping at his jeans too many times to be passed off as sweaty palms.

A nearly fully dressed girl in cut offs eating a chili dog was hardly the most sensational thing to be watched in this seedy joint, but it was the most peculiar and no sooner had you finished the dog after a laborious thirty minutes, collected the extra drink cash and prepared to go home after declining Carl’s offer of a ride before you found yourself propositioned for the same ordeal. This big fella actually offered a drink with it and much to Carl’s betrayed horror you agreed. Carl ended up leaving, going home to Clarissa, feeling too cuckolded to continue watching someone else watch you eat meat in a casing.

In between sipping Hard Mike’s lemonade you chatted with the fella and spilled pinto beans on your bare legs from the excess. Even the bartender had stopped being annoyed, he even got a bit invested in your gig, retracting the offered napkins for the spill when another guy, a farm hand from the pecan grove down the interstate, asked to lick it off.

You charged seventeen bucks for that spit bath and felt funny as the saliva dried in the chilled bar room air. The bartender asked you if you lived in El Paso. Hesitating to give yourself away or open yourself up to a driveby, you merely agreed that you lived nearby, he didn’t need to know you lived in the Spark City suburb and walked to this tuck station grill to save fuel.

Marty, he said his name was, and Marty was pleased you lived close. In that case he asked if you’d wanna work there. You knew at the time he wasn’t offering you to bartend, your age prohibitive even in so lax an establishment. Your eyes flicked over to the long gal with her sallow skin and stringy red hair loling around the stripper pole in the glow of a green spotlight. It had to be 3:00 am by then.

“Does everybody do extra?” You asked him, plainly referencing the deals that took folks out back into the sagebrush and the backside of the club.

“You do as much as you wanna get paid for.” he admitted. “Plenty just strip.”

Just, he had said. Just strip.

Just stripping was a gross understatement for the rigorous and demoralizing ordeal of flinging your practically naked body around on stage for gaping older men to ogle each night. But it took up hours of your time not paid by the dollar store wages, and you could snooze from five am to eight when your shift began again in respectable retail. You earned a decent amount, even after having to pay Marty and the doormen a portion and even turning down a lap dance or two. The chili dog schtick kept its novelty for three nights and then you were driven to grinding against the pold like all the others, wondering if they’d all hoped to not end this way, same as you.

After a few weeks of this your piggy bank was less empty than it had been in months, hidden under the sink of your trailer behind the Comet and pulled out only to stuff in bills or else retrieve bread money, one Sunday you counted enough to pay your lease for the trailer slip. What was left would make a tiny little down payment for the electricity bill.

Or gas money for at least fifty miles or more in your gas guzzler. You weighed the bills in your hands and mournfully inspected your bruised knees. It was your off day, you contemplated going to the club in the evening as it didn’t respect the Lord’s day like the dollar store, but until then you had hours of a perfectly cloudless day to burn. Suddenly your trailer felt unbearable in its stuffy crampedness.

You tore outta your door and cranked up your daddy’s old Ford and with relief found it started with only a few tries. You tore down the road too, seeking the interstate after using that cash to top her tank off. For the first time in ages a full smile had begun to split your face. You went east, passing the last remnant of civilization that you called home and comprised El Paso’s dusty satellite cling ons. Then it was open range, nothing just mesas and tumbleweed, no one else could brag of such flat country or so wide a sky.

You floored it, the speed limit a decent 80 on its own, you went up to 120, fast as you dared push the transmission without fear of being stranded in the desert. Billboards warned of “last chance for gas, Van Horn 200 miles” followed by a possibly related: “God is coming, have you repented?”

All flew by in a unheeded blur as you cranked up the stereo and let the wind whip your hair. You covered a patrol car in a cloud of dust and saw his lights flash at you in the rearview. No chase commenced. When you leisurely drove back you noticed it was highway patrol, the sun was setting and he flashed his brights at you. You flicked them back.

“Hey officer Presley.” you murmured amused at him turning a blind eye to the speeding. Back when you had more money and made a regular habit of this amateur racing, you noticed the same benevolent light flicker and never a siren broke the still of the desert. “You ole softy.” you giggled at the thought of the middle aged officer being generous for you and only you, and wondered if he’d heard about what had become of you yet. Seems like most of the trailer park had. Favorite topic these days, right up there with when or if your daddy was ever gonna come home. Had the wives hating you during the day for the suspicion of their men wanking over you at night.

“Maybe if you could spare a single food stamp or somethin’ to help a gal in need I’d not be strippin’!” You had hollered at Ms Clarissa for all to hear and you stood by it. Buncha lousy, miserable hypocrites who did far worse behind their canvas doors.

You do go to the club that night.

You stripped down to your panties and bra and made enough to buy ice and a trip to the dentist. You packed the ice in the dead refrigerator and pampered yourself with some milk and a carton of ice cream for the filled tooth.

Next day you filled up your gas tank again and blazed a path through town, headed to the wide open and dreaming of busting your way into the male ranks of nascar drivers. You were deep into a daydream and committing a little self pity about how you hadn't been able to afford cable and were missing all the races when a siren’s blare broke your fantasy and the flicker of red lights against a pale blue sky filled your rearview. Begrudgingly you pulled to the shoulder as you cranked down your window, fiddling with the radio knobs till you could actually hear your crime when your peruser sauntered up.

“Well, well officer Presley, finally got persnickety about laws, have ya?” you observed to yourself with a grin as you watched the handsome man swagger towards you along the white line in your side mirror, tugging at his pants as he neared, trying to shimmy the article of clothing a little higher but is impeded by his belt, stopped by his sizable belly, his holster and buckle sitting under the bulge of it.

Your mouth watered. It had been close to a year since you’d seen him up close, not since last time he pulled you over, though you always took note when he was lounging outside his trailer in a lawn chair with his dog or stripped down and working under his hood. He was always built, intimidating to all the stupid rascals he kept in line along the border, but now he had become outright fat and his khaki shirt pulled apart between each button. Yet when he came up to your window, that little boy's grin was still gracing one of the most exquisite faces known to man, and his voice was tender and playful when he greeted you, just as you once recalled. You could see his sweaty hair, matted on his chest and belly between the gaps, his underarms have massive pit stains, doubly apparent thanks to the light color of his police uniform.

Your smile had something of the she-wolf in it as you greeted him, sniffing the air in hopes of catching a whiff as he leaned on your window frame, nearly crowding you from outside. “Hey Miss Lead Foot Louie,” he greeted, “you know why ya been pulled over?”

“Haven't got a clue, officer.” You stated the truth and enjoyed the way his title rolled off your tongue in a bantering way. It was easy.

Officer, officer. Somebody important and authoritative. No sir, yes sir, Officer.

His left eyebrow quirked and you wondered what he looked like at twenty five, how devastating that expression would have been before his wound and his meds and the water retention. Whatever power it may have once held, it holds nothing to that slightly bemused, slightly cynical world weariness that shows in his every expression now, that had a twitch of an eyebrow making you feel a fool in the most delicious way. “You’re goin’ seventy in a forty five, Miss.” his tone was patient even as his face suggested he’d like to tan your hide for being so reckless. “Reckless endangerment of others, and yourself,” he quoted sternly, “it ain’t no small matter and I don’t countenance it on my highway.”

Gosh, you just loved it when he laid claim to government property like highways and interstates. It helped you smile meekly at him and nod.

“Sorry officer, I got lax.” You purred, batting your eyes and you could see the heavy flap of their coal coated weight in your periphery. “I’ve seen you lettin’ me fly by on the interstate. I guess I thought…”

He leaned further into her car window, shirt gaping helpfully at his neck and allowing you a glimpse of sweaty hair, little droplets shining like rhinestone studs in the coarse curls. You leaned towards him, nipples hardening beneath your t-shirt bra as your mind started to the taste of salt. “You’re in town, miss.” he pointed out with grave disappointment for your lack of behavioral modulation, “S’one thing on the open plain, it’s another when you’re endangerin’ your fellow citizens, flyin’ through intersections, speedin’ up and threadin’ traffic when you’ve got a visible yield sign. Right there! Ain’t responsible. And I won’t countenance it.”

“Sorry officer.” you pleaded, lingering on his rank with all the sultry appreciation of a girl who lacks authority figures in her life. It made his palm itch.

He sighed and gave you a small smile, puffy, marshmallow lips set under a dark five o’clock shadow and it wasn’t even noon. “Now, how many times do I gotta pull ya over ‘fore ya start listenin’ to me?“ he asked with patient expectancy and you swallowed hard, actually feeling a small bit of guilt.

“Well,” you drew it out, biting your lip before tossing your head and beaming at him, “maybe just one last time. Like always.”

He tsked at you in reprimand but his eyes lit up with enjoyment, and that was worth whatever fine he might slap you with. It really wasn’t, not with how broke you were but gosh, you loved breaking the ice on him, reeling him in for another verbal tussle. One day you hoped those expressive hands would accidently smack you mid-wave when he was explaining something or other. You lived in hope of that day.

You watched as he straightened briefly and reviewed your vehicle, thumbing at the peeling paint on the hood near his thumb and swished at the sand on your tags. You held your breath, hoping the dust would disguise their expiration. Officer Presley just grunted and surveyed your lemoning old truck with the face of a man who appreciates nice things and doesn't see any nice things in sight. The face of a man whose patrol car was a Ford Mustang.

“You like speed.” he observed, still glancing at your tires with lip curling disdain. You wanted him to look at you like that but his face always softened when he turned back to you. It did this time as well.

“Yeah.” you breathed.

“You got a shit truck for speed, terrible drag, shit tread on your tires, bet it’s a gas guzzler, too.”

“Well yeah, officer,” you rolled your eyes at his survey, “but it’s not like I can afford much else right now so -I do this for fun. Fun’s not illegal in America yet, is it?”

He looked at you gravely then and his eyes turned sad. “Yeah I heard about the strippin’. You watch yourself now, be careful and make sure you don’t engage in no extra-curric-u-lars.” he advised sternly, peering over his tinted sunglasses at you while saying the big word, over pronouncing it with authoritative gravitas, “I’ve told Marty that means no bar tendin’ when you’re underage. And I’m tellin’ you now, that goes for solictin’, too. You understand me? Nice lil girl like you could get in a heap of trouble real fast. And I won’t countenance it.”

The rest of you perked up at the heavy handed advice, feeling smothered and also cherished that someone would give a shit, even if they were just defending laws n’ government regulations. Thinking of them as Officer Presley’s laws, as his property you were twerking on somehow ennobled your calling, made you feel like giving it a try to be good and not disappoint him. You felt grateful he hadn't chewed you out for the stripping like half the neighborhood, you’d expected some disgust.

When he finally looked at you with disdain, and you were determined that he would, it would be for something less unchangeable, a little less broke, a little more sexy.

“Yes sir, I got ya.” you acknowledged with a nervous laugh to hide your discomfort with the way he kept staring at you, reading you, it felt.

He kept at it for a few moments, chomping on that gum stick in his mouth, dexterous pink tongue lolling the stuff from one row of molars to the others and back. Most fascinating ping-pong match you’d ever seen and while he did his soul-reading, you watched his mouth.

As his jaw worked overtime, he narrowed his eyes at you, so blue they looked violet behind the tint of his lenses. “A’ight.” he decided at last and suddenly your window was bereft of his congenial bulk, you heard the rap of his knuckles on your truck roof.

“You stay outta trouble now, Missy.” he let you off with only a warning, two sharp knocks on the metal and then, “I’ll be seein’ ya.”

You watched the side mirror with investment as he meandered away, futilly hiking up his holster again as he went before he entered his squad car. He flashed his lights at you as you stayed gawking, you fumbled with the ignition and peeled out off the shoulder, moderating your acceleration upon afterthought. You’d promised to be good.

But nights at the Trucker Bar didn’t pay to be good. You had a laundry list of things you wanted and a hefty list of needs alongside it. You tried picking up a shift at the Texaco but Ashley there near tore your hair out against the beer coolers for encroaching on her shift. Everyone needed work and Spark City had never been much of a City, too little infrastructure to prosper its community in good times, much less in the pits of a recession. The Best Buy in El Paso was hiring, you read in a mail advertisement. Their wages cost as much gas it took to drive there and back.

So you got pretty good at something else, something Officer Presley wouldn’t be impressed by, or maybe he would in a moment of weakness but lord, much as you worried and panicked some times about him dropping in on the Trucker stop, meeting eyes and him just knowing you’d been doing extracurriculars, he never showed. Must not have been his scene. Not that you were sure what his scene was, you only ever saw him in his patrol car or else cleaning his guns on his trailer porch next to his Tiger figurine.

You assumed he liked blow jobs as much as the next man. But he never showed and so you got more and more lax, went out back of the bar to the Sagebrush desert and blew heavy tippers against the concrete wall, ant bites and stickers plaguing your knees. So far you hadn’t even needed to walk on over past the broken wall to the dingy motel in back and do the horizontal tango.

Moderate extracurriculars and the dancing was enough to tip your little piggy bank into having a little something to shake at the end of the day. You got yourself a haul of cereal and hot pockets that night, even splurged on milk that went rancid by the next day without refrigeration. You spent your late mornings debating how much money you had left for rent and how much you had for electricity and the viability of buying a generator instead of paying the bill. You also wanted a Blackberry phone real bad, your old flip phone a relic and on its last wheezes -maybe that’s why your dad’s calls never came through.

You were chewing off the price tag of your dollar flip flops, walking barefoot out of your daytime workplace -Dollar General- at the end of your shift when you realized there was a patrol car pulled up beside your Ford. First you cursed, then you grinned as you saw the familiar figure of Officer Presley wiping at your windshield with a bandana. Then you cursed again as you realized he was checking your expired tags.

You jogged over the burning asphalt, still tied flip flops in hand, hoping you didn’t look like shit from having taken off the Dollar Store vest without smoothing your hair afterwards. You hadn’t been good, he could be here for anything, soliciting, or for the speeding you know he caught on his radar or else the tags.

“Hey officer!” you chirped, as carefree and smiley as you could manage -and you’d gotten to be a tidy little liar at the club, insisting you couldn’t wait to have greasy, unwashed truckers in your mouth.

He turned his head slowly, hand still heavy on the windshield and observed you through those glasses again. “Don’t you ‘hey officer’ me.” he retorted, riled despite himself at the way you always said his rank like he had you locked up with frilly pink handcuffs to his waterbed. He shook his head and focused on the variety of delinquencies he had to reprimand you for. “These tags are out of date.”

“Aww,” you feigned consternation pretty decently as you really hadn’t bothered to prioritize the tags with every other dire cost pummeling you right now, “I’m sorry Elvis.” you tried a little familiarity as you drew closer, watching enthralled as a stale desert window tufted the front of his black locks of his sweaty forehead, “Things’ve been a lil tight for a while now, what with daddy leavin’. Slipped my mind.”

He pulled his hand off the windshield and his hands tried to rest on his hips but they slipped and ended up in an odd, off-kilter sorta sling on his pockets and belly, “They’re three years overdue.” his tone sounded unimpressed, you shivered despite the heat.

“Oh.” you chewed your lip and gazed at him hopefully.

“I oughta tan your hide, lettin’ you turn feral with all my concessions.” he said aloud while stippling his fingers on your rusting truck hood. His eyes dropped to the newly purchased, junk flip flops you still clutched. “Why’re you bare foot?”

“My last pair broke.” you explained, end of your shift the thong had snapped and here you were with the replacements.

“Well put ‘em on, the road’s nasty.” he grunted in aggravation, eyes dropping to your feet and widening in disgust at the welts and blisters you’d accumulated from your cheap stripper heels. “Holy shit, that’s gnarly right there.”

You felt a bit offended by that, wanting to object it was the toll of the job, sorta like fat guts came from lounging in patrol cars for a living. Figuring you were in deep deep enough shit as is without outright insulting him, you bit your tongue and chewed on the plastic connector again, trying to free your sandals.

“Oh for God’s sake, stop that.” he growled after a minute and to your bewilderment he stepped in your space and grabbed the foam footwear out of your mouth, “Gonna chip a tooth goin’ on that way, then your tips’ll go down, ya thought of that? No? No you don’t think ahead about nothin’.”

He was working himself up into a frustrated frenzy, tugging at the plastic tag, mumbling all the while about your behavior until it snapped at last and separated the flip flops. He stared dumbly at his success for a minute while you tittered. Bad move on your part, his eyes darkened and he genuinely scowled at you, something more effective than it should have been with his outdated sideburns carving lines in his cheeks.

“Turn around.” he demanded and you snapped your mouth shut, confused by his attitude and furtively eyeing your flip flops still dwarfed in his gloved hands. Who the hell wore gloves in this decade? In this century? In an El Paso suburb that was only a degree or two cooler than the surface of the sun.

You turned around.

“Hands on the hood.” he told you.

You placed them on the burning metal and wished you had gloves, angling your body away from the hot body of the truck, wincing at the heat, on tippy toes to save your feet from the asphalt. Was he gonna cuff you? He hadn’t even read you your rights and could a person even be arrested for tags? You really didn’t know and you never thought he would-

Suddenly a loud snap resounded in the empty parking lot and a white hot sting against your bottom distracted you from the pain of the hot car. You yelped in shock, hand flying to nurse the denim clad ass cheek that was burning from his smack. You glared over your shoulder at Officer Presley, ready to give him what for about him taking parental liberties until you saw his face folded into childish consternation, poofy bottom lip jutted out in remorse as he viewed the snapped flip flop in his hands.

He’d broken a shoe on you. Appreciation flared back, and you wanted to squeeze his cheeks and tell him it was ok, he could ruin the other, too.

“Aww shit, now I-I-I didn’t mean for that-“ he bemoaned, turning the ruined foam pad around and around in his hands as if there was a way to fix it when the other half was on the ground.

“It’s ok.” You heard yourself comfort the fucker who’d just spanked you in broad daylight.

“But you just finished your shift.” he muttered, and his consideration for your inconvenience touched you, “Here I-I-I’ll go buy ya another pair. Uh, yeah, c’mon.”

You skipped alongside him, trying to get him to look over at you but his face was flushed and his eyes trained on his task, picking out a hot pink pair instead of the polka dots you had chosen. “Does nothin’ for your lil sooties and brings the attention away from the polish ya got painted and instead directs the eye to the crustaceans and shit ya got goin’ on.” he referenced your calluses with a grimace and reached into his back pocket to pull out his worn wallet.

You stared at the hefty meat of his ass the entire time and almost missed it when he pulled out five dollars and put them on the register. You watched his ass and its khaki clad splendor as he returned the wallet without change and wiggled it into the tight back pocket.

At the double sliding glass doors of the front he snapped the tag there and then and squatted down with a little grunt, his knees popping audibly as he gallantly laid out your cheap slippers. You stepped into them, taking the liberty of putting a balancing hand on his sweaty shoulder.

His hand ran up your wrist and held you there a minute longer than it needed for stability. He squeezed twice and let go. You watched him heft himself up to his feet with admiration and a little pity for the stiff way he moved when he’d been stuck in one position for too long. Seemed to you so long as he was kept moving he did alright, nice and fluid and you’d seen him chase and tackle a man on foot awhile back, he’d been runnin’ like the wind then. He had it in him, just lounging in the patrol car hardly helped things.

You got the sudden and stupid urge to ask if he wanted to go swimming in the Motel 6’s pool, it would be good for his joints and your sore back and he’d be wet and maybe have his shirt off and you could-

“I got somethin’ to tell ya, it’s w-w-why I-I stopped when I saw your truck and uh, sweetie, let’s stay h-here in the cool.” he gently tugged your arm back with the pads of his pretty fingers hooked on your deltoid, pulling you back over the threshold and into the dryer sheet scented air of the Dollar General.

“What is it?” you asked him as he seemed nervous, a foreign look on him. You started to feel a little panic at the thought he might be leaving, going back to wherever he came from, done with this Podunk town and its big crime and little criminals.

“There ain’t no easy way to say this a-a-and I wanted you to hear it from me.” he chose his words carefully, eyes trained on the white and speckled tile below your feet until after a big breath he lifted his stunning eyes and gazed at you gently and in the most gallant way you’d ever been looked at before, murmuring in clear, compassionate tones, “They caught your daddy the other night -drug runnin’. Ain’t no petty marijuana charge or somethin’, it’s the big stuff. He’s gonna be put away, for a long while, in-car-cer-ated.” he specified with distinct pronunciation, “For a long while, Miss. I’m sorry to be the one t-t-to t-tell but I wanted you to know it’s true, I-I-l booked him in myself.”

“Well,” you swallowed hard, a little ashamed you’d been more alarmed at the prospect of officer Presley leaving than suspecting anything wrong with your walking disappointment of a father, “well damn.” you muttered.

“You don’t seem much surprised.” he pointed out, pulling his tinted shades down his nose to get a clear review of you, he had a red line on his nose from their weight.

“I barely know him anymore,” you admitted, “and I doubted he was gone spreading charity or something.”

“Yeah.”

“But damn -he was supposed to come back.” you felt a little angry about that part. A little childish for believing it too.

“Maybe he meant to,” he soothed, although your father’s entrenched position on the river suggested a more permanent stay, “and was doing all that sellin’ to give you somethin’ better but he was breakin’ the law and endangerin-“

“-Endangering others, I know.” you snapped at him, not because he was anything but nice, you snapped at him because he was very kind and he had a silver, shiny, sanctimonious badge on the large swell of his left peck.

The longer you stared at the badge the more you wanted to sink your dollar store acrylics into the meat of that man and try tearing -they’d probably break and it made your eyes swim with tears of frustration and you stomped out of the double glass doors into the heat of the parking lot. The sun would be going down soon and that’s when your best customers would pour into the club. You snapped your way across the asphalt on the flip flops he got you, ignoring his calls behind you as you wrenched open the squeaking truck door and hopped up into the cab.

“Really it’s fine!” you yelled at him as he came up to the window again, the concern and reproval written on his face way more heavy than you could take right then, “It’s not like I was expecting him back anytime soon anyway and -and you’ve got a job to do, ok? I get it. I get it, ok? Now I gotta go, officer.” You cranked up your engine and diesel fumes swirled around him. He batted the air in front of his face like a dainty lady would a swarm of flies and leaned heavier still on your rolled down window.

“I just wanted to let ya know.” he reaffirmed his intention, his gesticulations bringing your eyes to the gold watch around his wrist that jangled against the car metal, “Tell ya not to uh, don’t do nothin’ rash, alright? Just ‘cause he’s gone. You’re a big girl, you’ll make it. You ‘member what I said last time ‘bout extracurriculars?”

“I’d like to do you some extracurriculars.” you seethed with an angry smile and he looked taken aback, actually stepping away from the truck and his belly heaved with his offended breaths. One hand balled in a fist at his side and the other twitched, fiat palm swaying beside his thigh like he was gonna smack again. Extracurriculars -you’d like to take his no doubt chubby little cock right down to the sweaty thatched base and chew, just to earn a real spanking.

Maybe this lewd intent was written on your face but he slowly backed away from your truck like you’d gone looney, pointing his finger at you as he went, “You be good, I mean it. And that’s goes for respectin’ officers of the law.”

He was about to get into his side, looking over his car top in admonishment and you quickly made sure your truck was still in park before turning round in the seat and hanging yourself out the window, cleavage pressed against the edge to your best advantage and blew him a kiss. “I’m always a good girl, officer!” you swore adamantly and it stopped him dead in his tracks, stopped in a half crouch to his seat, that eyebrow disbelieving, “Officer Presley commissioned me to be good and I ain’t anything but!” you swore.

Took him five whole seconds to recall he was supposed to have his ass seated by then and he lowered himself the rest of the way into his car. His belly brushed the steering wheel and his legs spread themselves even in the driver's seat, it made your crushed breasts tingle. “Be-have.” he pointed that finger again and your thighs clamped shut on your seats, overwhelmed with unbidden thoughts of the long and slender digit probing inside you. How’d his fingers stay so slender when the rest of him bulked up?

You saluted as poorly as you could and watched him drive off, aggression plain in his accelerations and the way he took his turns. He shoulda stayed and spanked the other cheek, you thought, as you turned around and slumped in your seat, legs splayed and fighting a desperate urge to slip a hand down your shorts. You hoped to god he’d find some quiet shoulder of the road in the desert this evening and with a car passing every twelve minutes, tug a load out to the thought of wacking your denim booty with his belt. It would be good for his blood pressure.

Hands sticky from your own dismal release, you pulled out of the parking lot ten minutes behind him and, too scarce on time to go home first, drove straight to the club, knowing full well that you could always just strip down to your underwear.

Or less.

What with dad permanently unhelpful now, it was a fact of life that you’d have to do more than get by till he came back. You’d already accepted that awhile ago, this just confirmed it. You figured you’d need to save another stash of money, like the real professional girls did, girls like Kelcie and Shay, a little fund for renting out a motel room at night. The one a quarter mile out back of the truck stop, no harm in it except for a few bramble scratches in the dark and the odd coyote not scared off by the truckers’ loud moans out back at the blow job wall.

But for tonight you hadn’t any such stash and so after a few hours at the poll and chatting up the fellas lounging on barstools, you found the tip jar lacking and made one of those lil deals that were becoming almost as commonplace as getting your butt pinched.

This time, in the moth attracting glow of the outside light, your customer had a New York accent and while at cock level you learned from his fancy, dangling silver keychain that his buddies knew him as Joe E.

Now Joe E had a little brown cock and a small, fused ballsack under a sizable belly like most of these men in here did, and you did some of your best work on him. It was easy to do with him fitting in your mouth so easily, you pulled out every trick you’d learned at this wall, all of which he unfortunately resisted succumbing to more than the usual client. He’d pull himself out of your throat and he would grip his base, prolonging his experience and you supposed he had a right to it, he was paying money for something and he might as well do it how he liked but your jaw ached after a while. Soon your ears ached worse, exhausted and fed up with the self important monologue he kept up between the usual, self promoting stud talk that an unimpressive man in his forties likes to indulge in while paying for sex acts out back of a hole in the wall truckers club.

Joe E tasted like he hadn’t touched a fresh vegetable in years and through the overwhelming desire to puke you recognized with some pleasure that he was tipping you extra for being “like a damn vacuum down there, you pretty little dog.”

You drove home from the club, headlights on dim in the early morning and passed by Officer Presley’s double wide with intent, choosing the route you’d take if you were walking. It was dark inside but as you passed you saw he wasn’t asleep, his car was still gone.

You wondered if his doggie was in there or on patrol with him. You sighed and pulled into your own weedy drive, depressed with something you didn’t know the cause of.

You brushed your teeth, you ate cereal after remembering you hadn’t eaten, and stripped out of your clothes before crashing into bed, falling asleep in seconds despite the musty, unconditioned air inside.

It was the next morning, so near afternoon as to barely warrant it but Elvis Presley liked to take credit for any bit of effort he made and so let the record show it was still morning, when he entered the Waffle House off Moody Blvd and sat himself down in a booth and ordered his usual. It arrived at 11:56 in the morning and so it was breakfast, not lunch by any stretch of the imagination. He’d been up all night, the usual plaguing reasons and a few added to it. You, thoughts of you and tanning your hide and gripping you and you squirming over his lap made his patrols a hellish experience and he was almost glad for the distraction of the fucker without plates pulling out in front of him and making a run for it through the border checkpoint at 8:45 pm.

Now he was distracting himself with food, and if there was anything in his life to rival his appreciation of a slippery and obligin’ pussy, it was five scrambled eggs piled high on a white plate with burnt bacon to the side and waffles stacked on a companion plate. Brenda put them down with a smile and gave him a side hug that made his face brush her apron and shoulda gotten her fired by the food regulations but Elvis liked Brenda for her affectionate ways and the way he didn’t ever have to correct her about his order.

“You look tired.” she worried over him and he found a smile starting to threaten on his face, he stuck his fork in the eggs to distract himself.

“Just a busy night.” he admitted and absentmindedly rubbed at his sore knee.

“Aww you’re a treasure, keepin’ us so safe.” he patted his arm again and he fully smiled this time. “You just tell me if you need anythin’ else. I’ve got more coffee, lemme get ya more coffee, Elvis.”

“Thanks Miss Brenda.” he called to her and she giggled as she fetched the cloudy pot.

The bell over the entrance jangled and from Elvis’ chosen vantage point in a booth that faced the doors, always facing his entry that man, he saw Joe Esposito walk in, smiling like a motherfucker for a Wednesday morning and swaggering like Elvis hadn't seen the little runt do since he passed the bar back in 1980 something.

“Hey Brenda, hey EP!” Joe greeted and Elvis braced himself for a cheerful morning when all his hopes had been for some quiet and a little maple syrup glazed despondency.

“Hey Joe.” Elvis greeted his old friend, “You in town?”

“Yeah, my route’s takin’ me to Las Cruces.” Joe informed him as he helped himself to the booth across from Elvis without invitation. If he ate one of Elvis’ bacon strips, even reached for it, Elvis would be pulling out his Glock.

“How’s business?” Elvis asked as neutrally as possible, knowing that it was a sore subject for Joe who had once bragged about being destined for big things, holding it over everybody else at the high school back in Memphis. Still Elvis couldn’t help but ask, partly because it was small talk and if he could get Joe on the subject he knew the feller wouldn’t stop talking, and Elvis could then eat his eggs with minimal requirements for speech. He also took some inner consolation in the fact that all Joe’s brags had worked out about as poorly as Elvis’ dreams had.

It made for two portly middle aged men in a Waffle House booth discussing gas prices at noon.

Joe ordered just pancakes and Elvis judged the lack of meat from beneath his lavender shades and patiently asked the right questions to keep Joe smacking his breakfast with an open mouth and waxing sentimental about life on the road. It suited Joe, even if it was boringly unimportant, he was king of the road in between stops at Walmart distribution centers and out in the stretches of no man’s land the girls were cheap, far cheaper than any Times Square street walker. Joe hadn’t been to Times Square since he was sixteen but it was something he still liked to brag of and to incorporate in his life story like it was an integral part of his narrative.

“But are they fresher?” Elvis inquired, always intrigued by the subject of pussy but also harboring a deep aversion to the way most men spoke on the subject.

“Nah, not really, but that’s why ya go for the mouth.” Joe catechsied Elvis on the ways of call girls and Elvis felt his eye twitch, personally he enjoyed blow jobs as much as the next guy but to avoid the pussy all together as Joe was suggesting? It took all the joy out of the act for Elvis and he picked at his eggs morosely as he listened. He’d had such a large appetite before Joe sat down and started talking of fishy cunts and girls with throats like drainage pipes.

Joe had been to the truckers lounge, the trucker club, the strip place, whatever it was called -the place Marty ran. Elvis knew it, he tried not to react to the name, to pretend he didn’t gas up at the Texaco next door with the express intent of hoping to catch sight of you some nights. He never did, and he’d never been in. But Joe had gone in and Joe being Joe sat across from Elvis the next morning and bragged to a law officer about paying for a blow job. Which along with ruining Elvis’ appetite was offense enough for Elvis to decide to arrest the fucker, but the eloquent details of the slut who’d given it to him made Elvis see red.

Elvis didn’t really mind folks watching you, some stupid, possessive part of him was glad that all those fuckers drooled over you and couldn’t touch, same as him as he sat year after year in his lawn chair on his porch, watching you pass his trailer with longer and longer legs, prettier and prettier as the dusty days rolled by.

But to touch you? That someone else had touched you? The butter on his waffles suddenly looked wrong.

“-just fifty bucks man. Fifty bucks well spent.” Joe was bragging like he’d cheated the stock market and Elvis heard a roar in his ears that the doctors swore the pills would take care of.

You’d sucked Joe Esposita for fifty dollars right after Elvis had told you to be good and you’d blown him a kiss.

His chest hurt.

Elvis had Joe’s greasy face pressed into the syrupy plate with his hands behind his back and cuffs clanking before either the officer or the suspect even realized his intent. “Prostitution’s illegal, motherfucker, as is paying for such services in the state of Texas.”

You’d told him you’d be good. Fuck! He so badly didn’t wanna think of Joe being your first that he had to countenance speculation about you making a regular habit of this thing which was both worse and better all at once and he took out his frustration at that knowledge by trundling Joe into the back of the squad car with far more force than necessary.

It was a flimsy charge to file, Elvis knew that even before the clerk gave him the usual papers to fill out with a confused look. Wasn’t like Elvis was gonna put down your face or name, give away your crime. Without that connection the charge of paying for sex was flimsy and Joe would be released before dark. But it was nice to hear him sqealin’ and bitchin’ about his driving schedule and a buncha other ordinary begs that made Joe E sound as pathetic as Elvis knew he was.

It fortified Elvis throughout the day, kept him from going to your trailer or interrupting you at work to ask why in God’s name you would degrade yourself like that. It kept him bolstered with red hot rage until he was staked out in desert twilight on the dark side of the Texaco, headlights off and his eyes squinted as he watched patrons and girls go into the club.

This was his fault, for locking your daddy up, driving you to such lengths. He felt sick about it, shoulda known a stubborn, white trash girl like you would just reach for the next alternative this easy. Made him sick. Elvis suddenly felt nice and superior to all these men filing into the neon lit cinderblock structure, he had resisted touching himself to the fantasies that had filled his mind about you last night. Wasn’t pertinent that he had a stiffy right now, that was just the nerves and excitement of a stake out revving him up

He lit up a cigar and let Mellancamp growl over the stereo, engine off and the key turned just a little for the dash lights to stay on. He wasn’t sure when you got off work at the club, he assumed it must be some time around dawn and that suited his shit circadian rhythm just fine. He wasn’t tired as the hours went by, he was downright furious and his heart hurt and he popped a couple oxys sitting there with his busted knee throbbing and his mind a demented echo chamber.

By the time the sky was turning a sickly violet with the first promises of sunrise, Elvis had worked himself up to such a degree as to have his door flung open and one boot rhythmically tapping against the cement in his agitation, legs spread to alleviate the ache his pills had provoked in his groin even as the rest of him felt loose and untethered and decidedly deserving for once.

When you walked out the front of the club into the stale early morning air you laughed to yourself at the silliness of thinking you’d need a coat. Your little denim shorts and cherry print crop top suited just fine even in the early dark. That NASCAR jacket you’d had your eye on, the one Shay showed you on eBay, it would have to wait, the tips were shit tonight. No real hurt with that, wasn’t like it was cold. Just another something you wanted and would have to put off. You hadn’t driven tonight as the walk was cheaper and closer but you’d forgotten your pepper spray back at the truck stop and you hesitated for a moment about going back in, hating the idea of getting sucked into some sorta early morning drama from the drunk leftovers. While you were debating, a flash of white seared your vision and you staggered to a stop in the middle of the mostly deserted parking lot.

Headlights.

Well shit, now you really wished you had that spray. You thought about making a run for it, trying the nearest truck cab and praying the guy in it was less of a creep than whoever stakes out on the deserted side of the building.

“You get over here!” the approaching figure came into view, finally silhouetted by his own lights as he stalked towards you wearing a leather trench coat like some noir villain.

It would be a lie to say you breathed easier when you recognized Officer Presley’s commanding baritone.

“Shit shit shit.” you chanted beneath your breath at how riled he sounded and his right hand started making angry gestures for you to approach as he himself closed the distance with a deceptively fast gait.

“Hey, get your ass over here, I called you.” he yelled far more loudly than necessary with his massive hands already closing around your wrists, you didn’t even think to make a run for it, where exactly in the world was a kinder place to turn to than this angry law officer who always nosed in your business too much? “Get, get over here.” he repeated with a yank and tugged you stumbling over your flip flops to his squad car.

He bent you over the hood, just like you’d dreamed of more than a few times and you felt the heat of the headlight against your thigh as your shoulders got twisted back. “-solicitation,” he was pronouncing and your heart sank at the realization he had caught you after your promise, “prostitution-“ the cold clamp of a handcuff on your wrist had none of the rebel thrill you once imagined, it was terrifying and you whimpered pathetically at the thought that you’d expended his patience, that maybe your flirty banters had been one sided and he really was fed up with you.

“Officer-“ you begged with your cheek smashed to the hood.

Some guy had walked up, actually being a good citizen and concerned about the manhandling. It took one flash of Officer Presley’s badge for the guy to back away with a mere “you at least gonna read her the rights, man?”, throwing concerned looks over his shoulder. Maybe he’d been a tipper, you didn’t recall one face from another unless they were awfully ugly or skinny.

“Yeah, yeah I’ll read you your rights, you got the goddamn right to remain silent-“ Officer Presley was struggling with the other cuff and his weight on your lower back made you wheeze just as he was short of breath. He was awfully worked up, huffily trying to clasp the cuffs and slurring your Miranda rights carelessly for so staunch a believer in laws and precepts.

When he succeeded and stood you upright you craned your neck to look at his sweaty face behind you and his eyes were wild and his hair disheveled like he’d run his hands through it a million times tonight. He looked a bit obsessed with his nose flaring like that, his speech slurring and his usual decorum completely goners.

“Are you drunk?” you balked in alarm as he trundled you into the backseat, face first into leather with your cuffed hands behind you, ass stuck out the door.

“Of course I ain’t!” he howled and pushed your butt further until you righted yourself on the bench seat, “I’m your officer of the law, that’s what I am.”

“I-I-I know that, I just-“ you felt a cold sweat break out at the realization he kept all his stubborn righteousness even skunk drunk on something, “-you seem a little…impaired. For a law officer. For a law officer driving on a government road. See! I do listen, I do and I really don’t think that while you’re dr-“

“I don’t even touch the booze, unlike you.” he spit. “Nothin’ gonna get you outta this, this time you’re gonna learn your lesson!” he wagged his finger and slammed the door shut, you could hear his seething monologue through his open door as he came round and took his own seat up front, the hard plastic partition only muting it slightly. “I can’t stand, won’t stand for it, no hard times gonna make for you-“

You tugged at the cuffs on your wrists and swallowed at their security, the ole man might be inebriated but he sure knew his line of work. It made you doubly anxious at how vulnerable you were, unbuckled and cuffed in the back seat of a man about to hit the road in a blind, possibly medicated rage. Your one glimmer of hope was the fact you were the cause of that rage -and you hoped, hoped so damn hard he cared out of some sort of fondness, not anger.

“Strippin’ and blowin’ and probably snortin’ shit and you ain’t even outta highschool-“

“You turned eighteen?!” He balked, jerking the rearview down to stare you in the eyes.

“Yes sir.” you agreed meekly.

“And you didn’t tell me? I’d have gotten you somethin’!” he cried out, “Eighteen and don’t tell nobody, no mama, no daddy, and now fuckin’ with the law-“

“Officer Presley I understand you’re angry and I’m sorry-“ you tried your most vehemently ass kissing tone and scooted up to the edge of the seat, face pressed the the scuffed, forehead greased plastic divider, “I’m so sorry I had to break my promise to ya but money’s been so tight, I—ooh shit-!“

You tipped over on your side as he hit the accelerator, the wheel already turned for a complete 180 spin to leave the dingy parking lot and its flashing neon lights. You sat yourself back up and pressed your face back where you could watch his leather gloves spin the wheel, and breathe as close to him as possible even if it didn’t serve to make him notice. The plastic sorta hampered the more primal assets at your disposal. You were readying for some more protests when he spoke up, his pouty, boyish, hurt tone emphasized by his jerky merging into three lanes worth of morning commute traffic

“— why didn’t you come to me?” he cried out and you had to give it to him, crossing three white lines that smoothly while in a rage wasn’t for anyone, he had a knack, “Why didn’t you say, ‘Officer Presley, if I don’t have me enough money for’ -what is it you need money for?”

“EVERYTHING!” You screamed back, exasperated and a little scared at the blur of tail lights he wove you through.

“You’re greedy,” he surmised, “you’d rather go work at the tit shack as a lot lizard, shakin’ it for strangers and suckin’ Joe E’s cock than ask for my help. My help!” He stabbed at his chest with a gloved finger and it was quite obvious how tore up he was over that mental image, you didn’t know he knew such particulars but you could use this to your advantage, you could try at least.

“Officer Presley,” you cooed as gently as you could with road noise and a plastic divider hampering your sultry intentions, if you had freedom of movement you’d be reaching around his thick neck and tucking that one sweaty curl behind his ear where it tufted with his sideburn, “I’d have preferred it was you,” you watched closely as that sank in, the lead foot easing on the accelerator, there was a choice up ahead, left to the precinct or right to the trailer park, “but I’ve got my pride and I couldn’t just take charity from you. I kept hopin’ you’d come in, then we could both do each other a favor.”

You could hear him sniff, running a hand underneath his nose. “That right?”

“Yeah.” You breathed, forehead thudding back against the plastic and at the red light intersection he stopped and craned his neck to look at you. “Don’t take me in, not this morning, please, pleaaasssse!” you begged, “We’ve both been working all night and we’re tired and sad and- you need somebody to make you dinner before you fall asleep, don’t ya?”

It was a dirty, dirty ploy to distract him like that but you could see with searing clarity the way his eyes wavered in their glare, then softened into childlike meekness at the thought of food and companionship. “You wanna come back to mine?” he whispered, gravelly from all the yelling and his eyelids batted under the lavender shades, azure and owlish.

“I really do.” you agreed, “Mine hasn’t had any air conditioning in seven months.” you admitted and he made a wounded noise of protest for your deprivations. You’d make him see why you took to stripping, he just had to be eased into it.

“I didn’t take it outta the freezer ‘fore I left.” he realized dejectedly as he turned right -away from the station.

You took a massive breath and tried to make it go to your swimming head, relief coursing through you at getting your way. Then you tried to process what he’d said. “Oh, your dinner?” you prodded.

“Yeah. It’s frozen. Lasagna.” he mumbled.

“Well, that’s nothing me and a microwave can’t solve.” you assure, gauging how his profile had softened in the dim lighting of the cab lights but his grip on the wheel and his jittery leg were about as stiff and upset as when he cuffed you. “What could I do for you in exchange for a bite?” you whispered, the sudden stop of the car making you realize with a hitch in your breath that you were in front of his place.

“I liked you.” he suddenly spoke up with such vehemence that it would have been comedic, what with him having already given into you and taken you home, but instead it was a little heartbreaking. “I liked you but you was too young!”

“I still like you.” you hedged, “Even though you cuffed me and called me a lot lizard.” you teased.

The solicitation, the sharing, it seemed to be his chief sore.

“That’s whatchu is!.” He grouched, staring out his front windshield at the single hung lamp illuminating freshly washed vinyl. “But I’ve taken you home anyways.”

“It’s really sweet of you.” you insisted, shifting on the peeling bench seat and wondering when he’d take you out of the car. “Are you gonna let me warm up that lasagna?”

“You said you wished I’d come in?” he ignored you and went back to your previous comment, about wishing he had frequented the truck stop.

Well, well, Officer Presley - a man like all others, after all.

You smirked, sticky lip gloss feeling a little cracked at this corners as you beamed at your little victory. “Maybe I could find a way to show my appreciation for takin’ me back to your air conditioned little palace. -while the lasagna is warming up.” you clarified and heard him grunt, and shift, his legs spreading a little wider in the cramped front seat.

“Yeah?” he pressed, sounding a little winded unless you were just too quick with the assumptions tonight.

“Yeah.”

“You offerin’ to be *my* lot lizzard?” He asked and after a tense minute where you were unsure if he was about to be angry again, he tapped the glass and whispered, “A joke, c’mon, don’t you get it? It’s a joke.”

“But I would!” You insisted after laughing for his benefit.

“Hmm.” He sniffed again, “Well. Hmm.” and with that unclear utterance he opened his door and heaved himself out into the stale Texas air, hiking up his pants again in that useless habit and shutting it behind him. It seemed an eternity before he finished hiking and shifting and shaking a leg out before he came and opened your door, a gentlemanly action made necessary by the stupid cuffs, still clanking around your wrists, as you scooted out of the back seat.

Officer Presley surveyed you up and down, blinking blearily as if he hadn’t seen you fully in the dark parking lot, like the glare of his headlights wasn't sufficient to show him your little cherry tank top and denim shorts, the satin tops of your red bra peeking out of the stretched neckline. “Hmm.” he hummed again and surveyed you once more, the pull of the cuffs behind your back adding to your posture being a bit booby. “Now ‘fore you cross my threshold, I’ve got house rules.” he was swaying a bit alarmingly and caught himself on the side mirror, you chose to ignore this and give him all the deferential attention needed to cure his -jealousy? Was he jealous? Of all the men who tipped you? “First rule, no dirty feet in the house. I hate filthy carpets. I hate them.”

“O-ok.” you agreed.

“Clean feet.”

“Okey.”

“Hmm. Ok.” he closed his eyes and recalled the next, “Let’s see uh- no back talkin’! No talkin’ back, what I say, goes, in my house.”

It was a trailer, not a house. But:

“Of course! You’re the man of the house!” you enthused with a little bounce for his benefit. He was still wacky and veering so fast from niceness to belligerence you were pretty sure you’d end up a little worse for wear after this no matter what. The thought excited you.

“Ok.” he pronounced, staring at the gravel and your feet like he didn’t know what to do now. You wondered when was the last time somebody had come into his place. “I got a doggie, too. Backroom. His word is law, don’t go botherin’ him none.“

Having seen the size of the dog, even if you were inclined to be a jerk to it, you wouldn’t dare. “Gosh of course.”

“Ok.” again. “I’ll get the hose.”

He left you there, leaning cuffed against his squad car as he trundled over his singed lawn to the side of the trailer, returning with the running hose in hand.

You knew it was destined for your feet and didn’t make a fuss as the warm hose water splashed against your blisters, soothing away the dust and the sticky cocktail splashes and god knows what else.

“House rules?” he prompted as he sprayed.

It was getting quite light out now. Probably close to six in the morning. What a long night. “Clean feet, respect doggie, no back talking.” You listed.

“And make yourself useful.” he grunted as if he had mentioned that before and you’d been faulty in your retelling.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Mm, ‘cause you’re my lot lizard now, ain’t ya?” he hummed, hose pointed to the side and suddenly his face was very close to yours, his belly closer and pressed to yours.

“Y-yeah.” you gasped.

“You gonna be a useful lil helper, hmm? Let hims take care of ya while you take care of him?”

Well shit, you weren’t at all sure if this were house rules or a big sexual game. Either way you wanted some lasagna and the crisp prospect of air conditioned sleep. “Yes, officer.”

“Good girl.” he turned the nozzle off on the hose, clamping it at the mouth and dropping it to the gravel.

“You- are you gonna uncuff me?” you giggled nervously as he swayed above you, nose almost brushing yours, eyes heavy and drooping.

“Hmm,” he stepped back and hooked a thumb in his belt loop, a shit eating grin spread over his face, bunching up the apples of his cheeks and turning him into a boy before your very eyes, “nah. I think -nope. Not gonna.”

“Well- shit, officer.” You sputtered, “You’ve got some little secrets?”

“I’ll let you be the judge of how little they are, sweetheart.” he cheesed before reaching out and hooking a finger in your strap, and tugging you gently by it up his porch.

It was odd, Seeing his ceramic tiger up close. Like déjà vu, or walking into a movie, some dream playing out. If your hands had been free, you would’ve pet the head concrete reverently, feeling some sort of gratitude to the noble beast for making your girlhood wishes come true as you tripped through the screen door and into an icebox of a trailer.

He shut the door and pressed you up against it with a move smoother and more practiced than you expected from him. Maybe wrestling criminals and doing the nasty called for the same dexterity. Or maybe he’d been fuckin’ somebody else all this time, waiting for you to grow up. Maybe he’d made a whole harem out of the trailer park and you were just his last pick. The thought hurt terribly, worse yet as you knew most days he was a sweetie, a funny man, attractive and well liked, not this grumpy, pill drunk trailer Baron that smushed you with his belly and sneering face so near but never descending as a lover’s should.

“Kiss me.” you goaded, licking your lips in a studied way. The little contemplative, whining sound he made took you by surprise.

He pulled down your bottom lip with a gloved finger and checked your mouth and tongue like a damn dentist. “Listerine first.”

Of course. Hygiene.

Clean feet, clean mouth, just for him to probably put his piss dribbled cock in it.

He stepped away and methodically took off his gloves, laid them on a small, doily adorned side table by the door, and then his gun and his belt came off with a satisfied grunt that made your inner thighs tingle. The thud of his large flashlight finished this routine.

Doilies.

There were doilies and frilly curtains and the oddest assortment of cheap finery around the place. A nod to the Tuscan craze taking over places like Target and such, while having a unique spin on it you weren’t sure what to name. You took it all in as he piloted you to the bathroom and methodically he pulled out a still wrapped toothbrush and plopped a jumbo sized bottle of mint flavored mouthwash on the fake marble counter.

“You kept that in case you have a lady guest?” You teased as the clinical silence was all a bit funny.

“Yeah.” he agreed without a hint of amusement and you sobered up again at the idea of him having anybody in here but you.

He poured a large quantity of the mouthwash into a paper cup, retrieved from the tidy stack of paper cups beside the sink for that purpose. His housekeeping was an odd mix of spectrum-like meticulousness and slovenly disorder. There were three pairs of pants on the bathroom rug beneath your feet and yet the mouthwash cups were stacked as carefully as the Tower of Babel. “Swish it for seventy five seconds.” He directed very soberly, tipping the liquid disinfectant into your mouth. You almost swallowed the shit. While you swished till your eyes burned and your tongue went numb from scalding mint, he tore at the packaging for the toothbrush.

“Ok, spit.” you happily spat out the green torture liquid and grinned back at him in the mirror.

“Never had a man ask me to spit it out before.” you teased.

He fumbled the toothbrush in surprise for a minute before giving you an admonishing eyebrow. “Girl don’t. We gotta brush your teeth.”

Instead of doing the obvious thing, the honorable thing and uncuffing you, he instead took his place behind you and pushed the toothbrush between your lips, moving it as if you had no arms and were helpless. All this to keep you cuffed.

What a pervert, you thought, charmed.

It was oddly cozy even if it was more than a tad bazaar, him pressing himself to you and running his spare hand along your side as you bent over the counter, trying not to ruin the moment by slurping paste too much. It didn’t seem to bother him, he didn’t watch you brush, he just discreetly rubbed the front of his slacks against your butt and kept his hand jerking the brush across your teeth. His other hand soothingly running up and down the curve of your hip, fingers fluttering under the hem of your tank and brushing bare skin with reverent little swoops.

When you were finished he laid the toothbrush down beside his, on a folded little towel in the back left corner of the vanity next to the mirror.

The domesticity made you smile. “Look, they’re spooning.”

He grabbed your chin gently, tilting your head to the side as he leaned over your shoulder. His lips very close again. “Happy late birthday.” he whispered, “I’d have gotten you a cake. Cupcake. Somethin’. You deserve to be celebrated.”

“Kiss me?” you asked again and this time he did, at his own pace, micromanaging each swipe of tongue and press of lips but he kissed you, strongly and angrily and admiringly in turn. He pulled down your tank as he went, stretching the neck out beyond any salvaging and then your bra, unclasping it with strange proficiency and letting your top gather in a ugly bulge around your hips, stuck by your cuffs and shorts, as his hands cupped and squeezed your breasts, somehow making this appreciative mauling seem essential to the act of kissing.

You two finally separated, breathless and revved up, staring at each other with wild, half lidded eyes.

“Ok.” he pronounced and you readied for more only for him to say, “Lasagna. C’mon.”

His kitchen was far nicer than yours, but still it was a mobile home kitchen. And he was a thorough bachelor. He crooked his fingers into the plastic handle and yanked open the freezer, standing aside with a grin on his face that bode no good for you. “I’m helpin’ ya out a little,” he explained sheepishly, “since you’re hampered.” he had a way of saying it like handcuffs were a natural disability, “But I let you off scott-free in exchange for you makin’ me some food.”

“Food and other things.” you bitched, “Didn’t sign up to be a comedy act.”

“Oh that’s right,” beamed, “you did offer other things.” he bit his lip and you thought you’d won when he went right back to it, “You said while it was warming up, you offered other things, while it was in the microwave. Yeah, so go on, grab that TV dinner there, not the fettuccini one, the lasagna.”

You stared at the open freezer and then back to him and then back to the freezer. “Grab it?” you sassed, not having a lot to lose with your tits out and your hands cuffed and a law officer having fun at your expense.

“You’ve got a mouth don’t ya?”

“You’re sick.” you smiled in realization before sticking your head into the cold space, nipples pebbling against the chilled plastic, and biting at the package containing Walmart’s latest gourmet provisions.

“Uhuh, that’s it.” he sounded more pleased at the sight of you with a frosted package between your teeth than he had all this time, “Heyer doll, I’ll open the microwave for ya.” his ability to make himself gallant when he was demeaning you so thoroughly made your pulse thunder uncontrollably.

You had to jut your chin and strain your jaw to plop the heavy foil package of frozen shit into the mounted microwave -fancy mobile home owning bastard- and shove it onto its proper revolving plate.

“There we gooo!” he cooed to you and you stepped back to allow him room to shut the door. “See if you can punch the buttons with your widdle nose.” he suggested excitedly and having gone this far, you didn’t see the point in objecting, not when it made him grin like that. You managed to hit the five for five minutes but the “cook” button wouldn’t respond and after banging your nose against it many times, with many laughs shared between, he finally punched it with one of his oddly pretty fingers.

“There we go.” you echoed, finding that you were blushing the minute the hum of the microwave buzzed the air, his eyes pinned to your face.

“Five minutes.” he whispered.

It was a hint. You expected something a little lewder from a man who had you carrying out food prep like a circus dog. A man of many moods and tastes, was officer Presley. “Can you cum that fast?” you asked, turning to face him.

“That’ll depend on you.” he replied levelly, a challenge in his eyes. He still wore his glasses, somehow that made you feel filthier than all the cash favors you’d ever done. He turned a little in his stance to lean back against the counter, his wrist watch jangling against the edge of the formica, his legs widening.

You dropped to your knees, linoleum freezing against your skin and you looked back up at the ticking microwave timer. You knew what he wanted, and if you were being half honest, it’s what you wanted too. So you didn’t act too good for pressing your face to the crotch of his uniform slacks, forehead indenting the swell of his belly above you and taking his zipper between your teeth. Filled out as his slacks were, with all the stupid gathers and the still fastened button, you could only barely see veiny pink flesh behind the newly opened fly.

“No boxers?” you chided him with a smirk and the unapologetic one he gave you in return made your belly clench, as did the musky smell of him and that soft double chin he had when looking down at you. There was stubble on it blending into his throat.

You’d been right, mouthwash and sterilization for your tongue but not even a spit bath for his sweaty balls and clammy dick -the man was out of his mind. You swallowed down the natural aversion the scent gave you and nuzzled your face nearer, trying to nose the button out of its hole. All you did was succeed in brushing his pants against him and making him impatient.

“Four minutes and twenty seven seconds.” He enunciated the timer reading for your benefit and you whimpered at the impossibility of getting the button undone without hands.

“Please, I can’t undo it.” you asked for his help, tugging at your handcuffs angrily, shoulders painfully aching and only the base of his thick penis visible with its nest of curls and heavy sack.

“Then make due.” he stared down at you unimpressed and you felt an overwhelming urge to grind yourself against his boot at his disdainful expression.

Blinking away horny, frustrated tears, you held your breath and buried your face again, nuzzling inbetween the fly gap, using your chin to tug the crotch further down until his heavy, purplish pink balls spilled over the respectable khaki’s and into the cold air. A bit of hope filled you at how taut and bunched they already were, he wasn’t so cool and unaffected as he acted. You saw him reach into his pocket, digging for something as you weighed your next decision.

“Don’t you want some lasagna?” he prodded.

That made you mash your face to his pants and take both of those hairy balls into your mouth, slurping and sucking at them like a shop vac. His jangling movements in his pocket ceased suddenly before picking up again, and then he withdrew it, a sharp gasp heard above you before he stuck a retrieved cigarette between his lips and lit it. A billowy cloud of Marlborough was blown over your crouching form as the microwave hummed on and his chest hummed in satisfaction. He shoved his hand back into his pocket, knuckling along at his cock.

“That’s it.” he sighed as you mouthed at the base as best you could, tonguing at the hefty vein running along the underside, slathering as much as you could reach. He was salty and tacky to taste and his pants were growing wet from something more than your spit. He was a leaky little man, it made your smirk and smack your lips.

“Feel good, officer?” you moaned in question, just as the microwave dinger went off. “Nooo, damnit, no!” you whined at the sound, a poor loser at all times.

Officer Presley only chuckled and twisted a little to pop open the door, hissing and cussing as he grabbed the benign edges of the hot foil and plopped it into the counter, “Hey hey hey, I didn’t say you could get up, now, did I?” he chided as you shifted a tiny bit away to watch him pull off the cover and reveal cheesy red sauce. Your stomach was in knots, it was so empty.

“No.” you admitted.

He twisted his torso to snag himself a fork from the drawer beside your head, and then, stabbing the casserole with it, took both his hands down to his pants and undid the button at last, letting his pants fall to the floor as they’d been trying to do and been prevented by a belt each time you’d seen him. “Finish what you started, doll, and then I’ll give you a bite.”

You swallowed hard, saliva pooling freely in your tongue at the smell of Italian food. It would be of use. He was tapping his sputtering fat cockhead to your lips and after a tiny grunt of resistance, you gave in, opening your glossy lips and letting him slide the thick meat over your tongue, tangy and salty and pulsing like a living rod, all the way to the back of your throat.

“Fuck me, that’s it.” he nodded to himself as you gagged around him, pulling back a little before pushing back in.

You heard the slide of the casserole tray against the counter and the crunch of tin foil, looking up through bleary eyes you saw him cradle the lasagna pan to his chest, balanced on top of his gut. You hollowed your cheeks around him while watching in disbelief as he stabbed at a bite and brought the laden fork to his mouth. He groaned around the bite in enjoyment -your guess over which pleasure was gaining the upper hand. Feeling a little competitive against TV dinner lasagna, you worked his cock faster, sucking more deliberately and trying very hard to let him down your throat, pleased as his hips began to cant and thrust in time with your encouragements.

“That’s it, that’s it, my sweet little homegrown hoe.” he mumbled to you adoringly through a mouthful of pasta and it made your face glow in pleasure, chin and chest dripping with the filth of it all. “I’m gonna, I’m gonna-“ he warned suddenly, pasta tossed back on the counter as he stood up straight and grabbed the back of your head, holding it still, smoldering cigarette pinned dangerously near your ear and hair as he fucked your mouth with fast, frantic pumps before a frankly preposterous amount of spunk filled your mouth and dolloped down your throat.

He petted your head as you struggled to breath again, cloying gloop coating your mouth, one hand coming up to take off his glasses and toss them to the side. He rubbed at his eyes and you realized you weren’t the only one teary eyed from the intensity of it. “Mm, reckon I gotta keep ya after that.” he decided, knuckling your cheek fondly, they were sticky to your surprise. “Want that bite?” he asked conversationally and while you’d have preferred some water to wash down his most recent gift, you nodded anyway and he stabbed at the casserole until he had a great big bite and brought it down to your mouth, smirking as your cheeks once again bulged at the mouthful.

“Thank you.” you smiled up at him and he humphed bashfully before motioning with his fingers for you to stand up.

“Wanna eat the rest of this in bed?” he asked eagerly, licking his teeth, “I’ve got a waterbed.” he added like that would convince you.

“Of course you do.” you giggled. “And of course I do - lead the way.”

He grinned and pushed off the counter, grabbing the casserole as he went. “Might even find the keys for those back here.” he joked about your cuffs before adding with a wicked little wink, “No promises, mind.”

Hope you enjoyed, I write for screams and comments and unhinged feedback. 🤓♥️

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#early post for my brit babies #elvis presley #elvis fanfiction #elvis fanfic #elvis #elvis imagine #elvis presley smut #elvis presley fan fic #elvis presley fandom #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis x reader #elvis x y/n #elvis x you #big daddy elvis #big daddy Elvis fanfiction #archive #trash magic

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aconflagrationofmyown · 1 year

Text

but then… Gigi

chapter one (a Big Daddy Elvis fanfic)

Summary: this is a fix-it universe to catch all the feelings I have for this man in the late 70’s. It’s gonna be my least impressive, least dramatic, very plotless, indulgently meandering and self soothing fic that fixes all things through *love* -it’s gonna be so fluffy we might as well cure cancer and invent time travel while we are at it. That being so, and after all the joy that has come from y’all’s interactive prompts and suggestions with Sarge, I welcome any suggestions or prompts y’all might have as this universe expands. I hope you enjoy and this can provide a sweet little escape 🌷💋

Warnings: 18+ this universe is and will be mature due to sexual themes and drug mentions. In this chapter there are discussions about attractiveness, hinted unwanted advances in the past, some mild possible objectification, talking of weight gain and sugar babies, female masturbation with non orthodox self pleasure tools (and cherry coke didn’t come out for another two years shhh)

Special thanks to: my sugar babies @stylespresleyhearted whose pure hearted love for this concept is responsible for its very existence in the first place and her co-conspirator @eliseinmemphis . And as always, to my discord wives who forever back up all my endeavors and fuel my fire @ab4eva @elvisabutler @butlersxbirdy

Circa: early summer 1977, Memphis Tennessee

Word count: an astoundingly moderate 5k

There is a set and type of girls most likely to catch the eye of the most internationally famed rock star on the planet, and it isn’t self pity or self deprecation that makes Gigi acknowledge that she doesn’t quite fit that type. She considers it good fortune enough to run in circles that boast a number of the brazen, flirty and seemingly fearless young sort who can traipse up to Elvis Presley’s sleek Stutz window and, bending themselves over an unnecessary but effectively exposing amount, extract from him a cheeky invitation to a Graceland party.

Elvis is fond of this type, their vivacity and their audacity, even their ceaseless giggles and yes, the availability they clothe themselves with. They remind him of those girls who’d nearly break down his motel door in the early years. The ones that used to scare him shitless even as he fell prey to their perfume and painted lips, their milky soft hands sporting red hot talons that often as not hooked him down to hell with them.

As of late, he finds himself accepting any damn company he can get, after months of pushing company away. It’s a cycle and when he’s fresh outta reclusion he finds he’s probably a little liberal with the invites but it doesn’t matter. He’s still relieved and gratified that he is wanted and loved enough by his fellow Memphians that they’ll accost him on the street, lean into his window, all bubblegum and boobs, and ask for autographs and if he’s interested in some company.

He may be slowing down here lately, as his body and mind and the newspapers remind him constantly, but pretty young things are still one of life’s sweet pleasures, and even if he can’t give as much as he used to, at this rate he’s glad for anyone who’ll drag him out of the slump. Even if he’s more of a museum sort of attraction for them than the living wonder they once claimed he was. Maybe it’s this morbid understanding of these little floozie’s motivations that has him grinning along and offering a free invite for game night, all the while glancing past them to where she stands at a distance behind the giggling gaggle. Her limbs are strong but soft, her face beguiling yet oh so innocent and her posture is leant forward in unscripted eagerness to maybe catch a glimpse of him past her gaggle of friends. She has her hands clasped nervously in front of her -unconsciously highlighting the way the wind whips her thin sundress between her thighs and outlines her perfectly- and it’s adorable the way her sensible keds are scuffing the sidewalk rhythmically until she feel his gaze on her.

The minute Gigi senses his authoritative assessment of her over those tinted shades, her pretty little brain makes her snap to attention, aimless for a minute before falling back on ingrained rules of conduct. She has no seductive artifice, no hip cock or calculated smirk. Gone is the sneaker scuffing and the lip chewing and instead her back snaps straight up like a debutant, feet planted, hands unclasping, shoulders back and tits forward. Elvis thinks her mother, if she’s got one, would be very proud of her social graces. Personally, he is very admiring of those pert nipples straining the cloth, and proud of the eager tremble rustling her in the summer breeze just by a flick of his eyes over her fresh baked womanhood. But maybe it’s the red hot blush under the afternoon sun and the hesitant but almost giddy little wave she gives him that cements the fond flutter he feels in chest into a raging affection.

Falling in affection for a stranger is stupid, dumb and terribly risky. And not at all likely to be requited in the way he craves so badly these days. He knows this, it’s happened before. It’s best to stick to the gals who’ll fawn over his car window and maybe dance together for him later on. But golly, wouldn’t it be nice to pat a cheek that fresh and watch it turn rosier under an ole man’s admiration?

He pulls his cigar out to smile at her, because she deserves a full lipped, white teeth gleaming smile -his ole moneymaker. It still has its intended effect, it makes Gigi beam and her waving little hand clench in excitement. She even does a little bunny hop in place and the way the glorious young shape of her bounces under the demure sundress is all kinds of tonic to a tired fella’s heart.

It’s a lot to take, the way this certified legend ducks and peers past her gaggle of friends at his window to give her not only his attention but that most delightful of grins. The one that is deceptively bashful over being so admired. Gigi would be a pants on fire liar if she didn’t admit that she’s watched enough footage and poured over enough magazine spreads of the man through the eras to nearly swoon under the real life shimmer of it.

And she knows, vaguely, that she’s acting air headed in the way she trembles and bounces but that’s all she’s got, these natural responses, never was good at faking much of anything she feels, and certainly not when she was decidedly embarrassed. Which she was now -what with the way his smile is boyishly fond, his demeanor fatherly and his eyes lewdly assessing. There’s not a bit of the masculine spectrum he isn’t embodying at this moment and her body betrays her by submissively tremoring under his gaze alone. What would a touch be like?

Such slack mouthed, nipple tingling, body electrifying thoughts get interrupted when the myth himself points a bejeweled finger at her -one that is slender and lean and elegant in contrast to the bulk burdening the rest of him- and asks in a meltingly soft voice:

“You any good at charades, sweet cheeks?”

Even if she were terrible at the game, even if she didn’t know how to play it at all, the hopeful raise of his eyebrows would make her lie, hand on the Bible to this Hollywood trained actor, that she was the best charade player the world has ever seen. Her reply in the affirmative is overly confident due to sheer nerves and eagerness, and she vigorously bobs her head to add unneeded emphasis. It makes her beauty queen friends giggle and laugh good naturedly and to his relief she joins in, a hand flying up in humiliation to shut that glossy, pink mouth.

It’s so clumsy and natural a reaction that Elvis’ pointed finger twitches from a desire to tickle her, to watch her writhe from something besides embarrassment. He mourns that she’s standing so far from the window. At least the distance has given him a good view of her from the top of her shiny widdle head to the sole of her itty bitty footsies.

Plans are made at the window, Lamar is to send a car and apparently the lot of them will all be at Dinah’s house for pickup and Gigi tries to get a little closer to overhear these details but the crowd of girlfriends is a few bodies deep and there’s fans gathering, too. So she learns the logistics later, when everyone has finished homework and shifts and are primping in Dinah’s upstairs bedroom, hairspray and nail polish fumes thick in the air, and voices nearly hysterical in pitch from excitement.

-It worked! It worked! It worked! We are going to party at Graceland! Elvis Presley invited us to spend the evening!-

There’s a lot of different reasons for excitement, some of the girls are just curious to see the icon’s home, some are talking of how envious their older sisters (even some mothers) will be over them meeting their crush, others are hoping the scene is as debauched as the rumors would have the world believe, an opportunity to taste drugs and that rock n roll lifestyle for a brief shining evening. Marie asks if they think he’ll make them do naughty, dirty, sexy things for him and that brings up fresh tittering and salacious hearsay regarding his appetites and tastes. Someone deflates that mood by saying that he might just be a dirty old man now, it’s not quite the same as going to his house a few years ago. At forty years old he’s ancient to them. What with his declining health and being a recluse and -what if he lures girls and then murders them? Oh god, the urban legends come out, he’s a vampire, he’s a serial killer, he’s this and he’s that and-

Gigi thinks he’s awfully generous. That’s what she thinks. Inviting strangers into his home. And not just pretty young things. She personally knows folks who he’s helped, the downtrodden and the dehoused and the disadvantaged. She’s grown up in churches and schools and municipalities he’s funded. He practically provided for her and all of Memphis like an omniscient father figure these past three decades. And now there’s this kindhearted invite which most seem to consider akin to a ticket to a Carnival.

As she lets the girls fluff her hair and spritz her in perfume, adding an extra coat of mascara to her lashes -stultifying her if she’s being honest- she gives a brief thought to whether, just maybe, this will be a decadent night after all.

Elvis is still Elvis. It can’t be all hearsay. And for someone like her, who’s been a good student and a decent worker and hasn’t gone chasing every wicked, back alley experience available in Memphis, she frets a little that maybe inside that iconic mansion tonight she’ll lose something that’s been preserved so far.

Innocence? Maybe. But she thinks her greatest concern is that maybe he’ll prove to be something less warm and darling and extraordinary than that brief exchange on the sidewalk and years of idolizing have convinced her that he is. All this talk of him that floats around her makes her feel faintly ill, the morbid curiosity and the vulgar interest. No wonder he secludes himself.

The car arrives, decadent and alluring like its owner, and driving it is one of the many trusted minions of the king. There might not be seatbelts for every girl here but that doesn’t seem to matter, Gigi happily offers up her lap to Tammy and teases her that Tammy is her safety belt and Gigi is her booster seat. It’s a jolly ride, banter being made with the front seat fella who’s name she has to ask for about five times before Tammy takes pity and informs her he’s “George Klein”. Gigi gets a schooling in the back seat about his radio show and once again Gigi is reminded why Tammy is ‘Miss Memphis’ and she’s not. The babble of voices calms down long enough for Mr. Klein to lay down some ground rules before the car pulls through the gates.

The rules are shockingly normal: stay downstairs, make yourselves at home and but don’t behave like asses, don’t shy away from approaching your host, the last thing he likes is awkwardness or standoffish coolness in his own home. Gigi is rather certain that with her nerves and hero adoration she can manage not being stuck up or acting above it all, but she’s not at all sure she’s gonna manage to not be as awkward as a newborn duckling.

Graceland through the gates is not an unfamiliar sight to most of them, but Graceland up close, caressed in the inky dark of night from inside by golden fingertips of light, is magical. As is the atmosphere inside the place, though that may be more a case of her knowing where she was, rather than anything particularly incredible occurring in the opulent space. Despite the change of clothes to a slinky little number and the fluffed blowout that her more cultured friends gave her in consideration of the evening, Gigi can’t help but feel underdressed for a night in this gaudy Antebellum Establishment. Extra mascara and expensive perfume feels inadequate to match the gold and crimson and white furnishings. If Belle Watling had a home, Gigi reckons it would look rather like this.

That old worry returns that tonight might devolve into being the most debauched of her young life, that maybe she’s stepped into a hospitable bordello, so exotic and seductive are the furnishings alone. But to her surprise, seated on crimson curved couches, and already heatedly invested in a game of charades, is a friendly looking group of men and their wives. They have to be wives, the Mafia’s wives -they look so respectable, so relaxed lounging in Elvis’ Presley’s home. There’s differing ages here, middle and younger and all in between, and a man she’s rather certain is Elvis’ own father. It’s respectable, to her immense relief and confusion.

“Ah, here comes the fresh young blood!” One of the group says and it’s a bit chaotic then, half the group invested in keeping up the game and the other set rather eager to abandon their losing streak to offer welcomes and refreshment.

She lets the bodies swirl around her, a strange feeling of being a little left out taking over her without a single rudeness on the part of anyone present justifying the feeling. It irks her that she's so skittish, it just seems that everyone somehow falls in with another or ten and the established groups begin games or snacking or talking without her and she stands alone in the human eddy watching it all happen so effortlessly.

What’s entirely unexpected a half hour or more into this friendly pandemonium is a playful tap on her shoulder and turning round to find their host himself, clad in a comfy tracksuit, unzipped sufficiently low to display a devout amount of crosses shimmering on sweat slick skin and wearing shades even indoors. He’s asking if she’d like a drink.

“Oh -Elvis!” is a stupid thing to say in reply to his felicitations but it’s all Gigi can manage in such close proximity to his warm smile, his unzipped jacket and his heady scent. He looks her over, taking in the way her friends have erased the fresh faced ingenue on the sidewalk and made her into a sex doll and it takes supreme self discipline to not reach out and wipe some of it off. His scrutiny is making her nervous but she does at last manage to scramble out, “Yes, thank you, Mr. Presley, that would be lovely -it’s lovely of you to have us and your home is so unbelievably lovely, and I can’t believe we’re here, I’ve admired you for so long and -I, I’m only 20 and can’t drink.”

The word vomit robs her of breath and Gigi sucks it back in with a painful wince -she just declined a drink and proclaimed herself a complete goody two shoes, a perfect square, to the King himself. Her face flames hot and the heavy coating of lashes flutters from eye watering embarrassment.

Elvis just tilts his head to the side and gives her sweet face the appreciative study of a blush connoisseur, his grin growing impossibly wider and a little wolfish,

“Well, darlin, I’m a lil over 21 but I don’t drink ‘neither.”

“Really?” Ggi ventures in utter surprise, and that must’ve been redeeming on her part as his smile shifts from wolfish to fond before giving a tight nod,

“I was offerin’ lemonade, or sweet tea, but I think-“ and here he steps back, surveying her head to toe in the gauzy halter dress her friends snazzed her up in, “I think, yeah, yeah, ‘think you’re a cherry coke kinda girl.”

“I’m whatever you say, sir!” Gigi salutes him like a idiot because she’s had never had a cherry coke in her life or been assessed by a powerful man and she is quickly forgetting to be shy when so bewildered by his heavy lidded assessment-

“Yeah,” he nods, satisfied after another survey of the god crafted entirety of her, “Cherry coke for you, I think, lil Miss.”

He doesn’t fetch it, someone else in this crowded place does and it comes with the ordered white straw and she sips the carbonated beverage with a bashful smile, trying to think of something sensible to say in thanks when being looked at like that by the man who having fulfilled his host duties slowly moves away to recline in a decadent crimson armchair.

“Go on now, you’re here to have some fun, sweet cheeks.” he waves her down to the floor where many others are sprawled writing dares and acts, and she settles where he directs her, right by his leg until it’s her turn.

Once she moves to the mantle and acts out her turn, once it’s successfully guessed, she’s a little at a loss as to where to go. It feels presumptive somehow to sit by him again. So she sits by Dee instead, and feels a fool five seconds later, knowing it’s just nerves and shyness keeping her from a chance at sitting by such an extraordinary hero for what’s probably the best night of her life.

Ever.

Gigi wouldn’t get this chance again and yet she decided to act like an awkward idiot for fear of acting like a -what? Cling on? Groupie? It was just his leg, his beefy, muscled, thick leg beside her, and the heat of his body and the little noises of amusement coming from him. But it made her feel like she was burning up inside, it felt intimate, it felt like she should be between those legs and surrounded by his bulk. Like between his thighs would be the cleft in the rock to hide from this vast world that she’d been looking for all her life.

He was just domestic and kind, and she had to make it weird. Tammy’s unimpressed eye roll at her doesn't help matters. Soon the left side of Gigi’s face begins to burn and out of desperation she finally turns to face Elvis and finds him staring straight at her, her abandoned, half-drunk cola being jostled in his hand like a carrot for a horse. His eyebrow beckons, she blushes harder, he keeps shaking the damn thing and ducking his head with that coaxing grin. She rises and crouches through the partiers and moves back to her place at his feet.

“Here ya go.” he says mildly as she settles, nothing mentioned of the command and obedience just enacted.

He just gives Gigi her coke back, his rings clanking on the glass and fingers brushing hers during the handover. She chokes on her next sip when he pats the top of her head. Fatherly, if her father had ever been one for pats and noticing her existence. Unfettered, Elvis’ hand slides down the glossy brushed out length of her hair, to pat her back as she gasps out her shock, somehow making things worse but oh so lovely. She dares to lean back into that caressing hand, finds herself leaning against his leg by proxy, finding herself lulled and squirmy all at once.

Charades at Elvis Presley’s house are very much the same as at anyone else’s, and strangely Gigi finds that simultaneously the most bizarre and adorable thing imaginable. There is, however, a good deal more betting and hollering than would be permissible in most households, and she finds herself enacting dubious scenes with a shockingly plentiful array of cousins and fellow guests, but altogether it’s wholesome and lively and joyous. It seems a bit rigged when Tammy, fresh off winning Miss Memphis, has to enact the white dress subway scene of Marylin Monroe -made snort worthy humorous when an ancient creature, who Gigi has on good cousinly authority is Elvis’ grandmother, provides the wind to blow up Tammy’s flimsy excuse of a dress to her upper thighs. Flashing panties as is the iconic scene.

In a weak moment Gigi tilts her head to see Elvis’ reaction to her friend's beauty, and she doesn't miss the way he guffaws around his cigar at the sight of those award winning stems. Though she doubts it’s his first sight of them, they’ve been plastered all over TV and newspapers ever since Tammy won the damn thing a few months ago. Best body and face in the state. Gigi’s primped up face and heavy coated lashes and gauzy dress suddenly feel like an attempt to mimic something she wasn’t cut out for. Self consciously she tugs at the hem of the short skirt.

Tammy flashes Elvis a wink and shimmies in a mouth watering tease before sitting opposite the two of them, legs crossed and hardly a bit left to the imagination.

Elvis keeps grinning. Tammy licks her lips. Gigi finishes her coke and vaguely recalls the fact that the man is supposedly dating one of Tammy’s rivals from the pageant, or a sister of or a- Gigi doesn’t recall really, and she can be sure that between the way he’s stroking her own sun streaked locks and eye sexing Tammy opposite, the man sure doesn't act taken.

Watching Billy Smith try to act out a cheetah giving birth takes her mind off such self pitying introspection, and before she knows it, the gaudy foyer clock is ringing out 1:00 am.

Homework and college has been running Gigi a little ragged and eventually her little head begins to droop against his leg and the way the empty coke bottle starts to slip from her weak grip catches his attention. He slowly raises his hand from where it was resting ever so lightly on her shoulder and caresses her neck. To his immense relief Gigi leans into his patting eager as a housecat, and it makes him glad. Just as much as it makes him worry.

Only twenty years old and so easily lulled.

“You got a curfew, lil one?” he asks her with concern and that startles Gigi, his warm breath hot against her ear and the grunt of him folding himself over his sizable belly to get down near her face.

“No sir. Not really.” She admits, overly respectful in her sleepy state, “My parents aren’t really into stuff like that. They are pretty liberal that way. And I live with Tammy.”

She gives him an assuring smile even as she stifles a yawn, and two things flash across his mind. This means he (or God forbid, any man) could have her over here at his whim without excuses being made. And secondly, Elvis really must look out for her so that she doesn’t fall into the company of any such other men.

There’s no precedent for a Graceland party to wind down before dawn, but he considerately asks her if she’s got classes tomorrow. The honest way Gigi nods her droopy head and moans “yeah” has his heart clenching and his fingers flex, he wants to put her to bed. His bed, he thinks, though that’s a rather dastardly thought. Really though, he’d like to wrap himself around her and hold her and tell her he’d care very much whether or not she came home late from a stranger's house. That he’d be worried sick about so sweet and darling a little treasure if she were his. He’s got a sneaking suspicion that he’ll care no matter what, his or no.

Instead, he interrupts the game to have Lamar drive her home. Tammy and a few others, noticeably the ones who look like all night partiers, stay longer.

Gigi gets another pat on the head and a commendation to do well on her grades and that’s that.

Gigi last sees him standing in his foyer, jeweled chains gleaming in the nest of his chest hair and a boyish smile on his face, Dinah coming up behind to wave her farewell. Tammy is back there, too, probably going to get up to all sorts of fun while she gets sent home like a child. Wistfully, even as she walks down his drive to her ride, Gigi wishes she had hugged him goodbye. Gushed with more than just words in thanks for the invite, maybe even buried her face there in his chest, just once in that safe haven, sweat and jewels against her cheek. He had seemed to care.

But she wasn’t not that type though, was she? Brazenness was something that always felt awkward to her and landed her splat into uncomfy situations where college boys peered into the women’s locker room and jacked off to the sight of her legs as she tried to change into her track shorts.

The frenzy she often felt in her body to be touched would immediately die in situations such as having her hand clumsily moved up and down a penis in the dark of a movie theater. Or groped over her dress by the drunk jocks she tried to experiment with. Gigi could feel her own potential simmering hot and fervent inside, ready to be appreciated and let out like a fizz from a corked bottle. It was cruel that a fatherly sorta hero was the one to make her finally feel like she would take riding that man’s shoe over the most romantic gesture from one of her many age-appropriate admirers.

If she were Tammy, she wouldn’t have inspired the literal king of rock n roll to send her to bed. If she were Tammy she’d have made a move and said “damn that mythical absentee girlfriend” and would now be flat on her back getting obscenely used by that gorgeous hunk of a man.

Instead, deposited safely home by Lamar and tucked back in her shared flat, Gigi stares at her made up face with adamant animosity. It’s a fine face, she’s been told that plenty and she’s been told she’s smart, but it’s not really inviting the attention she suddenly wants so badly. Maybe she should have worn falsies to add to the effect. Maybe her features and coloring are too light. Tammy’s bleach blonde hair does not occur to her as being a strike against this logic. Instead Gigi thinks of pouring over photos of raven haired Pricilla as a girl and marveling at the thick mask Elvis crafted for her, wonders why she can’t be that kind of girl. She’s not petite, or glamorous or particularly coquettish, but she’d ride that man till he needed IV fluids if he’d just let her.

But he chose Tammy.

Dunking her face into the sink, Gigi scrubs away the artificial bloom until she’s left pink and freckled and so decidedly innocent looking it makes her wanna claw her cheeks to shreds.

“Lil one.”

The way he’d cooed it had turned her insides to jelly and ignited thoughts of her own sizable frame being made small while smothered beneath his sturdy breadth but now it turns her angry, and in the shower she lathers herself and wishes maybe her parents had given a shit about her catching a man instead of being “all she could be” because now at twenty she’s eyeing up the bulbous shape of her Lemon Up shampoo bottle and wondering if she’s big girl enough to take it. He was so big, so bulky and sturdy and muscly with padding to boot, and she’s just so sure his cock has got to match the thighs. A bulky, chubby thing, too, probably. The sort only girls like Tammy can manage.

She wants to be that sorta girl.

Gigi grabs at the bottle. She wrenches the shower handle to off, her wet body bolting for her bed, a jar of Vaseline in her other hand and savage lust in her heart. Halfway to the bed she realizes the shampoo bottle is almost empty and she wants to cry at that. She does stomp her chilled feet like a child and whines. What she needs is weight, her subconscious provides, everything about him was heavy and wonderfully big and she needs more than a hollow bottle to mimic him. She runs back to the shower and grabs at the conditioner, same ginormous shape and this time it’s fully loaded and heavy in her hand and she races back to bed, happy to dive under the covers with her dripping hair and goosefleshed skin.

Tammy has toys to achieve this, Gigi knows from sightings of them being washed in their communal bathroom sink. Pink and veiny and some that even buzz and it was all very funny and silly to come across them when she needed to wash her hands, but right now Gigi wants nothing to do with them, the stupidly large and bulky shaped conditioner bottle not even phasing her. Because it’s hers and not Tammy’s -Tammy who is probably getting railed but Elvis Presley right now. His cockhead probably isn’t shaped like the bottom of a lemon, but it’s gotta be round and this bottle will have to do.

It doesn't do. She lathers on the Vaseline to add to the sticky want she already has pooling, she rubs herself to a frenzy and as her hand cramps she tries putting the oiled up bottle up her channel and finds it’s really just impossible. It’s burns and won’t give and she berates herself and begs a man called “daddy” that she can barely admit to herself is Elvis to “give it to her” and curses Tammy for having a big vagina. She tries and tries with ever increasing anguish and frustration as the clock ticks towards three am and valuable sleeping hours are wasted as she tries to slip more than the crown of the lemon bottle into her untried cunt.

“Give it to me please, please daddy I can

take it.” Gigi insists to the shampoo bottle and her wrist manfully attempts to shove it in after slipping it along her folds for ages.

But it won’t go and she screams more and begs more and cries more and ends up seizing her stuffed valentine's bear -gifted to her by the football team's running back- and rubs herself raw in its button nose. It’s not the first time, but for once her sticky satisfaction doesn’t come to the thought of tiny white shorts ocean wet and clinging to him, or svelte white jumpsuits and chiseled jawline grinning promise. She digs her fingers into the stuffy’s fur and thinks of a hairy chest glistening with sweat and chains jingling with noisy exhales and the smell of him. Oh god the manly smell of him! - and the quiet authority that had her sitting at his feet and having her head petted and being sent home like a child. He acted like he cared for her and could find some use for her and she wets the poor bear’s muzzle at the thought of him telling her that her purpose is to keep him happy.

Worn out and trembling from her orgasm she rolls off the poor stuffed animal and buries her face in her pillow and dreams of warmth.

Outside Gigi’s door, arrested in her trip to the bathroom by shrieks of “daddy” and curses of her own name, Tammy shakes her head in disbelief and grins to herself through her whole nightly routine.

“Why were you cussing me out last night?” Tammy asks her placidly next morning, “Are you jealous of your daddy’s attention being split?”

Gigi groans at Tammy’s mischievous smile and realizes her mistake with a blush, “You didn’t- last night you came back? He didn’t keep you?”

“No, he didn’t.” Tammy agrees through her wheezing laughs and Gigi tries to aim a kick at her shins in mortification. “He was quite the gentleman in fact,” she expounds, “Except for the fact he spent the rest of our time asking me questions about you. I told him he’d lost all his raisin’ talking to a lady about another lady. Made a girl feel like a damn directory.”

“Oh, oh I’m sorry.” Gigi tries to suppress her thrill enough to sympathize with a no doubt annoying event. “You must’ve felt left out.”

Tammy pauses in thought for a bit. “He’s very….sweet.” Is Tammy’s verdict and to Gigi’s incredulity she sounds a little disappointed. “I mean, didn’t you think he was just sorta, ya know, nice?” Tammy presses.

Gigi thinks of the way his hand felt stroking her hair, the care about her curfew, the lack of alcohol, the endearments, the sturdy meat of his thigh against her shoulder. All the things that had made her rub herself puffy with a shampoo bottle that is still hidden under her covers. Yes, he seemed very sweet, and she was desperately in love with a man she’d never see again, who seemed a bit bashful about being “discount bargain Elvis” when all she could think of was how nurturing and mischievous he was.

He just seemed -shy. Bizarrely enough. And she could sympathize with that. Laying here on Tammy’s bed watching the dust motes dance in the afternoon sun when she should be studying, she thinks she’s solved Elvis Presley.

He’s shy.

“I thought he was precious.” Gigi agrees with Tammy, though her tone holds a reverence that makes the beauty queen of Memphis’ head spin in a near 180 to observe her now flaming cheeks. It seems the man has that effect on Gigi, present or not.

“Well, well.” Pretty, sultry, darling Tammy hasn’t a malicious bone in her body but she takes delight in making Gigi squirm, “You sound enchanted!”

“He was sweet!” Gigi protests, using her words against her.

“Yeah, he was.” she agrees, her perfectly tweezed brows drawing together for a moment before an epiphany dawns on her, “But I think it’s a means to an end.”

“What do you mean by that?” She balks, fervent in her conviction that it wasn’t an act. In fact, Gigi was certain he was more himself in his own home last night than ever on a stage.

“It’s making sense now.” she starts to pace the room, “He’s an outrageous flirt, you saw him, flirting with everyone he wasn’t related to that night, but he was so sweet to you- hmm, I think he wants to baby you.”

“Baby me?” Gigi repeat, staring up at the ceiling and feeling that flutter in her belly, just from the idea of him having *any* design on little ole her. “What’s- what even is that?” She asks her, a little hopeful, content to get her education from Tammy on this just as she has on all the more mechanical and dynamical aspects of sex and men.

“It means turning you into his baby.” she laughs, like it’s the most obvious thing, “Would probably put a little chain round your neck saying ‘belongs to Elvis Presley’ or something, and in turn spoil you rotten. At least, that’s how it’s worked for the others. It’s what he’s trying with Ginger but she’s got an independent streak.”

Ginger. The others. Of course there had been others. And yet he was so lonely again, already so lonely she was sure of it. Lonely in his own home, what was worse than that? “I wouldn’t mind being his baby.” Gigi mutters, bashful at the fact that what was essentially a future of house arrest, a portly sugar daddy and head pats makes her shiver delightfully.

“You sure about that?” Tammy suddenly seems overly earnest for a conversation in her room on a Thursday evening about a hypothetical scenario where Elvis Presley takes an interest in Gigi.

“Yes.” She gives it the full, weighty two seconds of thought it deserves. “And if all I get out of it is polishing his guns and feeding him yogurt then I’d honestly be happier than studying political science.” She makes a face as she registers the homework currently crinkling somewhere under her lower back.

“So you get that the sex probably isn’t exactly legendary anymore, right? Like -you saw him.” only Tammy, beautiful, southern pageant winner that she is, with the manner to accompany the looks, could say such a thing without Gigi socking her.

She’s looking out for her, just as she looked out for her with the sub par debate President that Gigi went to prom with and found insufferable after two weeks. She thinks Gigi needs to just keep trying the field (like her, Gigi presumes) until she finds the magical unicorn that will blow her mind in bed and satisfy her curious brain.

At this point in life, she’d settle for a man who chooses her drinks for her and cares enough about her well being to get her home by his own, invented curfew. Maybe she wants a father, what with hers being liberal to the point of carelessness, but she’d settle for a daddy, happily. “Tammy,” she says very slowly, trying to distill all these emotions down into something convincing -because strangely she feels a dire need to convince Tammy of her devotion even in this hypothetical scenario- “Tammy, if he gave a crap about me and paid my student loans, I’m pretty sure I could get off by just watching him smile at the way I make a fool of myself. And if that wasn’t enough, then I’d rub myself raw on his hairy belly. -you get me?”

Tammy looms above her, upside down in her view with her blown out bleached hair, heavy coaled eyes and shimmery mouth, studying Gigi for a minute before bursting out laughing. “You really meant that bit about his belly, didn’t you?”

“Yup.” Gigi mutters, throat thick and heart pounding -somewhere else pounds, too- at the very thought of being that intimate with him, that nasty sticky sweet with him. “Why are we talking about this anyway?” She whines, having worked herself up enough she’s damp and actually a little heartbroken knowing that if anything, Tammy is the one he’d go for.

“I got a call from George Klein this morning.” she spins away and busies herself in the closet, rummaging for shoes, Gigi thinks.

“Oh?” She asks, trying to keep the waiver out of her voice as she sits up and watches Tammy as she digs.

“Yeah, we got invited back.” she says, and turns on her award winning haunches to raise a significant eyebrow at Gigi, “All of us. And then, it was specified, you too.” she watches Gigi’s panicked, hopeful blush coat her face and chest.

“What exactly did he say, Tammy?” she demands, forcing herself not to gnaw on her fingernails, having to remember these nails might be in Graceland by the end of the week.

“He said that ‘E.P. wants to make sure the old gang knew they were welcome again, and the invite is only contingent on “Miss cherry coke” coming’.” she sits fully back on her butt now just to fully appreciate the way Gigi hyperventilates. “Cherry coke, huh?” she teases, “Did you ask for that just to be as euphemistic as possible or do you actually favor the drink?”

“He chose it.” Gigi whimpers, scuffing her keds together because it’s either that or her thighs.

“Oh god.” Tammy sounds like some guys do when their team makes a dirty, dirty interception that ends in a touchdown, “What did I say? Baby you, he wants to baby you! Oh my god, like he’s sweet but that’s -that’s nasty honey, just know that’s a nasty little thing to do.” she insists before turning back to her closet and digging through the dozens of pairs again.

Gigi flops back on her back and tries to think of the deep seated meaning behind cherries, and fails to do more than buzz in hopeless nervous anticipation at going back to that warm and kind and slightly bizarre haven that is Elvis Presley and his home.

Hope y’all enjoyed and if you wanna be tagged let me know. I live off your screams and your pestering, y’all are each precious to me!

Xoxo 🌷 Marina

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thatbanditqueen · 1 year

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Dear Bri ( @stylespresleyhearted ) AHHHHHHH thank you for sending this beautiful No One Walks Out On Big Daddy montage to my inbox, I had to share because I feel like it so perfectly captures Elvis and Becky and their dynamic and that time period sooooo much. Ugh, I love the photo in the center, I love the halter tops and the kitchen window curtains and the lil girls. Ok, I love the 1970s in general, and I love ths era of Elvis soooo much. And I love you, sweet lady. I started chapter 4 - it begins with punching both E and Jerry in the car, but fear not, Elvis convinces Becky to come at least spend the night at Graceland and we’ll see what happens when she does.....

No One Walks Out Moodboard credit: @stylespresleyhearted

If you haven’t read my fic No One Walks Out you can find it here

Adding the tag list for those following this story, I’m curious to know, what do you think are some quintessential Graceland experiences for a lady friend in the early stages of dating Elvis circa 1975 ? He just bought Linda her own house in Memphis in April 1975, so she isn’t living there at the time. I have my own list of ideas as I write, but I want to know what you think....

@woundmetender @powerofelvis @butlervol6 @ab4eva @whositmcwhatsit @richardslady121 @dkayfixates @azzawrites @searchingforgravity @sharebearkk @18lkpeters @elvispresleywife @moonchild-daniella @bisexualwvtson @eliseinmemphis @avengen @father-of-2cats @lillypink @notstefaniepresley @stylespresleyhearted @godlypresley @literally-just-elvis-fics @coolgirl462 @elvisabutler @j-v-9-2 @beeandheroddobsessions @precious-little-scoundrel @butlervol6 @misspresley @austinbutler4life @yanderereader @alqvarde @yynneessmons @kendralavon7 @lyssaxoxoelvis

#no one walks out on big daddy #big daddy elvis #big daddy elvis fanfiction #elvis presley #Elvis #elvis presley fan fic #elvis presley fan fiction #elvis presley smut #elvis smut #elvis x oc #banditqueenwrites

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wanderingelvis · 2 months

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how about elvis & ditzy/innocent reader doing something in public?

thank you!! i don't do a lot of smut so i hope y'all like this! 🧚

🧚 masterlist 🧚 word count: 1,758

pairing: 70s elvis x innocent!ditzy!reader

warnings: fingering (f receiving), praise k!nk, overstim, public smut, daddy dom dynamics

"This bit is my favourite." You whisper adorably to Elvis, trying to be as quiet as possible and contain your sweet excitement at the scene about to play.

It wasn't uncommon for Elvis to hire out the Memphian Theater for you two and the Mafia. In fact, it was the go-to activity for you all after a long day of Elvis performing, recording or rehearsing. It was however, a bit more unusual for Elvis to let you pick the movie.

The choice was Sleeping Beauty, your favourite movie and Elvis would often call you his 'lil' sleepin' beauty' as you did indeed remind him of Princess Aurora.

Elvis smirked down at you, sat upright by his side, your big round eyes fixed on the screen as you mindlessly parted those pretty pink lips and put popcorn in your mouth, over and over again, your attention not leaving the screen as Aurora met Prince Phillip in the woods for the first time.

Knowing how transfixed his sweet little thing was, Elvis effortlessly pulled you onto his lap, your attention never wavering from the screen as you let Elvis manhandle you like his own little dolly.

Slowly, Elvis started feeding you the popcorn, as you watched the movie like a good girl. Absent-mindedly, you'd wrap your lips around Elvis' thumb or his finger as he'd place it in your mouth so you could suck the sugary sweet residue off his digits.

Truth be told, Elvis hadn't followed along with the movie since the first scene, his attention solely on you. But oh, how he adored watching you be so entertained and sweet for him.

He knew the rest of the Mafia weren't over the moon with your choice of movie, it wasn't exactly the usual Western that they were used to, but Elvis didn't care, he only cared about the sweet thing on his lap. Besides, they were a few rows back, allowing the two of you to have your own space.

All of Elvis' affectionate touches and kisses went over your head initially, your mind elsewhere, enjoying the popcorn you were being fed by the big, old man who's lap you were settled on.

It wasn't until Elvis wrapped a strong arm around your tummy, holding you in place as he shuffled in his place, letting his legs part ever so, so that your legs were now completely apart, each leg dangling over each of his, leaving your core dangerously exposed under your sweet pink skirt, that you begin to feel that funny feeling in the pit of your stomach.

Gently, Elvis' coarse, large hands toyed with the hem of your skirt, his fingers lingering ever closer to your centre. Elvis kept his arm secured tightly around you, holding you in place so you couldn't squirm about as he began to trace circles into your plush thigh.

"Um..." You murmured softly, feeling that all too familiar funny feeling from Elvis' touch.

"Uh-uh doll, no talkin' durin' the movie pretty girl." Elvis reprimanded cooly, whispering in your ear from behind and making your shiver all over, causing you to try and squirm before realising that Elvis was holding you closely to him. "Eyes on the screen lil' one." Elvis instructed, quietly delighting in teasing you.

Elvis didn't wait though before he dragged his hands up your thighs, pushing up your pretty skirt and exposing your panties to the cold air of the theatre.

You blinked sweetly, trying to keep your attention on the movie that Elvis had paid a lot to have screened for you.

It was only when you felt Elvis' fingers toy at the damp fabric between your legs that you let out another stuttered gasp, your head lolling forward ever so, at the sudden sensation.

"Such a sensitive thing, hm?" Elvis whispered into your ear at your reaction at just a mere touch.

See, Elvis was right. It didn't take much for Elvis to stimulate you, he knew you inside out and he knew exactly how to work you into overdrive, and oh how we adored watching you get all antsy and disoriented.

And of course, Elvis knew what he was doing to you. He knew exactly what he wanted to happen during the movie as soon as he'd booked it. He knew that he'd wanted to pleasure you in the darkened room as soon as your eyes went wide with delight when Elvis told about the date night. Even as Elvis held your hand and led you to the seats in the theatre, Elvis knew those hands would be somewhere else entirely within a matter of minutes.

All you knew of course, was that you were excited for the movie that in your words was "just oh so pretty!". Elvis' decidedly darker intentions with you had gone right over your sweet head.

But there you both were, your lips parted and glossy as Elvis' fingers slipped under the damp fabric and began to massage your clit, pressing his thumb onto it and applying pressure as he rubbed you in circular motions.

Elvis watched with a smirk as he felt your chest rise and fall at a quicker and more erratic pace, he relished in the power he had over you.

You began to writhe in his hold before you felt his grip get tighter around your waist, his silent sign to hold still, a sign that you instantly obeyed. But there was nothing that could stop your head falling back on his shoulder as Elvis' fingers rubbed through your glistening folds, slick coating them.

Your breathing had now become erratic with breathy pants leaving your lips as the urge to mewl at the sensation grew and grew.

"Good girl, gotta keep quiet huh?" Elvis hushed, making you want to whine but you knew you couldn't draw any attention to the pair of you. "Now, pay attention to your movie baby." Elvis said, teasing you as he knew you were struggling with even keeping your eyes open, let alone concentrating on the movie on the screen but he just wanted to make you into a little mess.

And without warning, Elvis slipped a finger into your hole, your muscles tightening around it as you whimpered softly, tears pricking at your eyes from the searing pleasure and burn of it.

"That's it, taking it like such a good girl, ain'tchu?" Elvis soothed in your ear, knowing the torment he was putting you through by not letting you moan and whine like you normally would in Graceland.

You managed a feeble nod as your wet lashes fluttered, drinking in the pleasure as Elvis stretched your walls.

"Would you like another one?" Elvis asked cooly, a gloating smile taking over his face as you quickly nodded.

"Yes." You hissed, inadvertently rocking your hips ever so slightly, getting all desperate for Elvis' touch.

But Elvis wasn't one to give up control as he swatted your side at your movements, tsk-ing at you disapprovingly.

"Uh-uh Little, you just sit tight and keep them eyes on the screen and behave." Elvis reprimanded, as he stretched you further, putting in another finger, pumping them in and out of your pretty pussy, placing gentle kisses on your cheek and neck, overstimulating you more and more by the minute.

Your face was all flushed and pink, your hands balmy as you gripped onto Elvis' strong arm that was across your tummy with one of them and continued to hold the box of popcorn tightly with the other.

Elvis quickened his pace in you, watching with intensity as he watched a tear fall from your wet lashes. "Mmm baby, yer so sweet n' soaked, ain't ya?" Elvis teased lowly, watching you furrow your brow, trying so hard to be a good girl like you'd been told and keep in the moans you wanted to desperately to let out.

At this point, you're in total bliss, you're nothing more than a dripping mess in Elvis' arms, totally succumbed to his touch and desperate for more of it.

And this is exactly why Elvis is just so in love with you. You're his little dolly, to use exactly the way he wants, whenever he wants. It doesn't matter if the entire Memphis Mafia are 10 rows behind you, it doesn't matter if this is your favourite movie that you haven't seen for years, it doesn't matter that your panties are by your ankles in the middle of the Memphian, all that matters is that you belong to Elvis.

Truth be told, despite Elvis telling you multiple times not to make a peep, he didn't actually care if anyone heard the two of you, in fact, it turned him on to know that he had this sort of dominance and power over you that everyone would know that you're his, that you listen and follow every word that comes out of his mouth, that you love him just as much as he loves you.

You can feel that 'love' underneath you too, rock hard and huge, pressing into your ass, as he continues to pump his fingers into you and you bite your lip in a desperate bid not to cry out loud.

It didn't take long for Elvis to quicken his already fast pace on you, sending you into sensory overload, not being able to cope and hold it in any more.

"Let it out f'me." Elvis soothed sternly and it wouldn't be a lie to say your vision went all blurry and starry as your mind become clouded and you felt that familiar warmth spread through your body and your pussy leaking on Elvis' fingers and pant leg.

You couldn't help but let out a gasp as Elvis removed his fingers from you and Elvis didn't reprimand you this time, knowing that all you'd been was a good girl for him.

Elvis manouvered you ever so slightly so he could grab your damp panties that had fallen to your ankles and pocketed them before you had the chance to lazily grab them, he'd give them back to you when you both arrived back to Graceland.

Elvis watched you with that shit-eating grin on his face as you blinked hazily, looking adorably dumb-founded as you sat in his lap, cum dripping down your bare leg as you looked up at him with that gorgeous, innocent gaze that Elvis could simply die for.

"You're gon' miss the movie dolly." Elvis said softly, pointing his ring clad finger at the screen, as he rubbed soothing circles in your back, knowing you'd be begging to come back to the movie theatre in no time.

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from-memphis-with-love · 22 days

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Magic Man

Summary: Elvis breaks in a virgin. Word count: ~2,200 words of pure, unadulterated smut inspired by this post. This is purely a work of fiction, and from what I have read of how Elvis actually treated his lovers in real life, is probably a lot less tender and loving than the actual Elvis would have been. But it's make believe and fun, so enjoy it! Warnings: 20 year age gap, dubious consent at some points, full intercourse, course language. Somewhat callous treatment of Elvis' taste for younger women.

His bedroom is a gilded cage, dripping with excess and the stench of hedonism. Elvis's entourage has left them alone, finally, after weeks of teasing glances and knowing winks. Tonight, it’s just him and his prey—sweet little Molly van Patton. All night, she’s tried to resist, but his primal aura is too strong to deny. He’s charming. Dangerous. A seasoned, world-famous rock star. And she's just a 19-year-old innocent, trembling on the edge of womanhood. Just like he likes ‘em.

Their meeting felt like some sort of strange, cosmic joke. She wasn’t a fan, hadn’t even intended to go see his show. But her best friend convinced her, one thing led to another, and now here she is, somehow lying in his colossal bed like a tiny helpless creature, her presence filling him with a burning desire to crush and destroy.

Now, he traces his lips down her neck, pausing to nuzzle at the hollow of her collarbone. Sweetly at first, then more insistently as she drags long, jagged breaths. Molly can’t help but gasp under the full weight of him, her body opening up in ways she’s never experienced before. It’s heady and intoxicating and dangerous and delicious and—

Oh. Oh.

Each touch sets off an electric current, making her arch closer. She runs her fingers through the thick hair on his chest, feeling the cool metal of his gold lion's head medallion pressed against her own breasts. But as he reaches for her waistband, she hesitates.

“Stop,” Molly trembles. Heat flushes her cheeks. "I’m not… I don’t…"

Elvis nuzzles her neck. His hand is dangerously close to unzipping her skirt. He’s in a taking mood tonight.

“Please,” she pleads. “Won’t they know what we’re doing in here?”

Elvis chuckles, a low, deep rumbling sound that vibrates through her very bones. “Baby, they don’t care. They’re probably already placing bets on how long you’ll last.”

Molly's heart plummets into her stomach. Of course they knew. All those knowing glances and hushed whispers, they’d known all along. Her face flushes and it's all she can do to grab her things and run.

But Elvis doesn't give her time to process this newfound knowledge. His insistent lips find her earlobe, nibbling it lightly as he whispers lewd suggestions she can't comprehend but her body understands. Against her better judgment, heat pools between her legs, and she bites back a moan of desire.

"Just one more," Elvis purrs, his voice thick with want, sending shivers down Molly's spine. "One more’n I'll stop.”

But one more turns into two, and then three, and before she knows it, she’s powerless under him. She feebly attempts to push him away, but his strong arms grasp her tighter. His grip is firm but not quite enough to leave bruises. Not yet at least. But she knows it’s coming. Braces for it. His lips find her neck again.

The heat between her thighs grows unbearable, and she clenches them together, as if that could stop the freight train that is Elvis Presley. As if it could cool the fire raging through her veins. She’s never felt so alive, so free, so needed and… so scared, as she does tonight in his arms. But as he inches lower, kiss by agonizing kiss awakening something primal inside her, Molly panics.

This is really happening.

She’s about to give herself to a man she barely knows, a man nearly twenty years her senior. One who could crush her like a fly if he wanted to. Her heart kicks into overdrive, adrenaline coursing as she manages to shove him off.

“No!” she cries out, the word catching in her throat. Molly’s outburst gives Elvis pause. Hurt and confusion flash across his face as he pulls back, propping himself up on one elbow.

“What is it?” his voice is gruff but not unkind.

Molly turns her face away, cheeks flaming. How can she tell him? That despite her adventurous friend and all the talk, she's never actually… that he would be her first.

Elvis regards her steadily. Impossibly long black lashes curtain the genuine concern in his eyes. Molly's pulse throbs in her ears.

"Please don't make me say it," she whispers finally. Molly squeezes her eyes shut, willing the tears not to fall. But a single drop escapes, trailing down her cheek.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "It's just… I've never…"

Understanding dawns on Elvis' face. He brushes the tear from her face with surprising tenderness.

"Never been with a man before?" he asks gently.

Molly shakes her head, a furious blush creeping up her neck. She expects anger, derision, rejection. For him to throw her out and call for the next girl.

But instead, Elvis tips her chin up to look at him. "Oh honey," he murmurs. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Molly's breath catches in her throat as Elvis regards her with unexpected tenderness. His hands, which moments before seemed so insistent, now caress her face and arms with featherlight touches.

"I was afraid you wouldn't want me anymore," she confesses, her voice barely above a whisper.

Elvis shakes his head, a sad smile on his lips. "Oh darlin', that don't matter one bit to me. I want you, Molly girl. I want to make you feel real good."

He drags his thumb over her bottom lip and Molly shivers. She knows she should leave, should find Doreen and book it out of there before she does something reckless. But the way Elvis is looking at her, like she's the only woman in the world… it makes her feel powerful. Desired. Dangerous.

She... likes it?

"Just relax and lemme take care of you," Elvis murmurs, his breath hot against her ear. With that, the last of her resolve melts.

His hands, knowing and sure, explore her curves, leaving trails of fire in their wake. She moans, melting into him, her body betraying her. She's scared, yes, but she's also aching for more. He senses her hesitation, easing her back even further, parting her thighs with a tenderness belied by the impressive size of his hands. His eyes are hungry, admiring the perfect, trembling creature before him.

"You're so beautiful," he breathes, running a calloused finger along her jawline. His words were like sweet poison, both thrilling and terrifying. "Shh, baby," he coos, "I gotcha."

He kisses her, his lips firm yet gentle, as if he can taste her innocence. Her first kiss, her first everything, all with him. She was born for him.

His lips trail down her breasts, leaving a path of fire in their wake. Molly arches into the sensation, the soft scratch of his stubble against her skin. His hand slides down to her stomach, fingertips tracing the sensitive flesh just below her belly button.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asks hoarsely. She shakes her head, unable to form words. "Say it, Molly girl." He presses a kiss to her hip bone, nipping lightly at it.

"No," she gasps. "Don't stop."

He smiles against her skin. "Good girl," he purrs before lowering his mouth to where she's aching for him most.

His tongue flicks forward, teasing her entrance and Molly cries out, her fingers curling into the silk sheets. She looks down at him—somewhere down there—through one open eye.

"Is that what... are you supposed to be—"

Before she can finish her sentence, his hands grip her thighs. Fear and desire battle within her, but desire wins out as curious pecks and licks turn into long, languid strokes. Bracing himself, Elvis feasts on her, like she's the most delicious thing he's ever tasted. She finally opens her eyes and there he is in all his glory: lapping at her, coaxing the desire out of her body and onto his waiting tongue. Wave after wave of pleasure courses through her. "Oh God," she whuffs out, her head thrown back in ecstasy.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice wonders what everyone else must be thinking. But then Elvis's tongue buries itself deep within again, soft and wet, and all thoughts vanish into thin air. His hands grip the soft flesh of her hips, guiding her closer to him as he laps at her vulnerable center. She's never felt anything like this before, the pleasure so unbearable it hurts.

"That's it, baby," he growls into her glistening pussy, "ride it out."

And she does. His tongue flicks and swirls, plunging inside her, mimicking what she imagines is his impressive length.

By now, the whole house must hear her moans, but she doesn’t care. She’s coming undone whether she wants to or not, and she’s never felt more alive.

“Oh, Elvis,” she moans, her voice high and desperate, “Oh, I—”

Molly van Patton shudders and bucks against him, her first ever orgasm coursing through her body like wildfire. He doesn't stop though, not until she's sobbing and spent, her juices coating his face. He looks up at her through hooded lids, a satisfied smirk on his full lips.

“I ain’t done with you yet.”

He moves up her body, his manhood hard and throbbing against her thigh. Her entrance flutters in anticipation, and Elvis smiles at the sight. He positions himself there, large and intimidating.

“Relax, li’l girl,” he whispers in her ear. “I’ll be real gentle.” Molly looks up at him, eyes wide, pleading.

“You sure you want this?”

She nods dutifully.

“Say it f’me, now.”

“I want you inside me.”

That’s all he needs. Before she can take it back, he slides in an inch, and then another. He’s so big, stretching her so wide she’s certain she’ll split in half. Certain he'll pierce her and she'll never be the same again. Tears leak from her eyes, mixing with the mascara from earlier.

“Shh,” he soothes, “I got you.” His accent is thicker than usual, sweet like molasses. Slowly, bit by excruciating bit, Elvis works himself inside her tight heat. Molly bites her lip to stifle a moan, but it escapes anyway.

At that, Elvis groans, and then he’s entering her more and more until he bottoms out. He's still for a moment, ensuring she can truly take in all of his length. “Tell me how it feels,” he grunts, as he slowly picks up speed.

“It hurts,” she pants out. But it’s a delectable sort of hurt. He’s filling her up in ways she never thought possible. Each thrust has her teeth bitting his shoulder tighter.

“I know, baby,” he coos into her ear, “but it gets better, I promise.”

And somehow, it does. The pain eases and is replaced with a delicious ache that has her hips rocking towards his.. Heat pools in her belly as he claims her with every thrust, like she was made for him and only him.

“You’re so tight,” he moans. “Made for me.”

It’s a mantra, a vow, as a he pistons in and out, breaking her in with every stroke. Her climax from before was nothing compared to this. She’s soon whimpering, clawing at his back, an evil sob stuck in her throat.

"That's it, baby," he pants, "give it all to me."

Elvis pulls out swiftly, leaving Molly empty and aching. In one smooth motion, he flips her over onto her stomach.

"On your knees," he commands.

Molly whimpers but obeys, presenting herself to him on all fours. Elvis groans at the sight, gripping her hips tightly.

He enters her from behind in one powerful thrust. Molly cries out, the new angle allowing him to penetrate her even deeper. Elvis sets a ruthless pace, pounding into her relentlessly.

The sound of slapping flesh fills the air as he claims her, his fingers digging into her hips hard enough to leave bruises. He hits a spot deep inside that has Molly seeing stars. She pushes her hips back to meet his brutal thrusts, unable to get enough.

"That's right, take it," Elvis growls. His breathing is labored in her ear, hot and ragged. Sweat beads on his brow, dripping onto her shoulder blades, but he doesn’t relent. “You’re taking me so good. You love it, don’t you?”

She does. Oh, God, does she ever. Fuck it. If this was wrong, she didn’t want to be right.

He keeps pounding into her, and it's dizzying and intoxicating all at once. The room spins as she clings to the headboard for dear life, his name a curse on her lips, a talisman against the building pleasure-pain coiling in her core. His pace quickens, hot breath on her neck, and his thick chest hair tickling her back.

“El… vis…” she mewls. “Right there!”

He obliges, his expert hands massaging her swollen clit as he pounds into her from behind.

“Yeah, just like that,” he rasps as Molly bucks against him, working the length of his cock with her slick and pushing her hips back to meet his brutal thrusts, unable to get enough. It shocks him how quickly she took to his cock. Elvis’ fingers dig almost painfully into her hips, urging her on. “That’s right, take what you need.”

"Elvis, I..."

The pressure builds, coiling in her belly like a spring. “That’s my girl, let it go,” he growls in her ear, and that’s all it takes.

Her body explodes into a million stars, tightening around him as she screams her release. Just like that, it hits her all at once—from heaven and hell itself, crashing over her like a tidal wave and even more powerful than the first. Colors dance behind her eyelids.

Elvis’ nails dig into her back, and she can feel the delicious sting as they break the skin. “Unnngh,” he grunts, “I’m fuckin’ close.” The filthy words spur her on, and she clenches around him, the fluttering of her walls easing up, and suddenly she’s slowly floating back to earth and back to life and back to his gigantic bed in his gigantic mansion in Memphis, Tennessee. She can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but feel.

He growls and buries himself even deeper, his thrusts erratic and desperate now. Harder and harder until he, too, splinters apart, shattering inside her like stained glass. He grunts, his release warm and sticky deep inside her.

Later, Elvis cocoons Molly in his strong arms and starts to rock her gently. As she drifts off to sleep, she knows there's no going back.

She's his now, body and soul. That’s the price she paid for giving in to her darkest desire.

#elvis presley #elvis #elvis fanfic #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis fanfiction #elvis fans #elvis presley fanfic #elvis presley fic #elvis x oc #elvis fic #elvis smut #elvis presley smut #big daddy elvis

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rosepresley68 · 1 month

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X; Are you going to the doctor again?

Me; if I feel very bad

X; Are you sure that guy is helping you? Maybe you should see someone else.

Me: It's not necessary, he makes me feel good... I-I mean he helps me a lot!

THE DOCTOR;

#elvis presley x reader #big daddy elvis #elvis presley #elvisaaronpresley #elvis the king #army elvis #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis photos #elvis imagine #elvis history #elvis fans #elvis the pelvis #elvis music #elvis aaron presley #elvis movie #change of habit #Doctor #John carpenter change of habit #Elvis Presley John carpenter

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jaqueline19997 · 2 months

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I love this man so much!!!! I feel like every day I love him just a little more!!!!❤️💓💞

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mahg-stuff · 2 months

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Hi. Can I request a big daddy elvis (late 70s) in which he and female reader are having an argument and he says something really mean so she heads into the bedroom and cries. He goes into the bedroom to apologize and then make out. Smut, detailed if you can and also some aftercare. Thanks

Tysm for the request! Enjoy it lovee! ♡

Kiss'n make it better

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Word count: 6.4k (quick) Summary: Bde grows stuffy as he witnesses you playing a card game with the guys, but not only that, you are in your delicate bed attire while you do it. Pairing: (1976)bd!elvis x afab!reader Warnings: 18+!, smut, p in v, elvis finally fully takes the reader, cherry cream pie (if you know what I mean...), kissing whilst bodily fluids are present on the mouth, tasting of bodily fluids, playing around with spit?oral fixation?, mention of elvis’ medications/pill use & dr. nick (im sorry), elvis’ standards for his women, toxicity, once again elvis being volatile, use of the word daddy, & of course fluff + baby talk!!

───

AN: Hello there! I was off and on while writing this since I was eager to let it out soon bc I felt I’d left the anon hanging for too long so, certain areas may seem rushed/lack context but I did my best with the details! I hope it’s not a bother, but overall I enjoyed writing this little piece. Anywho, my dear anon I hope you are pleased with this! And to the rest of you loves, enjoy! ♡ (keep the requests coming!!😚)

- pls excuse any errors, your girl got tired half way through cleaning it up 🥹💋

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Elvis was, as of now, getting his day-by-day measurements of meds from Dr. Nick within the master bathroom in his room. In the meantime, you held up in his bed, twiddling your thumbs as you waited, you both had just woken up. He would always make sure to do it in a different room, given that you had eventually told him that you didn't enjoy seeing everything they put in him. When you witnessed firsthand how much his body had to ingest, you expressed your concern, but he waved you off, saying everything was always under control.

At some point, you stopped showing concern upfront to him because it had resulted in the first argument between the two of you, however, you'd unconsciously always be pinching away at your arm's flesh as you worried about him. You were still relatively new to his lifestyle, but you were gradually adapting.

Things were taking quite a while, so you began wandering around his room. You'd only been together for a few months now, so you were still trying to settle in. Elvis asked you to move in right away, and you soon found out he didn't like being left alone. As you moved around the room, you were still in your night slip. It was a look that he found especially appealing. You tip-toed barefoot to the door, peeking outside, and then back over to the closed bathroom door in the bedroom.

You heard them mumbling inside and decided, Why not go downstairs?

Making your entrance to the living room and taking in more glances of the house you hadn't paid much attention to before, your eyes shot up towards the voices in the kitchen. As you peered into the kitchen, you saw two of his guys sitting there chatting with some cards in their hands. They took notice of your presence and glanced over at you, their eyes lingering on your attire. Going quite unnoticed by you.

One clears his throat.

"Hey there, y/n, ya need anythin'?"

You shrug, not really knowing what you need or want, but feeling a bit restless.

"No, just bored waiting on El," you reply absentmindedly.

One of the guys chuckles and nudges the other, whispering something to him. You catch a snippet of their conversation and wonder if they're talking about you.

"What's so funny?" you ask, tilting your head in confusion.

The guys exchange glances before one of them speaks up, struggling to find the right words.

"Oh, nothin', just...you know...we were just talkin' 'bout how...um...how fashionable you look today."

You give them a skeptical look, not fully convinced by their compliment.

"Really? They're just my pajamas, the first thing I found in the closet last night," you admit with a sheepish shrug as you look down at your delicate garments.

They both burst into laughter, causing you to giggle along. The guys exchange knowing glances, struggling to contain their amusement at your naivety. Being new in Elvis' life and feeling a bit clueless around the guys sometimes—I mean, you'd never been surrounded by so many men before, so it was uncommon for you to catch their brash ways.

One of the guys begins talking, "Since you're bored, why don't ya join us? We're playin’ a card game."

You happily agree and take a seat at the table. They explain the rules to you as one of them shuffles the deck of cards. The game soon progresses, and the guys bring out their competitive sides, teasing each other and making playful taunts. Even though they might’ve been acting a little abruptly, it was clear that they were enjoying themselves. Amidst the banter, one of the guys turns to you with a mischievous grin.

"Hey, watch out, I wouldn't want ya to get too confused with all these cards. It might be a bit too much for a girl to handle," he says snarkily.

You titter and shake your head, clearly letting the comment go over and past your head.

"I can handle."

You say it humbly.

***

Elvis, grumbling his way downstairs to look where you'd wandered off, stops at the bottom of the stairway as he hears his precious girl's laughter from the kitchen. He stalks quietly towards the doorframe of the kitchen, there he sees you sitting pretty with his men. He scans your body until he gets to your bare, wriggling sooties that are dangled just above the ground in the chair. Elvis clenches his fists, feeling his irritation rise at the sight of you playing with the guys.

As he watches, he can't help but notice the unkempt yet alluring exterior you possess. Your tousled hair and streaked makeup from the night before only seem to enhance your beauty, giving you a tempting appeal that could captivate those around you. He had set certain expectations for you, and seeing you in this compromising situation with the guys confirms that you were not fulfilling them. He storms in, his footsteps echoing through the room as he confronts the scene before him.

"Darlin', you know bedder than to be gallivantin' 'round in your night attire with these fellas." He narrows his eyes, his southern accent thickening as he speaks.

Your head quickly turned to that familiar gruff voice, his appearance matching the roughness in his tone. There he stood, portly and only in a silk robe, a region of dark hair trailing down his navel from the open slit and his luscious sideburns framing his face. His noir hair, slightly disheveled from a restless night, completed the picture of a man who demanded attentiveness. As you caught his gaze, you could see a mix of disappointment and fret in his eyes. You instinctively straightened up, feeling a twinge of shame creeping into your conscience for some reason as you looked down at your attire and then back at him.

"Well, I thought it'd be okay. I mean, I do live here now. Shouldn't I be comfortable, El?" You voiced cunningly, not purposefully trying to provoke him but unable to resist the urge to justify yourself.

But there was an inimitable standard he held you to, one that required impeccability and grace.

"Goddammit!" He started.

"No man's woman should be 'round men in such whorey showin' garments. 'Specially not mah women!"

You blinked in surprise, taken aback by his strong reaction. The atmosphere in the room suddenly grew tense, and you could feel the weight of his disapproval pressing down on you.

His pride was unexpected for you.

As you searched for words to respond, his intense gaze never wavered, making you feel insecure and exposed.

"W-Well, the guys think otherwise!" You spoke aloud as your throat tightened. Well, at least you thought they didn't find your attire whorey—a word Elvis had introduced to you when he saw an outfit you picked out while shopping with him.

Elvis glared over at them, and they both quickly stood up from their positions, some cards falling off the table as they did so.

"That right?"

"N-No Ep, 'course not." They stood there longer than they should have.

"The hell y'all still doin' standin' here, for?! Go on an' do sumn then." Elvis spoke sternly as he pointed, his robe falling more open with his motion.

The guys hastily scampered away, not wanting to further incur Elvis' anger. You look at Elvis, noticing his neglected appearance and glazed eyes. Nervous, you place your cards down, your eyebrows puckering in disarray.

"What was that, Elvis?" you ask softly, but your voice is filled with slight perplexity.

"They didn't do anything." You squeaked.

"Didn't do anyhtin'." He scoffed under his breath. He shook his head and met your gaze again.

"Matter uh fact, the hell were you thinkin' wonderin' off?" His words were a bit slurred.

"Know all yur attention should be on me, 'n only me." Elvis' words hung in the air, heavy with a mix of fury and vulnerability.

You could sense an ache behind his harsh tone, and it struck a chord within you.

"Elvis." You delicately said his name, the concern evident in your voice.

But before you could continue, he raised his voice again, his drooping eyes glaring.

"Kept mah eyes off ya for just uh moment, den I find you playin' bimbo wit' 'em fellas."

Your heart sank as Elvis' words echoed in the room.

This wasn't your Elvis.

Your bottom lip quivered as you stood up from your seat, covering your face with one hand as you moved to leave the room.

"The hell are ya goin'." He says this as he tries to stop you, but you pull away forcefully and hastily walk upstairs.

Elvis hears your faint sniffle from the hallway, followed by the sound of a door slamming shut. He paced around, mumbling words to himself as he held his forehead, trying to make sense of what just happened.

It was clear that his head wasn't in the right place.

***

As Elvis continued to pace, he barely grasps the impact of his words and considers the hurt he may have caused.

"Baby," he muffles to himself as he looks around.

He rubs his eyes and begins to walk towards the staircase.

"Baby." He muffled again, as if he were whispering a plea into the empty space.

He reaches the top step and hesitates, unsure of whether to knock on the closed bedroom door or barge right in.

"B-Baby, a-a-ah wannas come in," he says gently in his gruff voice.

"W-Wanna come in." Elvis stands in front of the door, his voice quivering with desperation.

His babyish tone reveals the depth of his regret. Your ears perk up on the other side of the door, straining to catch every word. You can sense the turmoil in his voice, the vulnerability, and the longing.

It's a side of him you were weak for, and it tugs at your heartstrings.

Slowly, you rise from the bed, your footsteps barely audible as you make your way to the door. With a shaken hand, you turn the knob and open the door, revealing Elvis standing there, his eyes filled with a mix of hope and fear. He takes in your appearance—your tear stained cheeks, red, fuzzy nose, and the slight puffiness of your eyes. His face softens with concern, and without a word, he pulls you into a tight embrace. Your face buried into his exposed, hairy, warm torso through the opening of his robe.

Feverishly, he brings his large palms up to either side of your face and pulls your face upwards. Taking in your babyfaced features. Your damp lashes flutter as you meet his gaze.

"A-Ah made my little 'un cry." he mumbles as he grazes the pad of his thumb under your eye.

"Y-Ya know ah ain't meant what I said back dere," he continues, his voice filled with veracity.

"M-My temper… mah words came out wrong. A-Ah, wudnit wha I meant—", he trails off just before he wavers off, trying to focus his eyesight all of a sudden.

As his eyelids droop, a gentle sigh escapes his lips. You can see the drowsiness etched across his weathered face, the lines deepening in the dim light of the room.

It always tortured you when you saw him like this.

You noticed it was one of the many effects the pills had on him, before starting him up, they'd slow him down first.

Even with his abrupt weariness, you recognize that sincerity in his voice and the sorryness in his slumped eyes. You reached out and took his wrist, wrapping your fingers around it, offering a silent reassurance that you understood what he was trying to get out.

You cared deeply for him, so forgiving him always came in a hurry for you.

***

As you both stood there, the grogginess began to fade, and his eyes soon became more and more focused. He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling with each inhale and exhale. He gave your cheek a gentle squeeze. His gaze lingered on your face as he continued to graze his thumb gently on your cheek.

"Let me m-make it up t-ta mah sweet girl, hmm." He says it so softly with that drawl of his.

As you listen to his soft voice, filled with tenderness and warmth, it becomes evident that he was speaking to you with the same affection one would reserve for a baby. One of his traits you had gotten used to and valued thoroughly. Your cheeks fill with warmth. He holds you by the waist, turning you over, and fully enters the bedroom with you. Shutting the door, he then leads you to the bed, helping you sit down on the edge. Elvis sits down beside you, and you feel the bed sink from his weight.

He turns your face over to him, and he places a hand on your cheek. He begins caressing your face ever so lightly, as if you were made of spun glass.

"Kiss'n make it better." He mumbles pouty-lippedly as his thumb runs over your lips.

You stare into his hollow eyes, nodding, as he begins to push his thumb into your small mouth. Politely opening your mouth for him, the taste of his skin lingers on your tongue as his thumb explores the contours of your mouth. You both hold each other's gaze, and you lightly suckle on it, watching his eyes light up at your action. He gently brings his thumb out, a string of saliva dribbling down your lip. Elvis smudges your saliva all around your soft pout, making your lips appear glossy, then brings his thumb up to his lips to suck off your slobber. As you both continue your intimate encounter, the air around you seems to grow heavier. His fingers then work their way down your torso, tracing your dainty body. With a famished mutter, he slides his hand beneath your slip, teasingly grazing over your soft, small chest, giving one of your nipples a tug. You can't help but whimper at his action.

And want grows between you, feeling a surge of heat run from your face down to your toes.

"C'mere, let ol’ daddy kiss ya," he leans in, capturing your lips in a fervent, persistent kiss.

The taste of him fills your palate as he slips his tongue inside your pretty mouth. You find yourself feeling fuzzy in the rush of the moment, willingly giving into his actions. His large hands begin gripping your small waist, pulling you closer as he deepens the kiss. His supple kisses had always been tender and gentle, but this one was different. It left you almost breathless. His touch was heavy, and you found yourself slipping in the heat of the moment. Your slip rises upwards at his action, revealing the pair of tiny matching ruffled shorts.

He breaks the kiss for a moment, his pillowy lips glistening. His eyes lock onto yours—a look of want. Elvis' hefty hand goes down to your upper thigh, and he grazes the fabric of your shorts.

"Take 'em off, 'ittle." He rasps quietly, the bass of his voice sending shivers down your spine.

Your breath hitches with a half-laugh. "Kay." You gently get off the bed and look over at him as he keenly stares at you with his still-glazed-over eyes.

A look you may never get used to.

You began pulling down at the hem of your waistband until the fabric hit the ground, being completely bare underneath.

While the length of your slip fell just enough to cover your most delicate parts, he whispered, "Lemme see her."

His voice is playful as he motions for you to come closer.

You take a step toward him. He reaches out and gently tugs at your hip, his thumb rubbing your hipbone, sending a muzzy feeling to your belly. With his other hand, he reaches over to the hem of the fabric, pulling it up—he throbs between his legs.

From his view, he could see all of you. Your narrow hips and thighs and the smallest patch of curls that covered your pussy. The little crease in the middle—so sweet, you were puffy, and sticky just from his kisses. You looked over at his garb—his robe now fully undone from all his movement, also nothing underneath. You took in as the section of his body hair went from his pudgy chest to his soft belly, which hung just barely over his waistline, and then turned into thick curls at his mound. His corpulent and hard, leaky cock presently standing tall just for you against his paunch. You gazed at the ridge of his pretty, purplish, rosy tip weep as it peeked from his foreskin.

Suddenly, you jolted as you felt his thumb at your swollen clit, a splotchy pink filling your cheeks. His touch was gentle yet firm, his fingers perfectly caressing your sensitive nub. You couldn't help but whimper, the lovely sound escaping your pursed lips as your hips instinctively bucked against his digit.

"Ain't nothin' more purdy than seein' you all pink 'n warmed up. Could spend all day thumbin' away at that ‘dorable clit uh yours." He babbled as he applied more pressure and quickened the pace of his movements.

Making you even more rosy.

You could feel the heat building between your legs, the ache for release becoming almost unbearable. Every swipe of his thumb seemed to bring you closer to the edge, pushing you towards the brink of ecstasy. Your back began to arch as you leaned into his touch, but just as you were almost there, he pulled his thumb away. You let out a frustrated whimper, desperately wanting him to continue, then you went to cup yourself until he swiftly stopped you.

"Dun cha get greedy on me now," he whispered, his voice coated with directness and a hint of humor.

You couldn't help but pout, your need for satisfaction overwhelmed your senses. You ached. He had never stopped on the brink of your release like this before. His hand left your trembling body, resulting in you feeling empty and yearning for more. You watched as he brought his thumb to his lips, tasting the remnants of your sweet desire, a sly smile playing on his lips. The rosiness in your cheeks seems to grow darker with his action.

"Ah can't have ya fallin' apart jus yet," he murmured, his voice low.

You looked at him doe-eyed as you clamped your legs, standing there.

"Little 'un." Elvis whispered as he reached out for a hand.

"Idenit time for ya to blossom," he continued as he pulled you closer, his warm breath hitting your cheek. "'ittle flower of yours needs ta bloom." Elvis gave you a nod as he spoke and guided you.

"Bloom," you repeated as you held his strong gaze, and he began helping you lay on the bed.

"Mhm, correct baby." He cooed as he helped you lie down.

When you finally understood what he had said, your heart seemed to race. Staring up at the mirror above you on the ceiling, you took in as you laid delicately on his silk bedding. You began recalling the past nights and days of glancing up at yourself while Elvis rutted against your tummy when he cuddled you until he came, or when he'd only do little more than barely let the tip of his cock pierce your tiny hole—but never more than that.

Now, he indicated that he wanted to take things further. You were both a little afraid and excited by it. Even so, you were genuinely more willing than ever. It made you rub your legs together thinking about it. You would constantly pester him for more, but he would tell you that it wasn't the right moment and that he knew when it would be. Thinking of his words from earlier, you thought maybe this would be his way of making it better after he'd lashed out. Maybe, he wanted to make it up to you by fully fulfilling your needs. You beamed at the thought.

Lost in your little mind, you were interrupted as you felt the bed sink next to you.

There he lay, still in his loose, silky garb, fully open, his hairy manliness laying solid against his belly while his balls were perfectly nestled below his shaft. You looked over at him as he began lying on his side to face you. His jawline was soft and his cheeks full, adding to the suppleness of his overall appearance. His overgrown sideburns adding to his rugged allure. The word ‘mesmerizing’ repeating in your head.

"Rest on yur side f'me, baby." You began turning over for him, but before you could, he stopped you—he saw the mild unease in your eyes.

His hand cradled the side of your cheek as your eyes stared into his. However, he couldn't help but smile, thinking your muddled face looked adorable.

"Hers dudden needs to be afraid." He whispered softly and patted your head now.

With each light pat on your head, his warmth enveloped you, making you feel comforted in his presence. You smiled back at him softly, it sort of surprised you when he caught it.

"H-Her knows." You whispered back in the same way he spoke to you.

It was really rubbing off on you, for sure.

He leaned in, placed a gentle kiss on your cheek, and then motioned for you to rest on your side. Such a baby, you thought as you gave his chubby face one last glance. As you shifted onto your side, he scooted in closer, so he was spooning you, his round stomach pressing into you. You felt the hardness of his length up against your lower back, feeling the warmth radiating off as it throbbed against the thin fabric of your slip. You couldn't deny the growing ache between your legs, yearning for his touch and for him to take control.

Elvis began lifting the hem of your garment, exposing your bare, pretty, round backside to him. His hand rested on the curve of your hip, his touch both firm and gentle. A shiver ran down your spine as his palm traced delicate patterns on your skin, sending those funny feelings through your body. You felt him move your leg a bit, so your pussy lips were peeking out between your thighs from his view. You felt him pulsing along your rear now, slick already forming at your petals. You couldn't help but arch your back, offering yourself to him completely. You heard him snicker behind you, bringing a blush to your cheeks. Elvis grabbed his thick shaft in one hand and brought it between your thighs, your slick and his precum mixing into one as he rubbed the ridge of his cock along your lips.

Eagerly, you try to slide down, so his tip pushes up towards your entrance.

"Careful, too big for yuh to take so fast," he warns as you bare down on his leaky tip.

You move back unconsciously, and the head of cock grazes at your swollen clit causing you to shudder.

Trying again, you huff, "Won't fit."

Elvis is quite amused by this, and he tittered as he leaned into your neck for a quick peck.

You feel his warm breath against your skin as he whispers, "Baby, needa take time t'stretch ya out properly."

He trails his fingers along your inner thighs, teasingly rubbing circles on your sensitive heat. Your body reacts, flushing with chills and impatience. You can feel yourself clenching at nothing. Elvis raises the leg you weren’t resting on with his other arm, and you blush at how vulnerable you seem in the pose. He moves the hand he was massaging you with toward your mouth. You understood what he meant, of course. Carefully, you used your hand to hold the back of his large one as you carefully spit into it. You watch as Elvis gruffly giggles at your compliance as you gaze up at the mirror, his eyes peeking over you as he watches his hand lower back down.

Bringing his hand back down to your throbbing core, now slick with both your juices and saliva. His fingers glide along your folds, applying just the right amount of pressure to make you gasp. As his thumb brushes against your clit, a shudder runs through your body, aching for more. You arch your back, silently begging for his touch to become more demanding, more intense. His finger begins to pry at your snug cunt, slipping inside with ease from all your wetness. You feel him begin to inch a second finger inside of you, stretching you further and filling you completely. The sensation is overwhelming, his fingers deeper than you were used to. He would only nag at your hole in the past. You whimper as he starts to move his fingers in and out—a slow and deliberate rhythm. Your hips instinctively press down on his hand, seeking more friction and more of his lengthy fingers. You can't help but squeal, the sound escaping your lips as he curls his fingers inside you, hitting a sweet spot that makes your whole body shiver. You try closing your legs, but he still holds one up. He feels your leg shift and hears your cute squeal. Elvis lets go, letting your leg rest down, with a snicker as he looks over at you with a mischievous grin. Soothing his palm up and down against your thigh, he leaned to kiss your upper arm.

"Ya kay, 'ittle?" he whispered in his southern drawl.

You nod, unable to form words, as the sensations overwhelm you.

Slowly, he removes his fingers from inside you, leaving you aching for more. But before you have a chance to say anything, Elvis is already positioning himself between your legs from behind. He catches a glimpse of your sweet little gaping hole that was dripping with want. He begins rubbing the ridge of his cock along your pussy, you feel his chest vibrate behind you from a low groan. His tip begins to ease in as he coos in your ear slowly. Without delay, he plunges inside you halfway, his lip curling at your tightness. You wail as he bucks his hips further, and you try to get away due to the harsh feeling of the big stretch. He carefully moves the arm he was resting on to go under your waist to hold you from your firm stomach as he hitches up the rest of your babydoll. Pulling you towards him, his gut pressing into you more.

Taking a glance at your clenched fists and shut eyes, he grumbles, "S'okay baby, breathe."

You gulp down and gasp, "'S't-too much."

"Needa bit more little 'un." He croons and brings his empty hand to swipe at your clit from the front in order to break you in with more ease.

With a final buck of his hips, he fills your sweet cunt completely, taking him all in. You cry out at the forceful pinch, your hand gripping at his hand that held you from your tummy. Elvis grunts loudly when you clench at his cock.

"M-Mah god, baby, let loose f'me. You'll break me off wit' all tha squeezin'." He blurts out, his voice strained with pleasure and urgency.

Your body trembles against his, and he continues to swipe at your tender nub, wanting to bring any type of pleasure to you right now. Elvis glanced up at your face, a tear dribbling down from the corner of yours. He leaned in, kissing it away. Gently opening your glossy eyes, you look up towards the mirror, taking in the way you were both at last bound. His robe was still hanging loosely on his body, and his hair was tousled as he pressed his face into your nape. As you gripped him with your hand, you felt him grab hold of it and start pulling it down to your heat. Placing it between your thighs, where you and him connected, you traced his weighty balls over with your small hand. Indicating he was practically balls deep inside your dear little hole.

"Yuh feel him inside ya." He whispered airily into your nape, the bass of his voice rumbling against your back.

You blushed at his words, feeling a mixture of shyness and alertness. You nodded, unable to find the words to respond, as you focused on the sensation of him filling you completely. His hand remained on yours, guiding your movements as you continued to explore the intimate connection between your bodies. Your digits now covered by both yours and his fluids. Elvis let his hand loose and moved it over to your waist, both of his arms now holding you in a spoon position. As the initial sting began to fade and pleasure took its place, you began moving, slowly your movements against him became more confident. Each motion became braver as desire continued to build between you both. Your whimpers got louder, and you felt the hairs on your nape stand as you heard a little huff come from Elvis behind you. His grip on your waist tightens slightly, his breath warm against your skin as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. Pulling himself out slightly and then bucking into you again, causing you to let out a high-pitched moan as you experienced the overwhelming sensation for the first time. A dance of pain and pleasure intertwined within you. You were sure a trickle of blood had stained the satin sheets beneath you both as you felt the warm wetness building between you two. You were too busy taking in the feeling of his hardness inside you, he noticed as he peeked up at the mirror and saw you lying there with your small mouth gaping and your hand buried between your thighs where he had left it.

"Touch yuh'self sweetheart." He grunted into your ear as he strained himself from moving his hips too harshly, his grip on your waist still firmly in his arms.

You complied, your fingers danced over your sensitive folds, slick with arousal, and maybe more, until they found your swollen clit. As you began to rub circles around it, your moans grew louder and more dire, echoing through the room. The mirror gave you a clear view of your own flushed face, your eyes filled with desire and vulnerability. The way he watched you, his dark eyes smoldering with lust, only fueled the fire burning within you. Every movement caused the robe to sway gently, revealing hints of his luscious curves beneath. As your fingers continued their rhythmic dance upon your clit, you couldn't help but imagine his hands—those strong and skilled hands—taking over. The thought of his touch, his fingers tracing the same patterns you were now creating, made your toes wriggle. Your breath hitched as you quivered as the warm, fuzzy feeling in your lower abdomen became more and more unbearable. His thrusts became more vigorous, matching the intensity building within you. The room was filled with the symphony of your moans mingling with his low grunts. As he maintained his relentless pace, you surrendered yourself completely to what your body was feeling. The tension in your body coiled tighter and tighter until, finally, with one strong thrust, you unraveled into a state of euphoria on his cock. Your body trembled with sheer bliss as he continued to move inside you, he watched as your pretty face contorted and your blush deepened.

"O-Oh god." You whined loudly, tightening around him, and the throbbing of his girthy cock became even more pronounced.

His grip on your hips tightened as he thrust into you with renewed vigor, looking for his own release. Each movement sent shockwaves of pleasure through your body, making you moan prettily but uncontrollably. He glared over at you, bringing one hand up to grasp your jaw, his thumb once again finding its way into your mouth.

"N-Not so loud baby. Ain't want no 'un else hearin' ya gone like this, only me." He spoke between each heavy breath, sounding imposing.

You nodded, unable to say any words.

His thumb pressed against your tongue, silencing your moans as he continued to pound into you relentlessly. The room was filled with the sound of skin pushing against skin, blending with your muffled cries of pleasure. You felt your ears grow hotter as his grunts turned into gruff whines, it made you wonder how such a man could make such pretty sounds. He pressed into you harder, the suppleness of his hair-filled belly now squished into your lower back. Elvis' grip on you toughens under you, his fingers digging into the skin of your tummy as he pulls you closer, seeking an even deeper connection. His other hand now filled with your drool. Watching as his lip was now curled, you couldn't tear your gaze away from his beautiful expression slipping into that o-face of his through the mirror. With one final thrust, he let out a garish whine, emptying himself inside of your now-tamed pussy, filling you completely with his essence. You couldn't help but muffle a sob and bite down on his thumb as you felt his scorching seed paint your walls.

He was still so far buried inside you as he let out heavy sighs. Elvis slowly began to withdraw his upper body from you, looking down at the slight space between his belly and your back, shifting his hips slowly to pull out, the base of his cock streaked with your pure blood. He paused as he felt your tongue pushing at his thumb and looked over, your eyes were watery.

He withdrew his large hand, you turned your head over to him, the position putting a little discomfort on your neck as he was still spooning you. You were in awe of his blushed face and matted, lush hair sticking to his forehead from all his sweat. Bringing the hand you still held between your thighs over to hold the side of his face, your eyes widened as you focused on the redness of your blood on your digits, which had now smudged a bit on his cheek. Elvis took in your expression and glanced over at your small hand against his cheek, he snickered. Grabbing ahold of it, he brought it over to his mouth, giving it a soft kiss and even a subtle lick. Your purity now smudged along his soft lips.

"A fine 'ittle flower 'as bloomed," he mumbled as he leaned his face into you.

Your heart raced as his lips pushed against yours gently. The taste of his kiss, a mixture of your blood and his own essence, sent warmth down your spine. He steadily pulled away, enjoying the fact that your lips were stained right along with his.

It left you brain-scattered and your hind eyes in a fuzzy state.

You were brought back when you felt him pulling his practically flaccid cock out of you. You winced as a dull ache shot through your body. Quickly sensing soreness, but a satisfied, weak smile tugged at the corners of your lips, knowing he'd finally gone completely with you. You stiffened as the warmth of his spew slowly oozed out of your snug, bruised hole.

Elvis' view was a delight, he thought, watching as the scarlet milky mess glazed your puffed-up pussy lips, running down your inner thigh. Slumbering on your back now, your babydoll still pushed up but remained covering your small chest.

But before you could turn to fully face him, you panicked as he stood up from the bed abruptly.

"E-Elvis," you sputtered out, even reaching your hand out for him.

He ignored your plea as he hurriedly walked towards the bathroom. His footsteps echoed in the silence, and you suddenly felt anxious. Moments later, he emerged with a damp towel in his hand. As he approached you, he saw the look on your face as you laid on your back.

"Hey, what's wit' da worried eyes baby," he asked gently while gently leaning over at you.

You still felt the pang of fret in your chest as Elvis leaned over you, his concern evident in his eyes.

"I-I just got scared. Thought you w-were leaving," you admitted, your voice shaky.

Elvis' expression softened, and he reached out to brush a strand of hair off your face.

"Aww, don' worry, sweetheart. Am here now, ain't goin' anywhere," he reassured you, his voice smooth and reassuring in his drawl.

His touch was comforting, and you felt yourself relax under his calm presence.

As his hand lingered on your cheek, he spoke again. "Ah's needs ta clean my little girl now, kay."

You nodded as Elvis stood in front of you while you lay splayed on the bed. He softly lifted your legs and began to gently wipe away the sticky residue, his touch sending shivers down your spine. His sunken eyes met yours briefly, a glimmer of tenderness, before he focused back on cleaning you up. You flinched as he swiped at your tender bud, and he couldn't help but grin. Finishing up, he tossed the used rag aside. Elvis had always been thorough in his caretaking when it came to you. As he gently began tugging your delicate top down to cover you, he paused and scrunched it up, revealing your small, supple chest and your soft pink meek nipples.

Leaning down to give both of your petite mounds delicate kisses, "Almost forgot 'bout 'em sweet lil' things," he muffled as he kissed your warm skin.

You found yourself giggling as you ran a hand through his tousled-up hair. One of the things he had made you become—a giggler.

He stood back up and fixed your babydoll fully now as he smiled at you.

"All done, my little 'un," he whispered softly, his voice filled with pride and adoration.

Collapsing beside you, his hand tenderly stroked your hair, whispering, "We'll get tha rest uh us cleaned up later."

He then continued as you moved over to fully face him, his robe now imperfectly tied. "Needa hold ya darlin’, ah know how emotional you puny things can be after experiencin' this kinda thing."

You snuggled closer to him with a giggle, feeling a sense of warmth and comfort in his embrace. The tubbiness of him being all the more cozy. As you both basked in each other, you felt the palm of his hand smooth down at your lower abdomen.

"Yuh sore?" His voice held that babyish tone.

"Bits," you mumbled as your cheek rested against him, feeling the rise and fall of his chest with each breath.

His hand continued to caress your belly, his touch gentle. “Love her lots,” he suddenly blurted and leaned in to give your forehead a kiss.

You gazed up at him, leaning in to kiss the fullness between his neck and chin. “Loves daddy lots too,” you whispered as you followed up with another kiss before you snuggled into him again.

• Master List

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elvisalltheway101 · 2 months

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••••••••••it’s impossible•••••••••

summary: Reader just can’t sleep, she never can. Elvis walks in just in time to help shush you to dream land.

author’s note: HEHHEEHEHHE! I’m back hunniessss. So I wanted to get this out before all the nasty deeds come flying out of my drafts. And let me tell, they’re gonna be nasty. Anyway, this is inspired by ahem, ✨me✨ I don’t have diagnosed insomnia but I’m rlly thinking I’ve got it. Lmao I’m too broke to care, ain’t nobody got that government money 😭🤧.

author won’t shut her chapped lips: so I really hope you guys enjoy…hehe the fluff for now. It’s gon be hell’s butter on bread real soon 😭.

•••••••••• ••••••• •••••• •••••••

You huff to yourself in frustration. Tears flood into your doll eyes, only making the dark room fuzzy and cloudy. You purse your lips and frown, having absolutely no idea why you’re not getting any sleep. You were so tired earlier today, throughout the longing day, and now wide awake in bed.

You cross your arms, giving up as your chest heaves up and down in irritation. Thoughts, stupid thoughts that have nothing to do with anything just continue to swarm and bug you.

Is this even normal? You scoff to yourself finally, rolling your eyes that makes the tears streak down your cheeks. You rub your sweaty palms to your eyes, adjusting to the darkness and squinting at the dark, navy blue clock across.

You read, 1:13 am, and you groan. Throwing yourself back into the fluffy, silky sheets, and jumbo pillows arch into your back. You truly don’t know what’s wrong with you. It’s impossible to sleep like this! It’s impossible.

The sound of the bedroom metal, cool shiny door handle being twisted and opened clears your thoughts for a second. You glance back and meet the warm glowing eyes of your darling love. A soft sigh leaves your pretty lips as you look away and trail your gaze into your lap.

“Darlin’? Why ya still up? You’re usually asleep by the time I come back from work.” A warm, honey-sweet southern accent stuffs the room, a pinch of concern is present.

You shrug and frown, furrowing your brows and sighing heavily. You slump, your pretty pastel pink nightie hugs you loosely as one of the straps falls off one shoulder. “I-i dunno…I’m tired but I can’t sleep.” You admit, tilting your pretty head up to look him back in the eyes.

There’s an understanding spark of blue in those pupils that meet your eyes, he clicks his tongue and shakes his head. Walking slowly over to the bed, the soft sounds of his footsteps thudding onto the red, thick carpet are the only things that busy the room.

“Oh…gotcha, hunny? Is something on your mind?” He whispers out softly, crawling slowly onto the big fluffy and soft mattress. You don’t bother to look up though, still so absorbed and worried in what’s going on with you. Hell, you don’t even know what’s on your mind.

Everything seems to fall and not matter when a large pair of big chubby arms embrace you into a warming hug. “Baby, c’mon, ‘s okay, ya don’t gotta answer. I jus’ wanna sleep wit’ my yittle baby, mhm?” He whispers ever so gently into your locks of hair, the sweet scent of your strawberry shampoo fill his nostrils. You only nod slowly in agreement, wrapping your arms around his big frame. He’s almost like a huge soft, brown teddy bear.

His arms engulfing you into a bear hug keep you to his prodding belly that bulges into your side, and that only adds to this intimate, loving moment. Slowly falling to your sides, he pulls you closer and lets one hand slip away to swiftly grab the thick, velvety red blanket. Pulling it up your chin, only ending it up to his shoulder but he’s already warm enough in love.

You feel your eyelids already starting to droop, suffocated in his delicious spicy, strong scenting cologne, with the feels of his tickling chest hair that peeks out from his shirt. You nuzzle your face into his chest, sighing softly in delight and satisfaction.

“It’s impossible, ta tell the sun to leave the sky it’s just impossible.”

You hear the soft tone of his words, so light and an airy fluff. The scent of cherry coke and the faint scent of smokes from cigars lingers in his hot breath and warms above you, and you can feel his chest rise slightly as he takes in another breath to continue.

“It's impossible to ask a baby not to cry It's just impossible.”

He laughs out softly into your curly, puffy locks, gently shoving his face into the crook of your neck and inhaling the sweet, pretty scent of that new cherry strawberry perfume. “Can I hold you closer to me. And not feel you going through me? But the second that I never think of you Oh, how impossible”

He whispers out warmly against your skin, and your eyes close for bedtime. Your long lashes fluttering like a butterfly’s wings, as his voice continues to soothe you.

“Can the ocean keep from rushing to the shore? It's just impossible”

He shakes his head to himself, and you feel a soft peck of his plump, hot lips press to your collarbone. His nose pokes against the silver necklace he had customized just for you, shimmers with its glittering font that reads: Your love. “If I had you, could I ever ask for more? It's just impossible”

He smiles and nods slowly, his heart fluttering at the memory of you and him buying it from the shop. When he draws in a long, wandering breath, he adjusts his arms on your body tighter and full of passion. “And tomorrow should you ask me for the world Somehow I'd get it, I would sell my very soul And not regret it, for to live without your love Is just impossible”

He finally ends, ending with a hushed warm whisper. Finally pulling his face out of the warmth of your neck, he cups your doll jawline and scans so lightly of your calmed facial expression. You look so peaceful and restful as your eyes shut and you’re finally asleep. Leaning down to press a loving kiss to your smooth cheek, then holding, cradling you to his shoulder with a happy sigh. Shaking his head to himself and resting his own chin onto the peak of your itty bitty little pretty head,

“It’s impossible.”

•••••••••

I hope you enjoyed! It’s been a while so…my apologies if it’s not as detailed as before. Anyways, love you lovesss

tagging my hunny dolls: @bigdaddyelvislover @jhoneybees

#Spotify #elvispresley #big daddy elvis #elvis #elvis x reader fluff #elvis presley x reader #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis fanfic #elvis x reader #elvis imagine #elvis fanfiction #elvis fluff

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whositmcwhatsit · 11 days

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Glimmers of Dawn

AN: This is a belated birthday present for one of my favourite people @ellie-24. I have been promising her a BDE fic for months and this is the beginning of one at least? As our guy once said: "I hope you like it. It doesn't make much difference."

“This is crazy! Are you sure we’re allowed?”

Steve rolled his eyes at her like he did this every day, like it was nothing. But if it was nothing, he would not have suggested it.

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Aurora had been sliding on her denim jacket at the bar, ready to go home to Johnny Carson and the dried out meatloaf that her mother had been cooking when she had ducked home after work to change. She had already given in to Joanne’s plea to stay for another round and that had left her with nothing but a numb butt from sitting perched on the bar stool while she watched her friend flirt with the tall, shaggy-haired guy at the pool table. Now the guy was draped over Jo’s back as she giggled and lined up a shot, pretending to miscue so that he could ‘correct’ her.

Aurora gave Jo a little wave to get her attention over the heavy rock playing over the tinny speakers and then thumbed towards the door, making the phone and time gestures to let her know she would call her later.

“You’re not leaving so soon?” asked one of the other guys playing pool. He was tall too, and broad shouldered but athletic looking with it and had a mustache to go with this long brown hair.

“Yeah, it’s getting late and I got things to do in the morning,” Aurora said apologetically. “It was nice meeting you though… Steve, wasn’t it?”

“I can’t talk you into one last, teeny tiny drink?” She paused, considering. The thought of the meatloaf wasn’t exactly appetizing and it wouldn’t be the first time she showed up on a Sunday morning to take her grandmother to church on a whisper of sleep. She relented, but then the bartender reminded Steve that he had called last orders ten minutes ago and no amount of wheedling or good natured threats could change his mind.

“Forget it, man!” called the guy who was currently taking a break from inspecting Jo’s tonsils. “Let’s just go up to the house.”

“Naw, you sure? The Boss-”

“Won’t even know anything about it. He ain’t come down in three days, man, in more ways ‘n’ one.”

Aurora frowned questioningly at Joanne, who shrugged back as the two men worked it out, and suddenly they were leaving the bar.

“So, where exactly are we going?” Aurora asked, as she and Steve followed Jo and Dave, his name turned out to be, into the parking lot. She could feel Steve nervously eyeing her as they watched Dave sling his arm casually around Jo’s shoulders and stick his tongue in her ear. She had already prepared a sharp elbow in the ribs in case Steve got the same idea.

“Uh, the place where I work has a pool room and a bar.”

“You work in a bar?” She was trying to figure out why he was being so cagey. Wondering if maybe he was embarrassed, but that didn’t make sense if he was going to take her there.

“No, it ain’t… It ain’t a bar.”

Even as she was climbing past the folded seat into the back of Dave’s Datsun, Aurora was having second thoughts. The cool night air had cleared her buzzing head and chased off the last of the energy powering her limbs after a full day of work. She started preparing her speech for when they got to where they were going, so she could call a cab and head home, with or without Joanne.

‘Look, it’s nothing personal’, she would say. ‘I just had a really long day.’

And then the Datsun turned right on the highway at the gates of Graceland.

“What are you-?!” Aurora gripped the headrest of the driver’s seat in front. “Are you kidding? God, I don't have time for this.”

Fooling around and trying to break into Elvis Presley’s house was for kids and tourists. If these guys thought it was going to impress her, she would be glad to correct them.

The gates opened.

“Are you sure we’re allowed?” she asked again, staring at the lights ahead and trying not to catch the eyes of the smattering of people standing outside the gates even at this hour.

Someone was sure to realise that they were not supposed to be there and they would be stopped. She wondered if the security guards really did have guns like the stories said. All sorts of crazies probably wanted to try and hurt a huge star like Elvis; there could be FBI snipers in the trees.

“It’s okay,” Steve said finally, though his tight jaw didn’t exactly make him seem convincing.

The way that Dave shushed Joanne when she was laughing and squealing with excitement about seeing inside Elvis’ house also didn’t fill Aurora with a huge amount of confidence.

It seemed deathly quiet and still as they went in the back. Aurora thought there should have been music, maybe ‘Hound Dog’ playing on a jukebox like they were stepping into one of his movies. Her aunt Phyllis would be green with envy that she was there.

The guys crowded them in so it was hard to see exactly where ‘there’ was. Muted lighting, stairs, a lot of wood, and then a… a tent?

“So, where's Elvis?!” Joanne asked, as they took in the busy pleated material sweeping out from the ceiling and draping down the walls surrounding the pool table.

It made Aurora feel like she was trapped in her bed covers. She took in a strangled breath to reassure herself that she still could. Meanwhile, Joanne bent at the waist to check under the pool table- God, how much had she had to drink?!- as if Elvis could be lying in wait under there.

“You think he'd sing ‘Don't be Cruel’ for me? That was my favorite when I was little.”

“He's probably sick of singing it,” Aurora told her, grabbing Jo's arm and shoving her sideways onto a sofa before she broke something and the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll had them in court for millions of dollars.

Their secret out in the open, the guys seemed eager to tell them about their jobs and all the dangers and intrigue it entailed. It wasn’t all fetching and carrying, they assured the girls, there were some real bad guys out there who wanted to get a shot at Elvis and they were the reason that these bad motherfuckers had never got their shot.

“You know a head honcho of the FBI said Elvis has better protection than the President,” Dave remarked, just before he potted the cue ball and swore under his breath.

“Yeah? You ever meet the President?” Joanne asked, rolling her eyes at Aurora behind her hands.

“No… No, the Boss did, though, more than one.”

“Must’ve been when you weren’t on duty,” Joanne murmured. “Seriously, where is he, your boss? Isn’t he home? He’s gotta be home if you’re here, right?”

“He likes to relax upstairs after he gets back from a tour,” Dave mumbled, racking up the pool table. “Things can get pretty intense.”

“I bet,” Joanne giggled. “All those mamas and grannies throwing their girdles at him.”

“Jo!” Aurora elbowed her and flashed an apologetic smile at the two guys.. “Sorry, a little beer on an empty stomach goes straight to her head. Can we maybe get some water?”

The guys exchanged looks again, and Steve sighed and shrugged, glancing up at a camera with a little red light on it that Aurora hadn’t noticed before.

“Sure, no problem. Follow me.” Aurora nodded and smiled, glancing back over her shoulder to watch Dave drop down into her space beside Joanne on the sofa.

“I’m sorry about Jo. She just gets over excited, she doesn’t mean nothing by it.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve replied as they climbed the stairs. “You hungry? They can make pretty much anything you want in the kitchen.”

Aurora followed him into a sleek, modern kitchen, all patterns and walnut. It was like walking around a maze. She had no idea where she had come from, nor where she was going, but she was vibrating with amazement that she had finally made it inside the house on the hill.

The next time she drove past on the way to the mall she would be able to imagine what was going on inside. She could think of about fifteen customers at the salon whose toes would curl with jealousy when she told them.

There were two ladies in the kitchen, their pale matching uniforms, the only plain, unpatterned material Aurora had seen in the house so far, were stark against their skin. Aurora could feel her cheeks burning, waiting for them to point out that she shouldn’t be there and call security, but they barely paid her any mind.

Imagine having people whose job it was to just sit in your kitchen waiting for you to want a snack at one am! Aurora did catch one of the ladies glancing at her, her face unreadable, but her thoughts not impossible to imagine. She knew she was out of place, there but for the grace of Steve in her cut off jean shorts and her thrift store spaghetti strap blouse, staring starry-eyed at the glimmering glass or maybe crystal in the glass-fronted cupboards as sizzling sounds started coming from the stove. She could feel herself getting smaller, tucking in her edges and minding her manners, making less of herself so that she would be less of a blight.

“Well, what do we have here?”

The voice was soft and unmistakable, whether it was on the radio, in movie theaters, or in a strange kitchen in the middle of the night.

Everyone immediately whipped around to look, but Aurora’s brain instead made her freeze on the kitchen stool. It told her that she couldn’t turn and face Elvis Presley with her mouth full. For some reason that seemed the ultimate violation.

So, she chewed and chewed the suddenly vulcanized bread as the seconds stretched into decades. Finally, when it had become too weird, she tried to force the ball of dough down her throat and ended up almost choking, swilling it down with a frantic gulp of water.

“Steve, son, if you’re gonna sneak pretty girls into my house at least don’t try and kill ‘em in my kitchen. It’s, uh, bad for business.”

A warm weight rested on her shoulder and squeezed as she looked up through watery eyes at Elvis Presley, up close in person. Her brain couldn’t take it all in at once, just fragments like the black hair, the sideburns, the gold aviator sunglasses, the smile… Even with her airway clear, Aurora was not exactly breathing.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” She watched the familiar pillowy lips move as the words filled her ears, not completely in sync. His hand on her shoulder, his cologne in her nose, it was a fully immersive experience and she had already been finding it hard enough to comprehend standing in his kitchen.

“Yeah, it went down the wrong way,” she heard someone say, and it kind of sounded like her.

“Well, honey, looking at that ugly mug over there was always gonna give you indigestion. Nothing personal, Steve, you just got that look-” He laughed a little to himself. “Liable to give this young lady heartburn or something, you know.”

Steve stood awkwardly on his other side like he was trying to gauge the mood, trying to figure out whether it was time for an explanation or an apology, and Aurora was trying to feel bad for him, but all she could feel was Elvis’ hand still on her shoulder, and the sleeve of his jacket brushing against her skin. There was pressure there, like he was leaning on her a little, and she tried to stay still when her pounding heart was telling her to try and run.

“What’s your name, darlin’?” He pulled off his sunglasses and stumbled back a little, pretending that the low lighting of the kitchen was blinding, rubbing his slightly puffy eyes, before they narrowed as they fixed on her. Then it was Aurora who felt like squinting, trying to take it all in.

“I’m Aurora,” she said. Then, for some reason she thought it might make things better somehow if she added, “You have a lovely home.” As if she was an invited guest coming over for iced tea on the porch. She was such an idiot.

“Well, thank you, Aurora. Aurora, is that right?”

Her name was a little unwieldy in his mouth, like he couldn’t quite get his tongue around it. Her face burst into flames as soon as she thought about his tongue.

Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice, seeing as he was turning to berate Steve a little more, pointing out that at least she had some manners, unlike some people.

Elvis had gray in his sideburns, Aurora noticed, as her muscles stiffened in the tense atmosphere and she was unable to look away. It made sense, he had been about her age when he first got famous, and that had been… a while. But it was still weird to think about Elvis going gray. She couldn’t picture him as an old man. In fact, the idea made her a little sad. But then the alternative would be worse.

“Child,” he intoned suddenly, interrupting whatever he had been saying to put Steve in his place, and turning back to her with a twinkle in his eye, “you have gotta lower the beams on those pretty eyes of yours, they are practically melting my face off!”

And that, more than the gray roots and the stumbling over her name, helped Aurora’s perspective click back into focus. The fancy furniture and the maids and the cooks and the Elvis-ness of him had turned her head for a while, made her feel off kilter, but she knew this dance very well..

“Well, it’s not like I can help it when you’re standing so close to me!” she retorted playfully. “You’re not made of glass you know!”

The crooked smile crept across his face like the tide coming in and she felt herself slipping beneath the waves, drowning.

“You got some nerve, honey, I’ll give you that,” he said, shaking his head. “How ‘bout you finish eating my food and I’ll give you a real tour of this old place?”

“Look, if it means so much to you, you can have the rest of the sandwich,” she said, her careful, watchful eyes belying her teasing, irreverent tone. She knew she was in dangerous territory, her mama would have hissed a warning and cuffed her across the back of the head for being so rude, but the light that glittered in his heavy lidded eyes when she gave him some sass was too enticing to ignore. She didn’t think that too many people dared to tease Elvis Presley and that made her feel a little bad for him.

In response, he gently ‘snatched’ the glass of water she was clutching and turned it until his luscious lips were in the same place hers had been, taking a sip. She somehow froze while also melting at the same time at the glittering challenge in his gaze and the faint twitch of his eyebrow. In that moment, she realized that she had vastly miscalculated how evenly matched they were in this battle.

Luckily, she was rescued by Joanne, who had found her way upstairs and came reeling slightly into the kitchen, clutching Aurora’s jacket, and mumbling that she wanted to go home. She got as far as knocking into Aurora’s back before- and Aurora was never going to let her forget it- she shrieked:

“Oh Elvis! Oh shit!”

Without context, it would have been impossible to tell whether she had caught sight of Elvis or a mouse running across the floor. What made it funnier was the complete non-reaction of Elvis himself, and the way that he locked eyes with Aurora for a long second, as if to say, ‘See what I have to deal with?’

Then he was introducing himself to Joanne, shaking her limp hand and saying he was pleased to meet her like it was all prearranged and they hadn’t effectively broken into his house in the middle of the night.

Oh Elvis, oh shit, Aurora’s brain said helpfully, Elvis Presley is a nice guy.

Sitting in his kitchen, trying to hold a loud, flailing Joanne with one arm and not failing to notice how uncomfortable Dave and Steve looked, Aurora began to feel grimy. It was one thing to take a peek at how the other half live, to get a glimpse of a rarefied existence, but it was another thing to barge in, do questionable things on the couch and make yourself a sandwich. The goldilocks giddiness had soured into shame.

“So, um,” she began as she stepped backwards over her stool like the world’s clumsiest cowgirl, “we’re really sorry for trespassing…” She still couldn’t bring herself to say his name out loud. “And we should probably get going.”

“Well now, wait a damn minute, honey, I promised you a tour, and by God, that’s what you’re gonna get!” This time, she didn’t giggle on cue.

Aurora wasn’t clever, but she was smart. She might not have read fancy long books, but she knew people and she knew men, best of all. Her mama made sure of that, because she didn’t want her to end up the same way, fooled by some good looking lying man who looked good in a fancy borrowed suit.

It occurred to her, as she watched Dave and Steve share yet another long look, that this could all be some elaborate trick. It wasn’t like she and Joanne had asked the guys to bring them to Graceland, hadn’t twisted their arms, hadn’t even known they worked there before they brought it up. And the two guys had barely debated it before they were all suddenly getting into the cars.

What if it was a set-up? What if Dave and Steve did this regularly, went out trolling for girls to bring back for their boss? What if she had walked into some weird situation straight out of the Hollywood gossip magazines?

“I have to get home,” she said, fumbling for excuses, “I gotta get up early to take my grandma to church and I have a couple of clients after that.”

“Clients?” She didn’t understand his strange tone, but she simmered under his appraising eye, and instinctively held her jacket in front of her like it could transform into a pair of baggy pants.

“She’s a hairdresser, she cuts hair,” Steve said sulkily, defensively.

It felt like there were twelve different conversations going on in fifty different languages and it was too late and Aurora was too tired to deal with it all. It had been a fun adventure, but now it was time to go home.

“Well, you know, I've been needing a haircut myself,” Elvis remarked with a strange, sly grin on his face, looking at Steve, who was irritably shuffling his feet against the carpet. “What do you say, honey?”

“Your hair looks fine,” she replied, before turning to Steve and raising her eyebrows in a silent plea.

“No, really, if it gets any longer I’ll start looking like one of those weirdo freaks this one listens to,” Elvis joked, nodding towards Dave with his Led Zeppelin t-shirt stretched tight across his chest. “Nice guys, but complete weirdos, man.”

Aurora was pretty sure that nobody was about to get Elvis Presley and the guys from Led Zeppelin mixed up, but saying so would have taken her over that line from light teasing to downright unkindness that she would never cross.

“I’m sorry, I haven’t got my kit with me and I’m so tired, I don’t think I should be trusted with scissors.”

“I’ll go start the car,” Steve said, turning towards the kitchen door.

“No! Now, hold up, man, nobody’s going nowhere ‘til I say so. S’cuse me for a minute, ladies, I think I need to have a word here with these so-called employees of mine.” Elvis’ tone was aggravated, like he was working hard to keep it even, behaving for company.

Joanne and Aurora looked at one another, shrugged, and stepped past the door that led down to the basement and found themselves in the red carpeted foyer, looking towards the front door. They listened carefully, but could only hear murmuring from back in the kitchen.

Joanne squeezed her arm and pulled a triumphant face, hissing, “Fucking Elvis, man!”

“Shh, they might hear you.” Aurora occupied herself with staring up at the chandelier, watching the way the light was reflected back on the glass walls. She couldn’t imagine living in a house that had a chandelier. She wondered if Elvis ever marveled on it since he had grown up just as poor as her, maybe even more so.

“You think he thought we were call girls?” Joanne asked, moving to lean against the staircase and resting her head on the banisters. She yawned wide enough to show the fillings

in her back teeth. “When you said ‘clients’ they all got this weird look. Maybe he wants you to cut his hair to test your story.”

“I ain’t cutting anyone’s hair, I’m dead on my feet,” Aurora grumbled.

“Not even if he offers you a thousand dollars?”

“Well, maybe for a thousand dollars.” She sleepily contemplated what she would spend a thousand dollars on. She wondered how much a chandelier cost.

“Hell, for a thousand dollars I’d pretend to be the call girl!” They both snorted and giggled, before sighing into the still peace of the foyer.

“He looks a little different from the movies though,” Joanne observed. “He’s got… heavier.”

“Yeah,” Aurora conceded with a shrug. “Still Elvis though.” She giggled. “‘Oh Elvis! Oh Shit!’”

“Shut up!” Joanne groaned, donking her head against one of the banisters. “I bet you didn’t come out with anything deep or profound when you saw him.”

Aurora’s throat was still a little sore from where she had forced a fistful of bread through it while choking, but she kept that to herself.

Finally, Dave shuffled out to let them know they could return from exile and led them back into an empty kitchen. When he spoke, he sounded annoyed and Aurora wondered if he had got a ticking off from Elvis too. Maybe it hadn’t been a set up after all.

“C’mon.” He nodded towards a set of the stairs that curled up round a wall in the corner of the room.

“Where?” she countered.

“Look, just cut his fucking hair a little, all right? Pretend if you have to, we’ll be heading out on tour soon and he’ll have his hairdresser do it properly then anyway.”

Aurora looked at the staircase and thought about getting back into the Datsun and going home. She thought about telling the ladies at the salon about her weekend, the way they would say, ‘And what happened then?!’ And she would have to finish her surreal recount with, ‘Then I chickened out and went home.’

That would be a lame ending to the story.

And so she found herself leaning in front of Elvis Presley, examining his wet bangs as she ran them through the comb, scissors clutched in hand, standing in the most outrageously opulent bathroom she had ever seen.

“You shouldn’t wrinkle your forehead like that, you know, honey,” he observed, his breath tickling the column of her throat. “You’ll look old before your time.”

Her frown shifted from one of concentration to intense control, trying to stop herself from shivering because it felt like he was murmuring into her ear.

“My face does what it wants,” she replied finally, snipping the tiniest fragment of an inch. “I don’t have too much of a say in it. Keeps me honest, otherwise who knows what I’d be doing instead of cutting hair day and, apparently night now too.”

They had negotiated down to just trimming the bangs, and now that she was confronted with his mass of fine hair, she was grateful. Everyone knew that half the teen population back in the day had flipped their lids when they cut off Elvis’ hair in the army. Aurora didn’t want to become the target of those same women today, stronger, smarter, and old enough to own handguns.

“What would you be instead, if you could choose?” She made the mistake of looking at his face when he asked. It was a trap. Framed by dark, weary shadows, the murky blue of his eyes had all but swallowed up the pupil and it felt like they were looking at something within her, somewhere she didn’t even want to let people know existed.

“I don’t know. If you ask my memaw, there are only a few careers a girl can have with a name like mine. I picked the most respectable. There we go, all done.”

“What kind of name is Aurora anyway?” Searching, his damn eyes were searching and she couldn’t seem to distract him.

“I don’t exactly think we should be making fun of people’s names, Elvis. Especially not when some of us are holding scissors.” He snorted and laughed to himself. It sounded so young and silly that she knew it was real.

“Aurora means dawn or light. You know the Northern Lights? Those squiggly colorful lights up in the North Pole? Their real name is Aurora Borealis. And you know, Sleeping Beauty’s name was Aurora.”

It was the well worn explanation she had been trotting out since she was knee high to a cricket, not that it ever made any difference to the bemused, baffled or disdainful faces of the gangs of kids or customers at her father’s store that demanded she explain herself.

She caught sight of Elvis’ reflection studying her, but not in the way that he had been before, the way that men often studied her, appraising and pricing her up like her daddy did with cans of soup. No, this was a different kind of look.

“Dawn,” he murmured, his gaze seeming to look past her. “Sleeping…Beauty… Might be something to this…” His eyes seemed to click back into focus and he smiled at her, that crooked smirk that everyone in the world imagined in their head when someone said the name Elvis Presley. “It’s pretty, sweetheart, I was just kiddin’.”

When she followed him out of the bathroom, he mumbled, “Think fast!” And before she could even decipher his words, she was catching the tiger statue he had tossed at her. It was heavy enough it could have probably cracked her skull if she hadn’t caught it.

“Whoa, was the haircut that bad that you had to try and kill me?!”

“No, honey, it was fine, but it’s like you, you see.” She could tell something corny was coming from the silly little grin and the way he paused to laugh at himself. “It’s a roarer.” She groaned, but giggled as he laughed, his brows knitted together in a pained acknowledgement of how corny he had been.

“Woo, well, it’s lucky you’re pretty,” Aurora replied, doing what she thought was a damn fine impression of her grandma, who always said it like it was.

When Elvis snorted a little, but didn’t say anything else, she wondered if she had caught him off guard and made him a little bashful. She made a show of giving the ceramic tiger a scritch under the chin like it was a pussy cat and then went to hand it back.

“No, no,” he replied, waving his hand. “It’s yours, honey, you caught it. Them’s the rules.”

“Well, thank you… You know, it puts a whole new perspective on those folks you gave cars to. They probably belong in a circus.” He didn’t reply, just sat down on his bed and shuffled back against the pillows, picking up one of the books that lay strewn across the comforter.

Not knowing quite what she was supposed to do, she petted the tiger under her arm and started edging towards the door. If she couldn’t make a glamorous exit, she could at least minimize the awkwardness of it.

“Hey, you know…” Her eyes fixed on him as she did her little side shuffle, she saw him glance up from his book and his expression go from open to frowning. “Where you goin’?”

I thought we were… I thought you were waiting for me to leave.” He shook his head, looking slightly irritated, and then patted the bed heavily by his legs.

Aurora thought of Steve waiting downstairs and then shrugged, walking over to the bed. You didn’t ignore an Elvis for a Steve. She perched on the edge of his bed and watched as he rooted around on his nightstand, sliding on a pair of gold framed glasses and shooting her a sheepish look.

“The lightning of the Word will illumine the abysses.

New, new, new ones, beautiful ones, sensitive ones,

Exalted ones, will be assembled.

The Teacher has entrusted thee to manifest Him.” He read it like poetry or scripture and it sounded dramatic and lovely to Aurora’s ears, but then he stopped and he looked at her like she was supposed to do or say something. It was like standing at the front of the class on book report day with nothing in her hands. Her face burned all the way back to her ears.

“You ever heard anything like that before, honey?” he asked finally, his eyes back to scanning the text, leaving her to writhe in her ignorance and humiliation.

“No, I don’t think so.” She looked longingly at the black padded door standing open and then down at her tanned toes, half submerged in the thick red shag pile carpet as if her sandals weren’t even there. “I was never too good in school.”

“School,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You don’t learn nothing worth knowing in school. I mean no disrespect to the teachers, but-” He sighed loudly. “You know most people use but one percent of their brains, one percent! Just focussing on the Mickey Mouse shit, uh, workin’ and paying the bills and having a good time, coveting their fuckin’ neighbor’s whatever… Never knowing what’s really important.”

Aurora stared at him as he continued his diatribe, a little impressed at how he weaved in foulmouthed quotes from the Bible. Nobody was going to believe this was how she spent her Saturday night.

“I’ve been studying all this a long time, it takes discipline and dedication. Honey, why don’t you come on up here and get comfortable?” He gestured to the space beside him on the pillows, the space usually occupied by glamorous models and beauty queens, one of whom was beaming with fierce intensity at her from a framed picture on the dark wood unit against the wall.

“Um, can I bring Muffin?” He lifted an eyebrow and she tilted the tiger she still had tucked into her hip. “I named him Muffin.”

“Well, I was talking to Muffin anyhow, but I guess he can bring you.” He shook his head, his cheekbones brimming as he smirked and watched her shuck her sandals and clamber up gracelessly from the bottom of the bed. “You’re kinda silly.” He leant forward and gave her a lightning fast kiss on the lips, just warm and wet and gone. “I like that.”

And then he read to her, for over an hour. Sleepily leaning against the pillow, Aurora slid her finger underneath the stretchy strap of her watch as it was pressing into her skin. Her eyes caught sight of the time and she pushed herself up, feeling a little dazed and dizzy.

Having sunk back into his pillows too, Elvis was still reading, his voice barely above a whisper and he didn’t seem to notice her sitting up. Tentatively, she reached out and touched his arm and then said his name. It took him a beat or two to register the interruption.

“It’s getting really late,” she said apologetically. “I think I should go find Steve, he’s my ride home.”

“Aw, honey, he went, he’s gone.”

Aurora smiled anxiously, not sure if he was joking. “He better not be. It’s a long walk back to my house.”

“I’ll have someone take you home, don’t worry about that,” he murmured, his words slipping and sliding together.

“Well, It’s getting pretty late,” she said again.

He lowered his book and went to say something, but seemingly changed his mind. Instead, he reached over with a grunt and picked up the phone, gruffly asking who was on duty. Aurora busied herself with slipping back into her shoes and hefting Muffin back onto her hip.

Elvis put down the receiver of the red phone and climbed off the bed.

“I’d like to see you again, if that’s okay with you?” The way he said it was oddly formal and solemn, a complete contrast to the way he had teasingly beckoned her onto his bed earlier. It threw her enough that she forgot to be overwhelmed.

“Sure!” She cringed inwardly at how high pitched her voice sounded and tried to clear her throat discreetly.

“Let me take down your number and I'll call you.”

Elvis rifled through the contents of his nightstand and snatched up a pen and then, with a shrug, opened the front cover of his book.

It was about then that Aurora's brain caught up with the situation and her hand shook as she reached for the pen and scrawled ‘Aurora + Muffin’ alongside her number on the inside cover of his book. When she handed it back, he teased her by turning the book upside as he squinted at it.

“What is this, hieroglyphics?!”

And Aurora laughed goodnaturedly, even though she had been teased her whole time at school for her poor penmanship and inability to improve it. She laughed even though, as a rule, she never let anyone get away with making fun of the things she couldn’t change. Something about him defused all those defenses designed to detonate on a hair trigger.

Aurora felt Elvis follow her to the bedroom door without seeing him. It was a weird feeling, like wearing a heavy cape made of ice. She was almost afraid to check in case it all evaporated like a dream and she woke up in her pilling pink blankets and worn rosebud sheets.

The heavy, warm hand that came to rest on her shoulder was a surprise and a reassurance then, as she felt him turn her. She took a step back, since he was that much taller and they were standing so close together that she was face to face with the dip at the base of his throat, able with microscopic clarity to see the way his golden chest hair curled behind the thick gold chain he was wearing with the strange symbol that looked to her eyes like a musical note with extra parts.

“Um, sorry,” she murmured, looking away, even though he had been the one to crowd her. He smiled softly, angling his head and pressing his soft full lips against hers. She jolted, almost choking again, and saved herself by grabbing hold of him, clutching at his waist, thick but firm, with her free hand and pressing in against him. His lips were soft and lush, like no other man’s she had kissed before. They tickled and teased, and sent shivers that spread down her spine and radiated through her body.

When his tongue first brushed and then slid against hers, she let out a little whine that had him huffing a laugh and drawing back, his hand cradling her jaw.

“You sure you gotta go, baby?” he asked softly in that low, intimate voice that made her legs quiver. “We could just sleep, you know. I wouldn’t- I wouldn’t try anything.”

“I trust you,” she replied, though she wasn’t sure she did. “It’s me I don’t trust.” Which was one hundred percent true.

He pulled her in again by her chin, but she still wasn’t ready as they both exhaled in playful frustration. She nibbled on his ripe bottom lip even as she was pulling away.

Aurora made it to the outer door that led to the stairs before he called her back.

“Hey Tiger!” She let her shoulders and face slump with indignation as she realized she had answered to the silly name. “We’re going to see each other again, sweetheart.” She smiled at the previously unimaginable picture she was walking away from- Elvis Presley framed by the light in a doorway, his hair rumpled and tousled (her fault) and his mouth wet and swollen (even more her fault). “Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find.”

“Sure.” Frowning a little through her smile, she nodded and turned back to the stairs. Was he talking about himself or was he talking about her? Maybe he was talking about Muffin. She hefted the tiger a little higher under her arm and clumped down the stairs, blearily opening the front door to greet the dawn.

@thatbanditqueen, @vintageshanny, @be-my-ally @lookingforrainbows, @from-memphis-with-love, @peskybedtime

#elvis presley #big daddy elvis #elvis x oc #elvis fanfic #elvis fanfiction #70s elvis #whositmcwhatsit #elvis presley fanfiction

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elvisabutler · 11 months

Text

a love supreme seems far removed

summary: it appears old wounds between you and professor presley die hard after one particularly pleasurable but exhausting incident. fandom: elvis presley | elvis ( 2022 ) rating: m pairing: professor! elvis presley ( big daddy flavor ) x student! female reader ( nicknamed belle ) word count: 2462 warnings: big daddy elvis. elvis using a walking stick/cane. implied praise kink. student and professor relationship ( everyone is of legal age ). use of the derogatory name jezebel,in a negative way toward oneself. caning in a sexual way/sexual punishment way. negative self talk. dom/sub dynamics though not explicitly stated. near use of a safe word. sub drop. mild daddy kink? it's there, belle calls him that once or twice and elvis refers to himself as big daddy once. abandonment issues. author’s note: so this was sort of an accidental fic. once upon a time an anon came into my inbox and mentioned liking my fic about belle and professor presley with belle experiencing sub drop. i had never written that but between my right hand woman for belle and elvis @butlersxbirdy ( seriously, y'all she is the reason this entire series exists ) and my baby girl @stylespresleyhearted going "OKAY BUT CAN YOU DO IT THO I WANT IT." this fic was born. special thanks as always to my discord wives, christi and marina and for kicks also bee who i made love big daddy with these two. as always i love the love this fic series gets and truly i live for comments and questions regarding it or any of my serieses/fics. hell, the reason this series is a series is because y'all keep requesting more stuff from it. pay no mind to the moodboard as far as physicality goes or ethnicity, i just basically fell in love with her face because of daisy jones and she's got the right vibe.

It's funny, you think, how once upon a time the things you do with Elvis were things you shied away from with your other- partners if you could even call them that. There's something to be said about the sheer ease at which Elvis puts you in to make you agree to anything. You figure it's because you know he'll always take care of you. You figure it's because of how he'll stop if you cry out in more than just a pleasurable pain. No, he'll make sure you're alright, make sure his precious Belle, his angel sent from God himself is alright.

Smack.

A low keen leaves your mouth at the sting of his cane against your ass, hitting a spot still a bit tender from a week ago. Elvis had asked if you were alright with this, asked if you were ready to take this on this soon and it had been an easy question to answer. Of course you were alright because you had been the one to ask for it again. It's not that you needed it- craved it every second of the day but you knew very well you had nearly gotten yourself and him in some very hot water. It deserved more than his words of admonishment murmured against your neck and your hair. It deserved the caning that he rarely brings out but that you know tends to set you straight. Tends to keep you in line in a way you'll both never admit or question beyond these moments when he uses it. Your hand starts to move toward your ass, wanting to rub the spot that's sore before—

"Hands on the bed. Ya know better. Keep 'em where they're 'posed t'be," Elvis commands as your hands settle back against the bed. Back to where they ought to be because Elvis- Big Daddy- Professor Presley told you to keep them there.

"Elvis—" you start before another smack of the cane has your ass jiggling and has him chuckling a little as his ringed hand palms the area. You hiss.

"Ya asked for this, 'member? Told me ya needed the lesson, hm? Needed t'be 'minded that ya need t'be good, right? Keep that tongue o'yours in check. Doin' so good, Y/N. Doin' so good. What number we on?"

Your mind, fuzzy as it's becoming can focus on the number, can focus on something, settle on something that allows you to not float completely away. The grounding element of everything that keeps you tied to the Earth, tied to him and your life together. Your mouth opens and one single word falls out, "Three."

"Outta five, that's right, Belle. But ya haven't been countin' 'em out loud, have ya? Been tryin' to keep me from hearin' ya? Hearin' what my cane does to ya?" Elvis allows himself to lean against you, to press his stomach against your burning backside, his own warmth both a balm and an irritant against it. His chest hair scratches at your skin and earns a light whine as some rubs just the wrong way, the friction unwanted for now.

"Yes," you whine, arching your back as if to tease when really you only want to chase after the feel of the cane, of his body against yours in order to float and to feel safe. At your arch, he moves off of you and brings down his cane once more, this time closer to your vagina, in that dip where your thighs and butt meet. The part where his hands would grip and squeeze and slap when you rode his cock or his thighs. The number slides through your brain and into your mouth. "Four!"

You hadn't meant to shout the number but the sting overwhelmed you, the sting almost had you telling Elvis to stop, that this was too much too soon after the last week. It stopped though, the urge to tell him to set down his cane and pull you into his arms stopped. Still, even with your lack of asking, there's a pause with Elvis, a pause that has him leaning against you once more, his hand automatically starting to palm your ass. "Y'alight?"

He expects an honest answer out of you as you expect honest answers out of him when he wants to pretend his body isn't betraying him and hurting him. The bright side of when you do things like this, when you trust him to remind you to be a good girl- a good woman- you'll always tell him the truth.

A nod is what you manage before your body slumps forward just a little, the effort of holding yourself up on your hands against the bed becoming just a bit too much to handle. Elvis ought to stop right there and he knows it, can see an exhaustion settling into your body but a promise is a promise and he allows himself one final smack of the cane, lighter than all the others at the most fleshy and least bruised part of your behind.

"Five," you murmur against the sheets of the bed, your eyes a little glassy as he moves the cane to the side and tries to pull you up to a standing position. He manges it just barely but you lean against his chest, hand snaking up his chest to run your fingers through his chest hair. "Shower?"

You think it's you who asked for a shower but you're not sure, not sure with how your clit throbs and aches as it always does when Elvis does this to you, whenever you do something similar to this. Whenever he disciplines you like you deserve to be, because a simple talking to wouldn't have done, your body needed to know what was at stake. Whoever asked didn't matter as Elvis helped you walk to the bathroom anyway, his hands moving between your legs, playing with your clit, sliding his fingers between your folds gently as you rested your body against his own. It doesn't take long to finish the shower, doesn't take long for Elvis to wrap you in a towel and dry you off, only detaching himself to grab pajamas for both of you. You hadn't been this way last week but it had been earlier in the night, perhaps you were just tired from the day.

The bed sheets and Elvis provide a warmth that finally drags you into the land of sleep willingly and gladly.

It's cold.

It shouldn't be cold, you think. Elvis runs as hot as a furnace and usually makes you so hot that you have to slip from under the covers in the middle of the night. Your eyes blink to try and adjust to your surroundings and you realize it is the middle of the night. Why is it cold in the middle of the night?

Your heart lurches in your chest, moving upward to your throat as your hand moves to Elvis's side of the bed only to feel cool emptiness beside you.

Elvis isn't there. Elvis isn't beside you. You are alone in your shared bed. Was it shared any more? Was this his way of telling you to leave? After everything? Had you finally made him realize you made a mistake?

There's a sliver of your brain, of your mind that knows the thoughts that are swarming your mind are silly and yet you can't listen to that sliver. It's wrong. Elvis isn't here with you. Why hadn't he fucked you to sleep? Why hadn't you woken up with his soft cock inside of you? Had Daddy- Had Elvis taken care of you after he hit you? Where was he? Why wasn't— Why wasn't he here? He left you. He's leaving you. He's going to kick you out when the first rays of sunlight enter through the curtains.

You don't know when you start to sob, don't know when your body starts to shake, the overwhelming lack of warmth settling into your bones, don't know when your stomach threatens to empty onto the bed. All you know is that they happen all at once. All you know is that you've done something to make Elvis abandon you.

Maybe, maybe he was still in the house, maybe you didn't disgust him so much he had to leave the entire house. If you called for him maybe he'd come. Maybe you could find out— maybe you could convince him that it was fine. You were still worthy of his love.

The wail that leaves you would embarrass you in any other context. It would mortify you if your brain could process what was happening.

He hadn't quite registered that the noise he heard was you. Hadn't quite registered that the wail he heard was you. Graceland occasionally made noises that didn't make a whole lot of sense and that hadn't changed in the entire time you've been with him. It's only when he gets closer to your shared room that he hears your wail, your moan of unmitigated distress and anguish and knows it's you. He moves as fast as his body will let him and practically slams open the door, ready to use old karate moves and the gun he's got hidden in his dresser to defend you only to realize there's no one in the room but you.

There's no one in here who could hurt you and yet you're clutching at your stomach, curled in on yourself, looking as if you want to vomit all over everything. When you look up at him he sees your glassy eyes staring back at him, unshed tears in them to go with the ones streaming down your face. He opens his mouth to ask you what's wrong only to hear your whimpers and whispers to yourself.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry D- Elvis. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." It practically sounds like a mantra, a chant you'd only a monk say. It sounds wrong coming from your lips. What did you have to be sorry for? What would make you act this way? In what feels like a flash he moves to sit next to you on the bed and starts to touch you.

For once you shy away from his touch and Elvis's heart falls through his body to the ground. You never do that, even when the two of you hadn't worked through the dumbest set of issues known to man you had never shied away from his touch. Normally you would sink into it, but— what had he done to you. Had earlier been too much? Had he broken something inside you in a way he hadn't before?

"Y/N? Belle? What—" He doesn't get the question out before you whimper.

"You were gonna leave me like I did to you. I— I was alone. You hate— you don't love me anymore. Don't want to be with— you realized what everyone else does."

Tour Guide. Used. Whore. Bel— Jezebel. Not worthy of being with him or anyone else. But especially not him. Not worthy to spend the rest of your life waking up with him. Not worthy to have children with him.

Your hands tighten around your middle even more, as if that's the part of you that needs shielding the most. As if that will make the nausea you feel go away. As if it'll keep your stomach from revolting even as you feel Elvis's hand on your shoulder, tight as it was the first day he met you.

"My— Y/N. My angel from heaven. My Belle. No—" He pulls you into a hug despite your protests and your shaking head. "I couldn't sleep. I was downstairs. You—Belle. I— After everything, I would never do that to you. I could never hate you."

"You did," you whimper, your shoulders shaking even as you feel some form of warmth from him sinking through your pajamas and into your soul. "You did. You— I left you and I deserve— I don't— I made you hate me. You're gonna—"

Elvis shushes you, forcing your body against his, forcing your chest to rub against his, his chest hair brushing against the faintest bit of skin your pajamas show. "No. You're my good girl, Belle. Always have been even when I was so angry with you. I'm here. Your Big Daddy's here." He uses the nickname you had let slip that one time so long ago, knowing he finds it funny. It's supposed to put you at ease and he feels a tension in your shoulders lessen at it.

"For— You won't make me leave?" That's the question you ask, not does he still love you, because the two go hand in hand in your mind. For him to love you, he can't abandon you.

His answer should be silly, it should make you roll your eyes but something deep inside you finally uncurls when you hear him sing one of his own song lyrics acapella. "A team of wild horses couldn't tear us apart."

A sob, stronger than the rest wrenches itself from your throat, finally earning a proper release as he holds you even tighter through the tears, his hands petting your hair, murmuring soft words of comfort. You know the position has to be uncomfortable for him but he doesn't complain, too focused on making sure you're alright. Your tears and shivers finally settle into something manageable after what feels like hours and Elvis moves to lay you down on the bed, his hand still rubbing on your chest, right where your heart is. A whimper escapes your lips in fear only for him to shake his head.

"Let me get on my side of the bed. Then ya can curl up to me," he says and to show you how serious he is, he manages to clamber on top of the bed from the bottom, his hands never leaving your body, the warmth from his touch— his always burning hands allowing embers of warmth to blossom slowly but surely inside of you.

The second he's under the covers, you move to lay on top of him. He can't abandon you, can't leave you without warning if he has to move you from atop his body. Your hands haven't left your stomach as it still continues to roil and twist inside you, the nausea refusing to abate. Elvis looks at you and follows where your hands are before placing the hand that rubbing against your chest onto your stomach. For some strange reason it calms your stomach, allows for your body to settle down, and allows for you to lock your arms around Elvis's middle.

"Stay," you whisper, placing a kiss against his skin.

"Wouldn't dream of doin' anything but."

taglist: @ab4eva, @blurredcolour, @butlersxbirdy, @precious-little-scoundrel, @eliseinmemphis, @prompted-wordsmith, @missmaywemeetagain, @lookingforrainbows, @araxw, @thatbanditqueen, @ellie-24, @austinbutlersgirl67, @heartbrake-hotel, @ccab, @18lkpeters, @slutforsomegoodlettuce, @dkayfixates, @kendralavon7, @chasingwildflowers, @notstefaniepresley, @wanderingelvis, @kxnnxy, @powerofelvis, @stylespresleyhearted y'all know the drill with the taglist by now.

#elvis presley #elvis presley x reader #elvis presley x you #elvis presley x y/n #big daddy elvis #big daddy elvis fanfiction #elvis presley fanfic #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis presley smut #elvis presley angst #elvis presley fluff #elvis presley fic #70s elvis #professor presley #ally writes

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precious-little-scoundrel · 5 months

Note

What's next for our gal Gigi? Can she please just basically move in on their first night together in a very Gigi like fashion? Dodger is wondering why this girl just ain't leaving

Oh I’ve not gotten a Gigi ask in such awhile, it did my soul such good to see this pop up, thank you babe!

Honestly there’s plenty and it’s mostly just chaos and we can bounce around now. Although, truly, the picture you paint would make a good little blurb of Dodger just waiting for this wild child to go home, only for her never to leave and shortly after truckloads of her possessions come in, along with clothes Elvis is ordering for her because she needs to look her best accompanying him on tour -and Dodger thinks then, aha! tour will break the spell! But no?!! No, and not even Lisa Marie’s visit beforehand has the expected disastrous result, in fact, it went quite well with Lisa almost adopting a older sibling energy with the girlfriend who was not above being instructed in serving actual mud pies for dinner complete with earthworm candles and attempting to dye the pool water Pink.

In fact, nothing but the heating up tabloids seem to have the slightest chance of braking this freight train of loving care and mutual obsession.

#Gigi asks #elvis fanfiction #elvis presley #big daddy elvis fanfiction

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aconflagrationofmyown · 11 months

Text

but then…Gigi

a future forward one shot, circa 1979

Snuggle me Tender

Trust me I laughed and cringed every bit as hard as you over that title but after the strain of pushing this mushiness out of my brain in under twelve hours I haven’t got any sensible titles left in me, ok?

Requested: Yes / No

Warnings: next to none? complete fluff and no rancidity for once, just Big Daddy Elvis with a very young baby and a very young wife and tour life and mentions of his health concerns…so much baby talk which I do not apologize for, if you’ve never done it I suggest you do, it adds years to your life. To quote Alex Turner: “I’ve been feelin’ foolish, you should try it.”

Word count: 2,884 is my version of a blurb, ok?

Notes: this is dedicated to my baby Bri whose devastating prompts lead to this whole Gigi endeavor and whose sweetness lightens up my life

Blaring horns end the set with its iconic flourish, their brassy notes echoing in his ears as he exits. It was a good show, a lively audience and Ronnie kept the rhythm together this time and even the sound system was decent for such a packed out stadium. Elvis is satisfied as he takes his final farewell of the sea of glossy, enamored faces, the frenzied send off of their ovation thudding into his veins so thickly he thinks his pulse will jump straight outta his wrists.

He flicks his writs irritably and hooks his thumbs into his belt, hoisting it just that little bit from where his exertions made it creep down and down and ever down, keeping it where it’s not pinching him as he lets the boys hustle him off the stage and into the back hallways in a well worn maneuver. The clapping and roar of the crowd is still deafening and he’s still attuned to it, vibrating like a leaf and the shake, rattle and roll of it pounds along with his chest and more worrisome still is the way his vision flickers with it, like some damn techno scene. But it’s just the fluorescents, and this interminable hallway leading to his dressing room.

And to his girls.

He takes a deep breath and tries to begin the effort of steadying himself just a little before foisting himself on them. It’s easier, so much easier, with them here, but his blood pressure still skyrockets each time he performs and it doesn’t seem like there’s a pill or a regimen out there to prevent it. It might be the death of him one day and awhile back he might have flippantly hoped so.

Now he’s got his girls to live for

and he tries his hardest to moderate himself, to temper himself in between to be the man he wants so badly to learn he is, not just the icon he’s perceived to be. Every step takes him closer to the anecdote and he breathes easier, hiking his belt higher so he can really gulp in those belly expanding breaths and he feels Charlie patting his back, his boys murmuring in an affirmative babble that it was a good show.

Elvis knows it was. He doesn’t need them to tell him. There’s only one persons opinion he gives a shit about right now and she’s probably conked out asleep or at the tit. Both of which sound like damn good options to mimic, in Elvis’ opinion.

Little Miss Erin Love Presley.

She’s become his life and between her and Gigi and Yissa he is bombarded with the insistence that he is wanted to the point that he’s gradually had to assume that, well…that he is -wanted, that is.

He’s wanted. Not just needed.

And so he allows them to fret over his pulse and he agrees to less stimulants when possible and he endeavors to be a more cheerful bastard despite the persistent urge to bite heads off most days.

Ricky jogs ahead of him, opens the door that Sam’s been standing in front of and ushers Elvis inside hurriedly before closing the door behind him, leaving him alone with his little family. Nearly blinded by the change in lighting, Elvis staggers towards where he knows there's a couch in the gloomy dressing room Gigi so considerately dimmed for his sake.

“You were magnificent, daddy!” her soft praise registers more profoundly than all the applause out there and Elvis sinks into the couch utterly spent, yet entirely satisfied.

“Thanks darlin’.” He murmurs with his head tilted back, winded and a thousand miles away but he’s trying to come back down. His hand reaches out for her hip and the give of her soft flesh tethers him to earth.

Gigi doesn’t skip a beat before she’s bending down and unclamping the large buckle from his belly single-handedly with practiced ease, delighting in the relieved groan Elvis lets out as she removes the heavy ornament. She swings it away from him only to replace it with the soft weight of their baby girl.

“I’ll get your medicines, you hold tight.” Gigi soothes, her hand lovingly pushing his hair back from off his damp forehead before she bends to kiss it and he chases her wearily for a taste of her lips which she presses to his ardently before pulling away to go find his pills.

Baby girl is perched on his belly in her tiny sequined onesie, balancing like a Pilates teacher on a ball, her wobbly little neck doing its utmost to stay straight and fix him with her appealing stare. It’s devastatingly effective when paired with her pitifully frustrated little squeaks.

Elvis knows what Lovey wants and a few months ago he might’ve been appalled at the notion of it despite being an utter sap for his daughter. It had seemed too gross to subject her to the post-show sweat and musk that cling to him in moments like these. But like her mommy, the little girl wouldn’t take less than the deepest of intimacies and so he has learned that Lovey will continue her fussing until she feels the warmth of his skin beneath her.

The tiny wrist golden chain around her wrist jangles as she tries to pull herself up the ornate expanse of his jumpsuit front, clawing determinedly up the exquisite sundial motif towards the heaving expanse of his sweaty chest. ‘Return if found’ her bracelet reads and Elvis smirks at the notion of her being put down long enough by either of her parents to be misplaced.

“Hey cuddle bug, hey how’s it goin’, hmm?” he coos to her and finds his voice is fried and gravelly.

Without having to even reach he finds Gigi pressing a plastic cup into his hand that he ravenously accepts along with blood pressure regulators she presses into his palm, small and round and white. He throws them back with exhausted gusto and his baby nearly wobbles backwards in her arc to follow his movements with her big ole baby head.

They made a pretty baby, he and Gigi, how could they not? -but even the prettiest of babies have bowling balls for heads compared to the rest of their body and it still tickles Elvis immensely. He wheezes a laugh into the last of the water while catching her head with his other hand and crushes the cup with something bordering a burp and a groan.

Lovey’s bright little eyes expand just a fraction more at the vibrations against her belly. “ ‘scuse me, miss.” he teases, eyes still wavering blearily as he tries to focus on Gigi rummaging for something at the far end of the dim room. The water makes him feel at least partially alive again and he runs his hand beneath his nose to catch the sweat and what all that is collecting atop his lip.

Heaving in a big breath he feels his hands calm their shakes enough he looks down at Lovey’s valiant attempts to reach the apex of his unzipped suit, clammy baby hands snagging the hair on his belly and tugging. He’s gonna have bald patches down there at this rate, he’s told Gigi this and she just lathers more hippy oil on him and says he’ll be alright -so he guesses he will be.

“Look at you baby, so strong, yes you is, fightin’ gravity like a champ, got yo’self halfway up the sun, yes you has. Want daddy to help ya? Hmm? Yeah? You want a kiss, don’t ya? Me too, I want kisses from my bestest girl.”

He hooks his thumbs beneath the giving flesh of Lovey’s armpits and pulls the floppy length of her higher till she’s balanced on his broad chest, in between his gaping jumpsuit front, watching as she crows and grins the minute she feels his tacky skin beneath her palms. The swell of his belly keeps her high up and her little elbows dig into his soft chest, it’s a well worn ritual to spend her “belly time” on his chest, fascinated by her daddy’s face. It holds her interest more than any gaudy toy or tv show ever could.

Elvis pats her bottom gently with his ringed hand, careful not to pinch her delicate thighs as Lovey kicks and shudders in delight at getting her way. She’s a little masochist, his baby, she drools and coos even as she grips significant portions of his chest hair and tugs in glee as if it’s her own personal shag carpeting to aid her towards scooting up that last little bit needed for her to kiss him on the chin.

“Das it, das it almost there, gonna give daddy a kissy? Gonna gimme kissies? I wan’ ‘em so bad, yes I do!” Elvis pickers his lips and she strains every ounce of her little self to grab ahold of his sideburns. It’s all over then, Lovey is triumphant in her grip, a pack of wild horses can’t tear anythin’ that baby has once she’s grabbed ahold of it. With a gurgly little crow she scoots herself up till she’s able to devour his chin.

She’s quite coordinated when preening her angelic little face up to receive a kiss but upon dishing them out she goes about it like a starved man would a set of pork ribs, open mouthed and with the goal to slobber as much as possible on the recipient. Elvis can’t bear to turn her away ever and in his after-show state of permanent dampness he doesn’t even think twice as a sloppy, gummy and fervent baby adds to the sweat rolling down his throat.

“Fank you.” he murmurs, tilting his head to facilitate her attack, “Fank you so much, ooh, I love your kisses, ya know that? Favorite kisses in the world, yes ‘dey are! Better than any of those out there, Mhmm, way better. Yes, yes better gimmer another -aww thank ya!”

Gigi watches from the side as she finishes her breast pumping by the dimmed vanity as Elvis puckers his cherub lips and pecks at their baby’s matching glossy pink pair. In this moment with their bobbing heads and tender coos and the nearly identical soft forms of them both slouching in their matching jumpsuits -they could be twins. The thought makes her smile and right in this moment there’s a belonging she feels so strongly and richly that her eyes burn with it.

“I thought it went pretty well, mhmm, what’d ya think about the new song, hmm?” he always does this, consults Lovey’s side-of-stage perspective on his show and he swears to Gigi that her feedback is essential for the success of what has been a certainly well received comeback tour. “Yeah I thought so too, ‘could tinker with those background vocals but the bass was tight. Yeah, yeah man, I know, I told ‘em, but they don’t listen, no dey don’t! I know! I know I told ‘em! Can ya believe that, Lovey? Oh well.”

With each of his heavy breaths and remonstrances Elvis’ chest heaves and sends Lovey tilting further and further up to his face till she’s careening alarmingly into the crease of his neck, wedged between it and the couch back. The tip of her tiny body makes Elvis die laughing with a fit of those genuine, hiccuping laughs that their baby loves to mimic until they both end up dry coughing from their mirthful wheezes. He gets them both situated again, Lovey firmly back on the safe expanse of his tacky chest with his hands criss crossed over her tiny back. One of his hands can span the entire width of her little ribcage and folded over each other as his hands are now, they looks like a bejeweled turtle shell sheltering their Lovey’s delicate back.

Gigi packs up her kit and rummages through her sack for Elvis’ glasses before they’re needed for the camera-flash-lit trek back to the hotel.

Lovey lets out a vigorous yawn, suddenly utterly tuckered out from watching her daddy perform and waiting up to kiss him backstage. It catches Elvis’ attention and yet again he’s amazed by the fact he feels even remotely weary himself, like he’s able to tap into his girl’s calmer systems and regulate his own just a little to match them. Not so much a family as a trinity of souls so intertwined they’ve long since lost where one ends and the other begins.

“You sleepy, hmm?” Elvis hums to her and strokes over her head soothingly, “How bout we go back to that nice hotel then, we can eat somethin’ and yer mommy’ll call up Yissa to say goodnight. How’s that sound, hmm?”

Lovey rubs her face into his chest to emphasize how much she needs this sleep plan to be enacted speedily, the tired rub backfiring as his chest hairs tickle her sensitive little nose. Without fail it makes her sneeze violently and afterwards she’ll gaze up him dazedly as if asking for explanation as to her own bodily functions.

“Hutchooo, bwess you.” he thumbs at her sloberdy chin. “Dat was a big one, wasn’t it? Mhmm, daddy’s sorry he’s so fuzzy. Don’t got that problem when ya snugglin’ wif mommy, do ya? Nu-uh, smooth as marble, that pretty girl, ain’t she? Mhmm.” he ponders Gigi’s loveliness with a dreamy look of appreciation and his baby resignedly lays her head in the sweaty thatch of chest hair, wadding it away from her face with a tiny fist, Elvis stares over her head at Gigi who he knows has been playing at being busy to let him wind down.

They share a knowing little smile and Gigi shoves off from her perch on the vanity and clip clops over to him in her strappy heels, bending at the waist and offering him a lovely view down the neck of her dress as she gently fits his tinted glasses on his face. “There, all set.” she murmurs fondly while fiddling with his hair, dabbing at the mess of sweat and drool that the now sleeping baby has left in her wake.

Ricky cracks open the heavy metal door with great care but it’s not enough care to please Elvis who barks

“Gently, for God’s sake, there’s a baby sleepin’ in here!”

and Gigi smirks as she herself gets manhandled by her new husband to sit beside his bulky manspread, for no other reason perhaps than to keep her ass pointed away from Ricky. Gigi suspects that Elvis likes to bark at his traumatized entourage just because he enjoys getting to cite the baby’s needs. He has a baby again, and it’s turned him into more of a bear than a man on this tour. That thought makes Gigi sigh dreamily and she lays her head on Elvis’ shoulder and watches as Lovey’s sleeping breaths stay even and calm despite his outburst, utterly secure in her daddy’s love.

Gigi gets her thigh patted in recognition and she shudders as always from that promising touch, feeling how torn he is between winding down or thrumming off into the astral sphere. Only once they’re in the hotel and snug in the white sheets with Yissa on the phone will she know which way the night will go.

“Car’s all set.” Jerry quietly delivers the message that Ricky fled before he could finish delivering.

“Thanks man.” Elvis nods and after exchanging a look with Gigi asks her, “Ya ready, baby girl?”

“Yes.” she nods and gives him her arm as an aid to heft himself out of his burrow in the couch, his one arm still occupied cradling Lovey to his chest.

Gigi helps him drape his coat around his shoulders, flapping around him like one of his capes, allowing him to pull it over Lovey’s face in the ensuing glare of the photographer’s flashes as they speed down the hallways and into the parking lot, hand in hand.

Lovey is used to the racket, the screams and the pounding of an audience a natural backtrack to her young life. Nevertheless, Elvis moves gingerly, stays calculated in his movements lest he jostle her as he follows Gigi into the car, scooting into his seat as methodically as possible, his exhausted thighs quivering from this last ounce of endurance demanded of them. He succeeds though, Lovey still snoozing and drooling onto his chest by the time the Limo door shuts and they’re off in a streak of light and motion against the night sky.

He can feel Gigi slip her smaller hand into his own on the seat between them, tugging until he surfaces from his trance and turns his face towards her with a relieved sigh to find her always there beside him when he needs it.

“You alright, daddy?” she checks in with him and he watches as her features, so lovingly crafted by a generous God to make her appear young enough to be his baby much less have one herself, are gently lit by the occasional street lamp glowing into their speeding haven.

“Yeah darlin.” Elvis rumbles from deep in his chest, rubbing the back of his knuckles against her soft cheek, watching as Gigi leans into his affections as eagerly as that first night they met, “Never been better. I mean it, gonna need to make this the order of business. You and Lovey waitin’ for me, end of show -I could go on forever like this.”

TAGLIST: (drop a comment below if you’d like to be tagged in all installments for this universe)

@prompted-wordsmith

@parodsal000

@ab4eva

@stylespresleyhearted

@presleyenterprise

@kendralavon7

@coolgirl462

@colahola

@lillypink

@stephthestallion

@vintageshanny

@landmermaid12

@ashtag2887

@notstefaniepresley

@butlersluvbot

@steph-speaks

@eliseinmemphis

@lookingforrainbows

@dkayfixates

@ellie-24

@memphisflash1935-1977

@marriedtopresley

@powerofelvis

@thatbanditqueen

@elvisabutler

@butlersxbirdy

@heartbrake-hotel

@fav-fanficssss

@austinbutlersbaby

@freudianslumber

@kxnnxy

@kingdomforapony

@be-my-ally

@crazymadpassionatelove

@that-hotdog

@missmaywemeetagain

@fallinlovewithurlove

@richardslady121

@lilycherries123

@18lkpeters

@xenaspace3-blog

@lil-mamas-obsessions

@father-of-2cats

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thatbanditqueen · 1 year

Note

Here to leave my review on the long awaited Chapter 3 (its okay we forgive you) -

FIRST OF ALL, Ida and Saul are my spirit animals and favorite characters seriously. They so help in keeping the story light hearted and comedic even when Elvis is making me wanna slap him on behalf of Becky! It was relatable and hilarious when Saul was the last one to find out who Elvis was the men in my family are exactly the same. Ida is Captain of the Becky Butt x Elvis ship please she was all for her niece getting some under her roof, we love a supportive queen. And Elvis is a ridiculously charming man - but ridiculous nonetheless. Poor Jerry having to drive them down there, look for a nonexistent lost ring and then give up his comfort all so Elvis could get some. And Becky Butt, baby, my heart is breaking for you already because yes I want them to be happy but I can only imagine how much heartache is to come before Elvis opens his damn eyes!!! That man can be so stubborn. Also, the conversation they had, the way Elvis is always trying to deflect and distract and go on the offensive it gave me Anita phone call vibes 101 I lived for it. Elvis winning over Ruth so quickly, why am I not surprised? The man is a child himself. But with time I know he’s gonna be the best step daddy. Ruth picking up the Becky Butt moniker - LMAO. That names gonna stick and I’m 100% for it. Becky’s such a good mom, always putting her daughter first and making sure she’s comfortable/okay. She’s got a child streak in her that I think pulls Elvis in because he does as well but she has a maturity he never mastered in my opinion due to everyone in his life bending to his every whim. And can I please tell you how grateful that I am that you really lean in to the gorgeous physicality that was Big Daddy. Talking about his stomach, about his largeness, all of it, so many fics hardly allude to it meanwhile I want to suffocate underneath that man. Becky is living my dream. Thanks for updating, what a delightful read it was 💗

Dear Bri,

Thanks for taking the time to write this, it is so very reaffirming to hear what you think! Ida and Saul are so fun to write, I can hear their voices in my head, they are sort of a composite of different family members/friends i grew up with. For some reason, a lot of older women in my life, including my grandmother, were absolute sex instigators. My granny once told me, with all seriousness, that all i needed to do to solve a relationship issue with my partner at the time was just to have sex and forget about the whole fight.... hahaha. SO, yes, Becky may have gotten knocked up young, but she has never been as carefree or in tune with her sensuality as Ida, and Ida wants to really make that happen for her :) I don't know, I could just see Elvis pulling something like this with Jerry, I see it as part of his ego/inferiority duality, like he's somewhat drunk the koolaid that he's some sort of really cool rock star, but also, if he was really confident, he'd just tell people what was really going on, ughh, he was such a cute, clueless dork/ total dick in so many delectable ways, I really enjoy playing with him and writing this fic. And I love love LOVE BDE's physicality, though I will be the first to admit that @eliseinmemphis's posts about worshiping big daddy elvis were fundamental to my own burgeoning fixation with this era Elvis. I need him to crush me. I need to play with his tummy and the waddle under his jowls. Becky is all of us.... and I think her earthy, latent sensual earth mother nature finds BDE attractive and is drawn to him both as a lover, and as wounded boy she wants to nurture.... or will be moreso when/if he gets his head out of his ass and gets over himself enough.

Thanks again for taking the time to give me this feedback!!!! I know it was hard to wait for this chapter, although, in my defense, the wait between ch 1 and ch 2 was a lot longer, life is a little more settled and i think it shouldn't be more than two weeks or so until I post ch 4. I already have somewhat of an outline/set of ideas. But I hate giving a date, because I always seem to miss any deadline I set for myself, and then I publish as soon as I finish, when I really should let things sit and do a proper proofreading job. But don't be afraid to give me a nudge, I've finished chapters because someone asked for it and it motivates me.

all my love,

norAHHHH

v me seeing your message :)

#no one walks out on big daddy #elvis presley smut #elvis fic #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis presley fic #elvis fanfiction #elvis fanfic #big daddy elvis #big daddy elvis fanfiction #elvis x OC #elvis presley X OC #banditqueenasks

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ellie-24 · 7 months

Text

Just A Fan

A/N: I recently saw all the 1977 Hawaii pictures again and oh they make me so soft every time. His health failed him, his personal life frustrated him, but he looked so happy and relaxed on this (last) vacation and really enjoyed himself.

Sooo I had to write a little something for dear Big Daddy Elvis. It's literally just horribly self-indulgent fluff. Enjoy!

This is also a veeeeery late response to the writing prompt: "Isn't that mine?"

Word count: 3.3 k

March 11th 1977, Polynesian Cultural Center, Hawaii

Cara noticed him right away. Of course, she's been looking for him. Word got around at campus that he would be here tonight and to say she was exited would be an understatement. Unfortunately she of course wasn't the only one who heard about it. She already dreaded the masses that would form around him, waiting to get a glimpse.

Others might say they wouldn't have recognised him right away when he entered the open-air pavilion. In fact, at first it seemed like nobody noticed him at all.

His jet black hair and sideburns more grown out and partly hidden beneath a white, frizzy bucket hat. The sparkly, heavy jumpsuits he usually wore replaced by a comfortable looking light track suit, emphasising the sight swell of his belly. Beautiful blue eyes hidden behind tinted glass. She hoped he'd take them off, even if just for a second so that she could see them. It's not like never seen his eyes, she'd stared at them longingly for hours and hours, never growing tired of them.

Whether she was staring at his face on one of the numerous records she owned, pausing his movies to fully take in a particularly cheeky expression that she loved so much or just sitting in front on the many, many posters on the walls of her dorm room, pretending he was looking right back at her.

He looked different. Different than he looked on stage, different than he looked on those posters, different than he looked 10 years ago. She was very well aware of that. The whole public was aware of it. Not only aware of it, but bothered by it, apparently.

The amount of mean spirited headlines she's read, plastered at the front of cheap tabloids at the gas station, at the supermarket, seemingly everywhere she went. Everywhere for the entire world to see. Surrounding, following, haunting her.

Cara never understood it. Her love for him never faltered, after obsessing over him throughout her whole childhood her fate was finally sealed when she saw him live for the first time in 1972. She was just 15 years old and she vividly remembered begging her parents for weeks, months to take her to the concert. Two more followed in 1974 and 1975 and each time she just fell in love with him more and more. Since moving to Hawaii for university she hasn't had the opportunity to see him again. But now he was here, closer than he'd ever been before and she felt like a giddy teenager again.

Cara pondered for a while, tugging at the hemline of her short sun dress, her eyes laser focused on him the entire time. The native dances presented on stage weren't the main attraction, at least not for her. There were of course whispers in the audience with most people risking a short glance towards the King of Rock'n'Roll sitting among them, but nobody really dared to approach him and instead appreciated the actual show. It was refreshing to see him as part of an audience enjoying other people's perfomances.

In a motion she didn't quite register herself she got up and started walking. She wouldn't talk to him. No, she really didn't want to bother him when he was on vacation, with his guard down. He seemed so content not having to perform at the moment and she didn't want him to feel like he had to just for her. It's just that she wanted to see him up-close. And if she had to pretend to go to the bathroom to walk past him, coming as close as possible even if it was only for a passing glance, she'd do that.

"Hey, isn't that mine?" She heard him say when he was within earshot. He looked at the brown-haired man sitting next to him, who she quickly recognised as Charlie Hodge. Elvis snatched a glass of what looked like orange juice from his hand and laughed as he brought it to his lips, leisurely sipping on it.

Cara halted against her will, freezing at the spot. Seeing him like this, so relaxed and carefree was a wonderful sight and she couldn't tear her eyes away from him.

He suddenly rose from his seat and she urged her body to move and not just stand there and stare at him like a complete lunatic. He had his head turned back towards his group as he walked nearly bumped into her, only catching himself last second.

"Oh sorry, honey, I didn't see ya there." He gave her a quick once over and promptly beamed at her, making a pleasant shiver run down her spine. "Ain't ya just a sweet little thing?"

Cara's eyes widened as she realised he just talked to her. He just talked to her. She wanted to say a million things but the words got stuck in her throat. This was it. Her chance to talk to Elvis Presley and she was about to mess it up.

It seemed like hours passed where she just stared up at him, not able to utter a damn word. Head spinning, she felt her knees going weak.

"Hey honey, ya alright?" His voice was now latched with concern and she continued staring up at him like a deer caught in the headlights.

Her mind raced, trying to think of something to say, preferably something smart. At least she managed to open her mouth now, but only a little squeal came out. It would've been better if she'd just kept her mouth shut entirely. The spinning got worse and her ears started ringing as the moment dragged on and on. His beautiful, more than familiar voice became a dull background noise and she couldn't make out what he said.

"Aww, you're a little nervous? Don't got no reason to, sweetheart, promise. I won't bite, okay?" He drawled with his signature charming half smile.

Cara has dreamed of embracing him her entire life. How many times she's pictured it, holding him, letting him hold her. Being so close to him, pressing her body against his, feeling his warmth. She's thought of this scenario at least a thousand times. Her arms around his neck as he kneeled over the edge of the stage, leaning down to give her a kiss.

Never in a million dreams it would've occured to her that the first time she'd hug Elvis Presley would be because her legs went limp and she had to physically hold onto him to prevent herself from falling as her vision blurred.

He momentarily grunted as she leaned against him for support. "Hey, hey, honey, careful. I gotchu, you're alright." His arms wrapped around her middle, holding her steady before moving her towards a cushioned seat. He sat down with her splayed sideways across his lap, her back resting against the armrest.

Once he had her settled on his sturdy thighs he extented one arm and gestured around as if shooing away somebody. "It's okay, Charlie, I got her." He rasped, sounding a bit winded.

His scent surrounded her as she was pressed against his soft, yet strong body. An immediate feeling of comfort and safety rushed through her and she subconsiously tried to get even closer to him.

His whole body vibrated when he cleared his throat and she gasped when he shifted again, adjusting his grip on her. Now her head rested against his shoulder, if she moved just a little bit lower she could probably feel his heart beating rapidly.

"What's your name, sweetheart?" His voice was calm next to her ear.

"Cara." She whispered, black spots still dancing before her eyes.

He nodded, his whole attention on her. "Cara, that's nice. I'm Elvis."

She blinked up at him. Had he really introduced himself right now? "Yes, I know that." She breathed, her eyebrows furrowed in disbelief and wonder and her eyes shining.

He chuckled softly and carefully brushed some strands of hair from her sweaty forehead. "Now, Cara, I want ya to take some deep breaths, okay?"

She did as she was told as best as she could and slowly her head felt a little less fuzzy. He's pulled down the zipper of his track suit somewhat, exposing his wide chest, golden chains resting over the thick, dark hair.

This had to be a dream.

"Honey, what are ya doin'?" He asked when he saw her fingers digging into her waist, his voice a bit alarmed. He removed his shades to give her a stern look.

Cara swallowed hard when she looked into his eyes and her voice trembled when she spoke up. "Pinching myself."

It took him a moment to register but then started laughing heartily, his belly shaking against her. "You're a cute little thing."

She's essentially passed out in Elvis Presley's arms. She wanted to die. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his whole entourage staring at her, assessing the situation. They must think she's completely crazy. "Oh god, this is so embarrassing."

"Nah, no reason to be embarrassed, little one." He murmured and threw a look over his shoulder, waving the curious onlookers off, telling them with a glare to mind their own business.

"I'm sorry." She attempted to get up, despite her ears still feeling like someone stuffed cotton in there, but he quickly tightened his hold on her before cupping her chin.

"Don't apologise, little. Ya just gonna stay here for just a minute."

She'd stay for the rest of her life if he'd let her. In theory. But she really didn't want to make this even more awkward and weakly shook her head. "Uh-"

"Those little legs and feet are still a bit weak." He interrupted her with his strong hand moving towards her thighs, rubbing and squeezing her softly, silencing her in an instant.

For a moment she just stared up at him, lost in the gentle and caring look in his eyes. She had to, she just had to do it, she thought as she reached up and gently cupped his cheek. The feeling of his soft skin against hers made her jump, still not quite believing that this was really happening.

His fingers moved to brush over her ankle, toying with the clasp of her platform sandals. "Gotta take these off, don't want you to fall the second I set you down again."

Cara just nodded and continued to stare up at him, her eyes moving rapidly as she tried to take in every little detail. The way his plush lips hung open the tiniest bit. The way his eyebrows were furrowed in concentration as he worked on her shoes.

When he tilted his head slightly and offered her a view of his neck she could see black strands of hair sticking out from beneath the hat. Just as she wanted to start playing with them he turned his head back and looked down, catching her studying him. From that angle she could see his small double chin.

"Not even close." She whispered to herself, barely audible.

"What's that, honey?" He asked and briefly leaned over her to put her shoes aside.

"Not even close." She repeated and blushed as she realised she had to explain her thoughts now. "I mean, uh, seeing your face on screen, or from a distance when you're on stage." She shrugged. "It doesn't even come close."

"What, the wrinkles so bad?" He joked, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.

Cara shook her head. "Doesn't come close to how beautiful you are."

He leaned in closer with his lips pursed and brushed through her hair as if inspecting her scalp. "Ya sure ya didn't hit your pretty head somewhere?"

"No, I didn't. I really mean it." She whispered with a frown, not liking his self-depracating comments.

He paused and looked down with a bashful smile after a few seconds. "Oh, thank you, sweetheart, that's, uh, a-awfully kind of you."

"Just honest." She shrugged and carefully ran her fingers over his cheek again, through the course, yet soft hair of his thick side burns and wiped away some of the sweat that had gathered there.

"Stop, honey, it'll go to my head." He gently chided her as she kept complimenting him.

"I hope so."

He averted his gaze and resumed to stroke her ankle, gently massaging it now. There was a bit of pink on his cheeks and Cara marveled at the fact that she was able to make him flustered.

"You know, when I was at one of your concerts two years ago a girl next to me passed out as well and I had to take care of her for like twenty minutes. I was so angry at her." She let out a small laugh at the chaotic memory.

"You've been to one of my concerts?"

"I've been to three." She nodded with a proud smile.

He raised one eyebrow. "Three? Lord, should have saved that money for college, little one."

"It was worth it..." She trailed off, not sure if she had the nerve to continue talking. "I always hoped to get a kiss, at least a scarf. Each time... But I never quite made it to the front."

"Aww, honey." He cooed ruefully as if he was personally responsible for her bad luck. As if it truly bothered him.

It was only a second later that she felt his pillowy lips against hers. Butterflies erupted in her stomach and she froze while he casually made her biggest dream come true. He didn't just peck her lips, instead he lingered, even added a bit more pressure until she closed her eyes with a sigh.

They were complete strangers, yet the connection between them was very palpable as he kissed her slow and gentle, his finger grazing along her jaw. His breath fanned over her cheek and tickled her slightly, causing her to squirm a bit in his arms, but his soothing touches on her body calmed her down somewhat. When he finally pulled away from her the dizzy feeling returned and she squeezed her eyes shut before opening them again, blinking a bit disoriented.

Elvis saw the colour draining from her face again for a second and let out a small laugh. "Stay with me, sweetheart." He softly patted her cheek.

"Uh-huh." She responded, waving away. "No, yeah, I'm good."

He looked back to Charlie on instinct, his head whipping around, before turning back to her. With a frown he slowly scratched his neck, looking regretful. "I don't have a scarf, little. Uh, I-I'll give you this. That okay for you?" He removed one of the golden rings he was wearing, pulling it from his ring finger and holding it out to her.

"Oh, no I can't take it." Her eyes widened and she raised her hands in protest.

"But now I want ya to have it." He slipped it onto her thumb, and gently held her clammy hand in his, completely engulfing her.

Cara stared at the glittery piece of jewelry on her hand, the metal still warm, wondering what she'd done to deserve this. "Oh, thank you." She choked out, tearing up a little.

He drew circles over her temple in a calming way. "You're welcome, sweetie."

"I'm a mess." She laughed nervously and closed her eyes, trying to stop the tears from flowing. "I'm talking to Elvis Presley and I'm a mess."

"Shush, little, you're not a mess. I don't wanna hear any of it."

"I'm sorry."

He shook his head and ran his thumb over her lips, making her breath hitch. "Now, what are ya being sorry for? Quit apologising, okay? I get to hold a pretty girl in my arms. Made it worth to come here in the first place." He chuckled in an attempt to cheer her up, to make her smile.

Now it was Cara's turn to blush furiously and his grin widened. "Finally got some colour in your face again. You're feeling a bit better, honey?"

That was a good question. Was she feeling better? She wanted to weep, laugh and yell at the same time, but he didn't need to know that. Instead she just put a hand to her burning forehead and smiled a little. "I think so." Her voice sounded a bit hoarse, the emotions still overwhelming her.

Elvis made no attempt to get up however, let alone loosen his grip on her and continued to gently massage her bare calf, apparently not yet ready to part with her. Luckily she felt the same. So they just enjoyed the feeling of being close to each other, a mutual understanding between them.

"Ya, ya wanna come and see my next show?" He suddenly asked out of the blue.

She nodded so quickly, she almost hurt her neck. "I'd love to. But-"

He brushed through her hair. "I'll make sure you're gonna sit in the first row. I'll arrange it. Then I'll give ya a scarf."

"You already gave me this." She pointed to her thumb.

"But you wanted a scarf, honey, it's that simple. And you'll get a scarf, you'll see." He insisted as he grasped her hand pressed a few kisses to her knuckle.

"Elvis." She paused and bit her lip. The amount of times she said, cried, screamed his name, one should think she's used to it. But using it to adress him directly felt incredibly strange.

He continued toying with her fingers. "What's on your mind, honey? You want another kiss?" He drawled with a small smirk, making her tummy flip.

What she wanted to say to him is that he was too kind. Way too giving. That he shouldn't be so worried about pleasing her, she was just a fan. That she enjoyed kissing and hugging more than anything else. But by the genuine and earnest look in his eyes she realised how much he needed it for himself. Doing everything in his power to make her happy, to satisfy her like they were old friends or possibly lovers, even though his girlfriend Ginger Alden only sat a few feet away from them.

She pressed her lips together, deciding not to voice her thoughts and just said the two words that came to mind, that she'd wanted to say to him all these years. "Thank you."

He furrowed his brows and licked his lips. "What for?"

She held his gaze and put a hand on his chest, feeling the thick patches of hair under her fingers. "For being you."

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down and he sniffed once, his nose scrunching up. That tender look on his face nearly made her melt as they just looked at each other, forgetting the world around them and all its problems. Then he nudged her with a lopsided smile. "Ya want that kiss now or what?"

A smile tugged at her lips as well and she managed a small nod, mentally preparing herself. She was sure that if she continued talking she would just start crying hysterically so she just grabbed onto the soft fabric of his track suit, slightly pulling him down.

He started to lean down, but before he could touch her lips again he opened his eyes with a playful twinkle. "Just don't pass out on me again, little one."

She could do that for him, she knew she'd do anything for him. Just like he did everything for her, driving her crazy and keeping her sane at the same time. And she knew she'd treasure that moment forever. She had a feeling he'd treasure it as well.

..................................................................................

Thank you to my lovely sister wives @be-my-ally @thatbanditqueen @vintageshanny @whositmcwhatsit @missmaywemeetagain @peskybedtime @from-memphis-with-love @shakerattlescroll

#elvis presley #elvis #elvis fanfiction #elvis x reader #big daddy elvis #writing prompt game #elvis x oc #elvis presley x reader #elvis fanfic #1977 elvis

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