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crash-and-cure · 1 year

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If I Were You Part 5 (Yandere!Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Summary: Love is the only rational act. Call him crazy or unhinged all you want, that sounds just about right to Elvis.

A/N: Well... it’s been a minute. Sorry y’all I’ve been having to deal with a move recently which set me back alot in terms of finding free time to write but I’d rather it be late and good than early and rushed. This chapter is going to be from Elvis POV so if it feels like there is a bit of a heel turn from reader know that that is why. We’ll also be getting insight as to how reader has been feeling these last few months and how she handles what happened in this chapter in the next.

Warnings: Yandere!Elvis so expect themes of obsessive, manipulative, jealous, and heavily delusional behavior as well as references to previous blackmail, emotional and otherwise, here too. Dubious consent in some areas. Inappropriate relationship with a Therapist (Though she is no longer one at the moment). Depictions of a therapy session. Explicit sexual content depicted that includes Penetrative sex (m/f), Daddy Kink, Praise kink, a bit of somnophilia (she does not stay asleep), vaginal fingering, and a tiny bit of anal play. Also mentions of Elvis' mommy issues, though he’ll never call them that and reader’s daddy issues because parallels. Period typical misogyny depicted and reflected by POV character’s attitude towards women in the orkplace. Finally depictions of a toxic relationship that include power imbalances, emotional manipulation, heavy use of coercion, grabbing that leads to bruising and deception. Please do not interact if you are under 18.

Word count: 14K

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Masterlist

Humility is something Elvis always tries to work towards. Even as his star grew to new heights he could never have dreamed of before, he always in the back of his head felt as though he was just a step away from losing it all. And he almost did, not in the sense of losing the fame or the money, but he did lose sight of what he loved, in who he loved and

But people didn’t stop loving him.

He’s been honest with you that this was a heavy burden he had to bear, that need to fix himself not for his own sake but for others. The idea that him running himself ragged into an early grave felt less like a fear, and more like an inevitability.

And yet he beat the odds, and now he looks forward to all that life has to offer now.

Elvis tries to be humble, but it’s hard to do so when every morning he gets to wake up next to the most beautiful, most intelligent, and most caring woman in the world, with the full knowledge that you’re his alone.

He never thought it was possible to love someone so deeply like this.

Sure at first you yourself used to see an issue in this kind of love, but he eventually brought you around. Sure it can be an awful thing when someone is vile, and taking advantage of the other, but he knows he never has to worry about that from you.

You take care of each other, and ain’t that what it’s all about?

Those other people don’t know what the two of you got, and have never experienced a love like yours. If they could even experience a fraction of the love he felt for you, they would understand why nothing could keep him away from you. How cruel it would in fact be to keep either of you apart.

Now as he holds you in his arms he’s content in the knowledge that no one has any right to do so.

Those first few months of your relationship, there would be times when he woke up and even seeing you he couldn’t entirely trust it was truly you. His mind had played tricks on him before with all those other women he had had right before you, and he would have to feel the devastating grief that these women weren’t you.

He doesn’t even remember most of their names, considering how many of them left because of how often he would say your name when he wasn’t being careful, it was probably for the best. Part of him wonders if any of them ever figured out they were stand-ins for you, the other part worries that he doesn't feel particularly guilty even if they did.

But these worries quickly die as he looks down on your beautiful face.

He liked seeing you so sleepy, those early months, it’s when you were most honest he thinks. Too tired to think too hard about anything save for the feelings he knows he brings out in you. Just awake enough to know what you’re doing and more importantly to know how to enjoy yourself. When you’re soft and pliable just the way he likes you, but just as ravenous and willful as any wildcat to really make him work up an appetite.

He lifts the covers off of the both of you and he gets to see how the hem of your baby doll had ridden up well past your hips, and he licks his lips seeing his breakfast.

He knows that your body wanted him before your mind did. That on some deeper level you wanted him, long before you could think so, let alone admit it. And he sees it in these moments as you’re still dead asleep but you squirm under his touch. Breathy sighs fall from your plush lips as he lazily brushes his fingers along your inner thighs

He wonders what you dream about these days. You once told him how dreams can have any meaning you assign them to have, and it’s within his power to decide.

He once told Priscilla that he was “all outta dreams,” and he could safely say he feels the same way with you. Before those words meant how he felt hopeless in such a bleak situation, but now they mean the utter contentment he feels everyday when he’s with you.

Something you gave him, and in spite of all that he’s done to get you here, he will happily spend the rest of his days paying you back. You’ve helped him in ways you probably couldn’t imagine, as now, he wants for nothing but you anymore.

And when his hand finally reaches into that warm piece of heaven between your legs, there is no hiding the way he makes you feel. You squirm under his touch, not having even been anywhere close to waking up. He hopes that he now occupies your dream world now as you have done since he’s met you.

Your eyes don’t immediately shoot open, but you jump a little as he starts to drag you back to the waking world. With a half-lidded unfocused stare, you’re all lazy smiles and breathy moans as you buck your hips against his hand all the while your ass rocks against him, stirring up little Elvis from his slumber. He wonders if you believe you’re still dreaming, after all in his mind everyday with you feels like one.

You’ve become so compliant since you left your job for him. You don’t gotta worry about no office to be at or other patients you need to see. You don’t mind being seen with him out and about anymore. You especially don’t mind the marks he leaves on you, which is a good thing especially now as he’s in a mood to mark you where he can today.

But you, in your half-asleep state, apparently have other plans. He feels as you blindly reach between your legs to grab a hold of him, catching him off-guard slightly as he starts to feels his cock part your folds. Then without a word of warning you close your thighs, and it’s like a punch to the gut it feels so good. You’re warm as all get out, and your thighs are still slick from last night, but the major difference between this and your little love cavern is your teasing fingers that gently bring the very tip of him up to continuously nudge at your clit.

It’s enough to drive any man insane.

It truly takes everything within him to pull away from you, and from the needy little whine you give, you feel the same. He turns you around and puts you right to straddle his lap. Your head lolls a bit at the swift motion, not entirely awake, but you practically jolt awake when he grabs your behind.

“Now why you gotta go teasin’ like that Mama,” he growls relishing in the feel of your ass beneath his fingers. He wonders how hard he would need to squeeze to leave a couple marks down there.

“‘M sorry daddy,” you mewl unconvincingly, lowering yourself to kiss him, something you’re no longer scared to initiate. A sharp slap on your ass has you realizing he meant business right now. But still you wait for him to tell you what to do.

He’s taught you well.

“Well now you gotta fix it Sweetheart,” he purrs, and you shudder as his thumbs glide up your inner thighs, . “Can’t have your daddy goin’ out there lookin’ like this now can we?”

You shake your head no and the desire to just bend you over and take you like an animal grew but he wanted you to finish what you started. Granted you may not have started this specifically this morning but there ain’t no getting around the fact that this all started with you.

He bites his lip to really focus on you in that moment; that little contented sigh that would fall from your lips feeling the fat head of his cock brush up against your eager clit, before turning into a lazy smile, as you slowly but surely guide him to that place he loves so much. That filthy moan that falls from your lips as he finally begins the descent into your entrance, before it turns into a needy little whine as he slowly retracts his hips and before he suddenly slams them back into you full force.

That little wiggle your ass does as you give a breathy “daddy” is all the encouragement he needs before he presses upward. One hand threads through his own right on your hip, while the other . The whiny little noises you make each time he even nudges that precious little spot you bashfully admitted only he was ever able to reach.

The material of your nightie by now has fully slipped off your shoulders, now leaving it only as a useless ring of fabric around your waist. You don’t seem to mind a single bit as you eagerly bounce up and down his cock, your gorgeous tits on full display and, to his chagrin, offensively clear of any bruises. In fact a quick once over of your body shows that the marks he’s left on you before were already healing up.

He’s really gotta do something about that soon. Afterall for as smart as you can be, you’re often liable to forgetting who you belong to.

But for as tempting as your nipples can be, he actively has to stave off his own desires, just to fully appreciate the image before him. That of the good doctor fucking herself stupid on his cock as she shamelessly licks her own juices right off his fingers, and begs for more from her daddy while the early morning rays give an almost angelic appearance. But that image of purity is swiftly done away with as he reaches around you and with his still wet fingers he lightly presses on that tight ring of muscle you’re far too demure to ever ask him about but he knew you loved when he did this. And with tears in your eyes and unrestrained cries flying from your lips, you seemingly fall apart and your walls clamp down on him like a vice.

Truly there ain’t ever gonna be a more perfect woman, he thinks as feels euphoria rocket through him and he proceeds to paint your inner walls white. Your hips stutter as you try to catch your breath, still quivering through some aftershocks, and you try to catch yourself on your hand from fully collapsing into him. Well he ain’t having none of that, and he wraps his arms around you to bring you as close as possible to him, never wanting to let you go.

Though the absolute best part for him is that you no longer get that left over guilty look afterward. The shy act was cute the first few months but as time went on it lost its appeal and he wished you would stop treating him like something you had to feel ashamed of. But now when you open your eyes to look at him all he sees are equal parts adoration and hunger. And it’s all for him.

Thanks to you he’s gotten far better in terms of communicating what he wants from people and it’s probably the worst kept secret in all of Graceland how much he wants and needs you at any given moment. You're able to ignite him in ways no girl has ever been able to do, and he doubts there will ever be another like you.

Though he thinks he most especially loves mornings like these because it’s all the proof he needs that that old job of yours wasn’t worth all the trouble it was causing in your head. After all, how can anything that doesn’t hurt no one and makes you feel this good be bad?

He ain’t one to talk though, he remembers those early months when he did try to fight off his feelings for you.

It’s wild to think he ever had doubts about therapy. Dr. Wilson was fine so far in that he was able to help him through his addiction without making him feel awful about it while also helping him realize that there was a lot more going on in his need for the drugs that he wasn’t even aware of. He was always able to remain coolly neutral no matter what ever fucked up thing the rockstar had told him. Elvis got the sense that he had been at this so long and with so many different celebrities that hardly anything phased him at this point. Which was good in a way, didn’t make him feel so outta place there but it also felt so…impersonal. As though the person that came right before him or right after him would get the same advice and insights as he did.

Overall he was fine in terms of easing him into therapy and being able to express his thoughts and feelings with someone without having to be afraid of being judged. But he will admit that Wilson did do right by him by recommending you in the first place.

He still remembers that day, there was an odd sense of euphoria to not only have a name for what he had but also that there were specialists who could handle this sort of thing professionally. But at the same time it clashed with his hope of his life going back to the way it was any time soon.

“Co-dependency is a relatively new term within the psychology community, so there aren’t many who are equipped to handle this condition.” Wilson says, eyes firmly on his notes. “But you’re in luck as I believe there is a specialist located in the Memphis area last I checked.”

“Doc, you sure I even need this?” he would question, as he fidgeted with the sleeve of his robe, the material having become a tad bit scratchier than when he had arrived. “I mean I don’t, even get cravin’s for them pills no more.”

“Yes Elvis, we’ve treated the more overt and life-threatening symptoms of your addiction, but we’ve yet to truly tap into the underlying cause. Without doing that you would be liable to fall right back into old habits all over again. Maybe not with the pills, but some other vice.” he says calmly. “It’s why we enforce rules as to moderation within the facility as oftentimes getting rid of one addiction will lead to seeking solace in another. You’ve done better than most in abstaining from the more overt addictions and in order to keep up with this, I think it would be best if you continue treatment with Dr. Y/L/N.”

Elvis has a long sigh at this but he does genuinely want to get better, yet he still holds doubt as to whether more of this is necessary. He thinks at best you will be able to show him what to look out for in people that could take advantage of him again and you could go your separate ways after a few sessions. After all he did at least want to show Priscilla that he was actually making an effort to get better, and what better way than to keep going to therapy.

He hesitated a bit during that first call, when he found out you were a woman. He knows it’s a whole new era and women can work outside the home if they want and all that, but he still wasn’t too sure about it. And he ain’t never met a woman who called herself a doctor, so there was that.

But he also knew himself well enough to know that any excuse he could get to get out of going he would take, and having to drive all the way from Memphis to Nashville was a pretty good one. Besides women are naturally good with talking and feelings and shit, so it kinda makes sense in a way to see a woman about this kind of stuff. So it was worth a shot.

That all changed when he met you in person for the first time. What he almost immediately noticed about you was how warm your eyes were. Not necessarily in color, but how you looked genuinely happy to see him. And not just in the way he’s used to from women who want him, but more… something he can’t quite put his finger on. But when you looked at him for the first time he felt as though he was being seen as Elvis, not just as The Elvis Presely.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Presley, it’s nice to meet you.” You said to him with a friendly smile on your face and a firm handshake.

“Same here, Dr. Y/L/N,” he would say, as all of his doubts seemed to melt away. You were beautiful in a way he wasn’t used to, all professional and button-upped like a secretary yet also comforting and very approachable like a librarian. It was an odd combination no doubt but you pulled it off well.

There’s something about you that just puts his mind at ease, not only as you talk but as you listen. He felt like he was being heard instead of just listened to, which isn’t something he ever realized was lacking in his life. When you sat there you looked as though you could listen to him talk for hours, not the slightest bit of impatience to be seen. And the way you looked at him as he talked, as much as you may have been trying to hide it, he saw that you felt what he felt when talking about these things, his joy in performing, his sadness over the state of his family, his anger at Colonel.

That was another thing, the little tidbits of advice you gave, that in retrospect seem so obvious, but hearing it from you that Parker didn't have any control over him anymore and he didn’t have to call him something that made it look like that. It’s hard to believe you're younger than him and yet so much wiser.

There was one thing you said to him toward the end of that first session and you were talking about his goals overall.

“There’s a lotta things I want Doc,” he says. “I want my family back. I want to get back with ‘Cilla. I want to get back into music and perform again. I… want to know what to look out for so I don’t make the same mistake again.”

That last one apparently peaks your interest, as you say with a gentle smile on your lips, “Mr. Presley, many people when they walk into my office expect to be given answers as to their conditions or the issues ongoing in their lives. But the reality is that I don’t have the answers but what I can do is act as a guide so that you may be able to find what you may be looking for in a healthy and effective manner.”

”I-I think I see what you’re sayin’ Doc,” he says. “A-and you can call me Elvis,” he states, ifa bit shyer this time around.

“Of course Elvis,” you say with a smile radiating warmth. “Now, as we’re getting towards the end of our session, I would like to express my goals for you.”

He’s very curious as to what you have to say, so he leans forward eager to listen.

“Elvis, contrary to what it may sound like, my goal is not to espouse total self-reliance and to never trust anyone again. Nor is it for you to simply find ‘better’ people to rely on totally,” you say. “My goal for you, as it is for all of my patients, is to trust yourself most of all to know what’s best for you. Good or bad, regardless of another's opinions, these are your choices to make.”

Those are simple words but they have a monumental impact on his perspective of things. And for the first time in a long time he looks at you and sees someone he can trust to do right by him.

And now the first thing he’s gonna trust himself about, it’s that you’re gonna be good for him overall.

It was a bit difficult to get into the whole routine of seeing you, especially as he didn’t want certain people in his circle knowing that he was even still going to therapy. Not even necessarily because he feared it would somehow get back to the papers but because most of them were all under the same belief that therapy was just a crock of shit and all he needed to do was man up. So he just simply didn’t bring it up to them specifically and let only a few people really know what he was doing. And only they know just so they can sufficiently cover his ass when he’s out with you.

None of them seemed to mind his scheduled “alone times” too much since he always came back and nothing newsworthy would happen so they let him be.

Over the next few weeks he found himself looking forward to sessions with you. He’s taking his health seriously, he’s getting to see Lisa more and more, he’s sleeping better, everything in his life is slowly but surely improving thanks to you. Though the better sleep had its flaws as he had been having some weird dreams for awhile. Not so much nightmares, but they definitely left him with some odd feelings in the morning.

They almost always started off the same way, he was back on that couch in Dr. Wilson’s office and the way he was being spoken to, it felt less like therapy and more like an interrogation. He would never remember what he was being asked, but the longer it went on the worse he would feel.

And then you walk into the office and Wilson disappears. In the beginning you would simply take Wilson’s seat, and he feels himself start to relax. Something about you just made it easy to do so. You could even be asking the same questions Wilson was asking, but you’re far gentler in your delivery, and it helps ease the answers out.

A lot of his dreams have been going this way but recently you’ve been getting closer and closer, and now you sit beside him on the sofa. You would rub his back, play with his hair and even sometimes hold his hand all the while listening to what he had to say. Which then progressed to him even laying his head in your lap.

He vividly remembers how he would nuzzle into your chest as you continuously ran your nails through his hair. Neither of you speak but he can’t recall ever feeling so at peace than in those imaginary moments with you.

Of course there were also less than wholesome dreams where he the ones where you ride him right into the couch or he takes you on your desk. Though arguably the most memorable had to be when he rested his head on your lap as he’d done in his dreams a million times before and you would slowly unbutton your blouse.

Undoubtedly one of the most fucked up things he’s ever dreamt as you proceeded to jerk him off as he sucked on those gorgeous tits of yours. But still he couldn’t get out of his head that look of utter adoration in your eyes as you threaded your fingers in his hair and whispered how he was a good boy.

He woke up that morning needing to literally peel his pants off of him.

He’s not an idiot. He has a daughter and so he knows what that could only look like from the outside. He has a pretty good idea what it may mean, seeing you in such a motherly role, but he’s also seen Psycho and knows he’s far from dressing up as his Mama to stab women in the shower. So really it doesn’t mean anything.

“Doc?” he asks, and you look up from your notes. He knows he should probably bring up the dreams, as you’ll definitely have something to say about it. But seeing you in that Turtleneck that made your tits look phenomenal made his brain short circuit a bit, and he worries even hinting at anything like this may scare you off and have you believing he’s a Norman Bates type. So instead he asks, “Why don’t you got one a them couches?”

Your brow furrows at that. “A… fainting couch?” You ask tentatively.

“That’s the one,” he snaps his fingers. “Why don’tcha got one of those?”

“Oh, well…” you say, pausing to bite your lip, looking for the right words. This simple act causes him to swallow hard, and he prays you don’t notice as you continue. “Given the patients I work with, I find that keeping us on the same level is far more beneficial than the alternative. It acts as a good reminder that we’re equals in this environment,” you explain with a gentle smile.

“Same level huh?” he questions. “So if I sat down on the floor you would follow?”

“If that’s where you feel most comfortable,” you say amused.

He doesn’t exactly know why, but part of his brain took that as a challenge, while the other part wanted to really test as to whether or not you would follow through. In either case he gets off his chair only to lie flat on his back on the shag carpet of your office. He looks back up and sees you raise an eyebrow at his antics, with a look of “seriously?” on your face. There is a bit of a stare down before you let out a small defeated sigh before you make motions to follow suit.

“Don’t say I’m not a woman of my word,” you would explain as you lay down on the floor parallel to him, though the table kept a good distance between the two of you. Not an easy feat for you considering you were wearing a skirt that day, but in spite of that you were somehow able to make the act look as dignified as possible. Though that doesn’t prevent a brief but very dangerous image of you hiking up your skirt and taking a seat over his face.

Woah… Where did that come from? he would ask himself as he ripped his eyes away from you and looked up at the ceiling.

“Comfortable?” Both real and fantasy you would question.

“Very,” he would answer, lying only slightly.

You give a mirthful smile before you get right back to business. “Now that we’re down here, I would like to discuss some of your risk-taking behavior upon your return from Germany,”

“I wouldn’t say layin’ down on the floor is risky,” he quips. He’s trying hard to not focus on the gap that’s appeared between the buttons of your shirt nor the way that your notebook keeps your skirt from sliding down further. But at the same time focusing on your face right now feels dangerous for some reason he can’t quite place.

Something blooms in his chest when he hears you huff in amusement at him. “I’ll admit not my most graceful of transitions, but my point still stands. When you look back on your time after your return stateside, do you believe you were doing things that were considered far more risky?”

“I mean… I guess,” he would admit. “Aside from the drugs, nothin’ too wild, really. Just pushin’ each other down… and drivin’ around real fast… and shootin’ fireworks at each other… I see what your sayin’.” It’s funny that he only now realizes just by talking to you about them.

“And nobody ever protested to you doing these things?”

“Well my daddy did at first, but then stopped once he figured I wouldn’t stop. Most times it was The Colo-shit! Parker… he was the one who always made big stink ‘bout what I was doin’ if it was dangerous or made me look bad.”

You bring your pen to your mouth, simply resting it on your lips, mulling over his words before you say, “Elvis correct me if I’m wrong, but it sounds to me that Parker occupied a very… parental role in your life?”

“I guess,” he says, unsure of it until a long dormant memory comes barreling to mind as he recalls his own words to that man from what felt a lifetime ago. “I even said as much to him at my own Mama’s funeral.” He says covering his eyes, and taking a deep breath, willing no tears to fall right in front of you. “I feel like such a fool.”

And then he feels something on his palm. He looks to his side to see that your hand now holds his. It’s such a simple gesture, one that anybody could have done, but coming from you it feels like everything.

“Elvis…” you start off slowly, your thumb rubbing soothing lines onto the back of his hand. “Grief is a terrible thing to experience. It can knock out your knees and snatch the breath right out of your lungs. And it’s certainly not uncommon for people like that to take advantage of those in such a vulnerable position.” you say in your most soothing voice.

“Don’t think less of yourself for staying as long as you did. Instead I ask you to think of it as you left when you were ready to do so.”

He has to pause to contemplate your words for a second there, because it’s such a simple twist of perspective but it seems to make all the difference as he feels a long present weight of guilt lift. “Yeah… yeah you’re right,” he says, his chest filling with a sense of warmth he hadn’t realized he’s been missing for a while now. “I-I took all of the rat bastards shit for years, because I could take it… a-and I left when I didn’t want to do that no more.”

“Exactly,” you say, slipping out of his grasp and giving a friendly pat on his hands as you return to your side of the table.

The rest of the session is pretty light, all things considered, talking about Music, something he can do at literally any given moment and he left your office that day with a newfound appreciation for women’s office wear. He gets the sense that it’s very intentional on your part. The way you can steer a conversation is so fucking impressive and it served you well when you were dodging something.

But he eventually learned your ways. And he was able to get you to open up about yourself like when you learned his favorite hero growing up was Captain Marvel Jr. and you confided in him your favorite was Wonder Woman, and how you learned to appreciate her even more when you learned she was created by a Psychologist. Or when he told you about his sleep troubles and you taught him your trick to falling asleep was to eat Pancakes, something that came as a bit of a routine from your waitressing days since that was your usual order at the end of your shift. Little things that made you more than just his shrink to him.

He swears he didn’t realize what he was doing at first, and it wasn’t until Jerry pointed it out to him that same night. He and the rest were at some show that he doesn’t really remember, and he sees you walk past the table he was at. He’s so caught off guard that he even turns his head fully around as you walk away.

Jerry knows about his therapy and tends to cover for him when he goes to see you, but has never actually met you, so it surprised him when Jerry asked if he wanted him to go get you for him.

He’s glad for the low lighting of this place as he doubts he would otherwise be able to hide his inflamed face right now. “What? No… No. Wh-why’d ya’ think I want her?”

“Well she’s your type ain’t she?” he asks, glancing at the bar behind Elvis’ shoulder where you’re standing. Elvis is trying hard not to look back because the dress you’re wearing is far more revealing than he’s ever seen you wear, and he doubts if he keeps looking he’ll be able to stop, still that question eats at him.

“The hell are you on Jer?”

“EP, you’re a lot a things,” Jerry says as he gets up, patting him on the back. “Subtle ain’t one a them.”

He knows one more word and Jerry will stop and not approach you, but something stops him from doing so. He figures you’re going to say no anyway, as you made it clear in your first session that you were never going to approach a patient in public, and that’ll be the end of that. Still the thought of you saying no does leave a sour taste in his mouth that the whiskey can’t quite chase away. He steals a glance over his shoulder and with the better lighting at the bar he realizes that that girl ain’t you. Her nose is a different shape, hair color is not quite right in the new light, and this girl doesn’t have quite the same dignified posture that you’ve got.

He shakes his head at these thoughts. It’s ridiculous that he even thought that was you for even a second. You work everyday and he doubts this would be your scene on a Thursday night. He imagines you would be in bed by now or at least settling by this time. You have the look of a good girl who reads at night to fall asleep and he can just about picture the way you would look lounging against a headboard that looks suspiciously familiar. This line of thought leads to him idly wondering what you wear to bed at night, which is quickly broken when Jerry approaches with the girl.

The girl has a face-splitting grin and in her eyes, he finds that star-struck look he’s seen in hundreds of other women's eyes before her. Despite her eyes being similar in color he can’t help but be reminded of the stark difference in your eyes when he met you for the first time. She’s seeing a god where you saw a man.

Still he tries to give the girl, Jackie, a fair shake, but the longer the night goes on the more he has to pick apart. Her voice is a little too high-pitched to be yours. Her make-up, not as pristine as yours usually is. Even her nails seem to annoy him as they are a little longer than how you usually keep them, and they only really drew his attention while she was drumming them along the table as he spoke. The girl is practically shaking in her seat, itching to get out of here with him.

Well at least this one knows what she wants, he thinks to himself as he asks if she would mind a more quiet place to talk.

It’s wrong on so many levels what he’s doing, and he recognizes that as he puts his arm around her shoulders and leads her out of the place. Jane gushes about how big of a fan she’s been since she was a kid and how this is a dream come true. All Elvis could really focus on is if he squints just hard enough he can almost see you saying that to him, and that’s just enough to get him going, as he buries his face into the girl's neck, and he hears sweet moans he wishes came from you.

Jenna was gone come morning, and Elvis is glad for that small mercy. And in the early morning rays, Elvis is left alone with his thoughts, and he gets to truly think about the women he’s been with recently. He thinks of Shannon who drew his eye when he got a whiff of her perfume, and it happened to be the same one he knows you’ve worn before, and he would bury his face in her neck as he pounded into her. Amy whose hair was almost the exact same color as yours and whom he really only liked taking from the behind without truly looking at her face. Carol whose voice sounded eerily close to yours and in the dark he was able to imagine someone else entirely as she moaned his name over and over again. And finally there was Jamie who was almost the spitting image of you save for a few things here and there.

It’s nothing, he tries to lie to himself.

It doesn’t matter.

They don’t matter.

They shouldn’t matter really, they were all gone before the morning came, so obviously none of them weren’t interested in anything serious. Which is good…

…Right?

It fucks with his head something fierce, that he ends up bringing it up the next time he sees you. “I think I lost my way with women.” he would say as soon as he sat down, before you even got a chance to crack open your little notebook.

You quickly put the pen between your lips, in that cute way he likes, to hold while you open your notebook, and ask “in what regard Elvis?” This has got to be a sign as to how comfortable he’s gotten with you. He would never have dared to talk about something like this with anyone else, not so much because he feared that he would be laughed at, but because more than likely he would be plastered with denials and reassurances as to how much of a ladies man he still is, without ever even getting into detail why he felt like that.

Still he finds himself clamming up, wishing to take the words back, shame burning in his belly over these thoughts. You were having none of it, as you put down your notebook and pen on the table between the two of you and lean forward. “Elvis you can talk about this with me,” you coax in your softest voice, something he’s come to expect look forward to.

He smiles at this as he’s come to appreciate this about you. You get right to work and listen as he expresses his fears about his romantic life. You’re a great listener, though he supposes that comes with the job, but in the way you move and watch him, he never doubts that you are. You’re always watching him, you rarely if ever glance at the clock, and nothing about your body language ever says that you’re getting tired of hearing him talk. Even Wilson had that annoying leg bounce thing toward the end of sessions with him.

The only thing he could really complain about was how often you touched your lips while listening. Whether it was simply resting a fist to your mouth or pinching your bottom lip, you’re almost always doing something of the like when you’re concentrating he’s noticed. He doubts you’re doing it on purpose, but he still finds it very distracting. That being said he was never about to tell you to stop.

“Elvis as I understand this dilemma you’re having,” you say. “You’re worried that the only type of women you attract these days are women who are not seeking long-term relationships.”

“I don’t know Doc, it might be nothin’,” he says, still trying to downplay how uncomfortable the concept makes him. “

“If it bothers you Elvis, then it’s not nothing,” you gently encourage. “People thrive on connections to one another, and I’m glad to see that you’re taking steps to establish new connections after all that you’ve faced before. Perhaps these women aren’t all opposed to a romantic relationship, but they may perhaps be under the impression that you are, given your fame.”

“So my reputations workin’ against me on this,” he asks solemnly.

“In a sense, yes. Reputation is a bit of a funny thing like that,” you say. “It’s not so much your actions that make it up, but other’s perceptions of said actions. And if you feel you’re ready to embark on a new long-term relationship, then I would encourage you to start on a solid foundation of honesty.”

“What do you mean? Tell them I’m lookin’ to get married again?”

This gets a small huff of laughter out of you, “Perhaps not that strong in the beginning,” you say. “But something along the lines of… ‘when can we meet up again?’ just a little something like that to establish that you are at the very least interested in a long-term relationship.”

“Doc, would you wanna be with me,” he says, and he would be lying if he says he didn’t enjoy the way your eyes practically bugged out of your head before he recovered with a “or someone with a reputation like me?”

You try to pass off your sigh of relief as simply a deep breath before you answer with, “I personally try not to let others' perceptions of potential partners affect my own feelings toward them. And I reassure you that there are others of the same mind and should you signal that you want something more… permanent, you’ll find someone.” you say with a reassuring smile on your face. “While we’re still on this topic as to your romantic life…” you trail off slightly. “You stated one of your goals in therapy was to rekindle your relationship with your Ex-Wife. Is she the one you’re talking about trying to have a relationship with?”

“... no,” he sighs, as he eyes you sitting directly across from him. “I-I love her and all but… I-I don’t know if I want her in the same way I did before. And… I-I think I want someone else.” He thinks this is the first time he’s been able to say this out loud, but it admittedly does feel like a weight lifted off his shoulders as he admits to it. You give a soft, reassuring smile at his words, and while he knows that it’s probably because you’re happy to see him moving forward with his life, a small part of him wants to believe it’s because you want him to be available.

“I understand, Elvis,” you reassure him. “And rest assured that should you at any point choose otherwise you’re, of course, free to do so.”

He leaves later on reassured in his worth as a partner, but the thought that you had been approached by men before leaves an otherwise good meeting with a sour note. That’s the first time he realizes that you have a life outside of your office and somehow worse, you have other patients you talk to. It’s like seeing a teacher at a grocery store and realizing they don’t live at school.

He knows it ain’t right to feel this way, that you’re a person too, who has more to offer than just what you do for your job. But he can’t help the way he feels. Saddest part is the person he would go to talk about these feelings with is the person he has to talk about.

And so rather than actually dealing with it, head on he tried to satisfy these feelings for you in other ways, but he promised himself he would never act on them.

At least… not yet.

It was working for a time, he would see you twice a week, he would bear his soul to you alone, and slowly but surely you also opened up to him as well. There were small comments here and there about simple preferences which eventually gave way to you talking a bit about your time and school and your friends, and to his relief you never brought up any sort of boyfriend. But outside of your office he accepted that he did in fact have a “type” and most of his boys made it their mission to find girls that look even a little bit like you.

And yet the more he saw you, the more he fell for you.

After the wine incident he knew he couldn’t deny himself what he wanted anymore and he gradually started to lay the groundwork in order to make that happen.

When he would casually slip in pet names for you, kiss the back of your hand, or even when he would linger a little too long after a session you never said anything about it. And he always took that as an opportunity to go further and further each time.

He even started reading up on Psychology, and to his surprise some of it was down right fascinating, especially learning how it stems from Physiology meeting Philosophy. Sure the dog studies and the Milgram experiment ended up being very useful to him later on, but he does believe Freud was onto something there. But he can’t wrap his head around why you tend to get very skittish when you do on occasion bring up his Mama.

He likes to think she would’ve liked you very much for how smart and responsible you are. She maybe wouldn’t have loved the whole working outside of home thing, but he eventually fixed that.

The same way he taught himself to play music was the same way he got you to fall in love with him: laser-sharp focus and unwavering persistence.

But then you had to go and almost throw that all away. You spat in the face of his gift and tried to reprimand him for doing a nice thing for you. So he had to play it cool for a while after that. You seemed to retreat a bit from him, but you were no less warm and caring for him. You even stopped really remarking when he would “accidentally” bump into you when you’re out and about.

But no dice the next time he tried. It was only as Jerry returned with a guilty look on his face did he realize his mistake in A. sending someone else and B. not framing it as a part of his therapy, which he knows you wouldn’t have refused.

“EP…” Jerry says lightly. “Y-your shrink…”

“What ‘bout her Jerry,” Elvis asks in no mood after your refusal.

“I-I noticed that she-she kinda looks like some a the girls you been seein’,” he swallows a bit. Seemingly praying to god he’s wrong about this.

“No,” the rockstar says simply, not really caring to beat around the bush anymore, and Jerry seems almost relieved until he continues. “They look like her,” and for as callous as it sounds he can’t even muster an ounce of sympathy for them, as though it’s their fault that they’re not you. But the reality is, none of them could hold a candle to you, and they only matter so far in preventing him from getting too frustrated with how slow you're taking things.

“Elvis… I-I don’t think it-it’s such a good idea to get so… involved with your doctor again,” Jerry would say tentatively, unsure how he would react.

“Jerry,” he says, trying to control his temper, and remembering those breathing exercises you went over with him. “I think my business is my business.”

“I-I know but-”

“But nothin’ Jerry!” he yells. “Y’all had fuck all to say when I was runnin’ myself in the grave! And now that I’m gettin back on track, now you wanna step in?!” Jerry gaped at him, before quickly shutting his mouth, a guilty look taking over his face as he looked down at the ground, having nothing to say. “Get the fuck outta my face Jerry.”

Jerry and the rest that knew about you since the beginning would eventually come around on you, seeing hat you did for him and how much he needed you. It served him all the better later on. Though now that all feels like ancient history now, especially now that you’re together in private, in public, and pretty soon under the eyes of the lord.

As far as you know Elvis didn’t want to acknowledge the “blackmail” and simply announced your engagement. He didn’t even want to acknowledge Parker, as that would imply there’s anything wrong with your relationship that he could have exploited.

The way he tells the story is that a couple months after rehab, he was out and about in Memphis when you caught his eye from across the room. He described it as nothing short of love at first sight, but the problem was he had no idea how to approach a woman as sophisticated as you. It was made all the worse when he did approach and you introduced yourself as Dr. Y/L/N, you weren’t so awestruck by him, and in fact talked to him like a normal person. He was so caught off guard that when you had revealed that you were a therapist he jumped at the chance and said he had been looking for one in the area after rehab and you had given him your business card.

How the next few months were about how you became his therapist, and how he was more or less scheming to sweep you off your feet the moment he could. How you tried your best to keep things professional until you could no longer deny your feelings nor could he deny his. None of which was a lie, but he did have to clean up the story for the reporters (didn’t stop Penthouse from begging for the dirtier details).

The story was simple, almost the ideal story of the recovery of a troubled man and how it was the love of a good woman that helped him heal from all of it (Say what you will, he knows you’ve loved him longer than you’re willing to admit). And the people ate it up.

Everybody could see how good you were for him, how he’s back and better than ever because of your efforts.

He wishes you wouldn’t focus so much on the others who want to make this out as a bad thing for either of you. They don’t know you and they especially don't know him, so how can they judge what either of you do. That board of therapists may say that the two of you being together is wrong, and for a time you may even have believed that but he knows in his heart of hearts that this was meant to be.

Afterall you yourself showed him how other people’s perceptions of you shouldn’t affect your own perception of yourself.

As far as days in Graceland it’s a pretty typical and quiet one, Mary makes the two of you breakfast, you both practice tai chi while it’s still early, you sit with him at the piano as he worked on music, and later he would bend you over the piano so you could make some music for him, you have lunch. It’s looking to be a perfect day.

You’re never too far from him anymore but he doesn’t think he’ll ever have enough of you. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Sometime after lunch, Jerry comes around with those books you ordered. As much as you tried to hide it at first, he could see you were excited for the world tour. Studying up on the history of practically every city he was going to be performing in, trying to learn a couple languages, sharing almost everything with him.

You look so in your element when you’re reading, and he can’t help but intrude and make his dreams into a reality. You're startled at first as he rests his head in your lap, but you quickly adjust and ease into the new position.

He’s close to purring with the way you run your nails along his scalp, so familiar and comforting a gesture that it’s not long before his eyelids go heavy and he finds himself drifting off to sleep with a smile on his face.

With you around, sleep is coming easier and easier these days. You worry about this, fearing that he would become too dependent on you for sleep.

He can’t help it that you’re such a dependable person.

He would wake up later, only the slightest bit distressed that you were gone, but he knows that you wouldn’t have gone too far. And he didn’t have to look too hard to find you, as you stepped out of your dressing room, and sees you wearing something very familiar.

He doesn’t think he'll ever forget that night.

He thought at the time that nothing could happen between you two. He had accepted that at first, tried to content himself to having you in his life in whatever way he could, even if only platonically. He admits he may have stalled some days, especially the sessions after you would remark how far he’s come in therapy, all in order to drag out his time with you.

It truly felt like the stars had aligned for the both of you that night. He wasn’t really one for fancy places like this, any other day he would have taken a cheap little diner, but he had been craving a real good steak for a while and figured some fancy place like this would be his best bet. Imagine his surprise when he just idly glanced down at the reservation book and saw your name.

He had been hoping to build something between the two of you outside of your office for a while by that point, but that day you just so happened to have ended up at the same restaurant as him. This just solidified in his head that the two of you were meant to be, because it couldn’t be just a coincidence that the two of you ended up at the same place that night. He gathered up the nerve to approach you that night, thinking about what you said as to how you would like to be approached by a man, ready to put himself out there.

His breath hitches as he sees the little white dress you’re wearing and his palms sweat a bit when he approaches. Overall he feels like a kid trying to ask the prettiest girl for a dance, terrifying yet exhilarating all the same.

“Dr. Y/L/N, funny meeting you here,” Elvis would say in his best attempt to sound casual.

“Mr. Presley, how are you?” you would say, surprise evident in your eyes but the small smile on your face genuine as any.

“I’m doin’ just fine.”

“That’s good to hear. I’m glad.”

“Are you here alone?” he gently probes, trying to figure out a way to get the rest to leave the table if he can get you to join him.

“No, my date is just in the restroom.” you say pointing in the general direction of the bathroom.

Something almost akin to betrayal flashes through him in that moment, but he quickly tries to stamp it down as even he realizes that he had no right to feel that way. “Well, have a good night.” he says, trying to be as amiable as possible.

“You too,” you say with an uneasy look in your eyes.

Gorgeous girl like her, it’d be crazy for her not to have a date, he thinks, sitting back down with his buddies. Not a single one of them acknowledges what just happened and somehow it feels all the worse. Still it doesn’t sit right with him, the idea of you being out of your office and looking so beautiful and only to waste it on some undeserving mook.

But… in all the months he’s been seeing you, he ain’t ever seen a ring on your finger, so he doubts it’s that serious. He can’t see your table, which he’s thankful for, because it at least removes the temptation to keep looking your way. But with how sparsely populated the restaurant is at this point he can just barely make out your voice, and he can clearly hear your laugh. It’s such a beautiful thing to hear, and it takes him fully out of the conversation he’s having with Sonny, which pretty much makes all of them take notice of how weird he’s acting but they won’t say anything about it.

But quickly bitterness takes over in his mouth when he hears the accompanying chuckle from your faceless companion. Especially when he’s only ever awarded small huffs of amusement in your office while that motherfucker can get you to laugh like that.

… He really shouldn’t be thinking like this…

It practically spits in the face of all you’ve been doing for him to go back to his old jealous ways. He drinks some of the wine to calm himself down and earnestly tries to go back to the talk he was having.

He does try, but by the third glass in, he becomes a bit distracted by the wine. He’s not usually much of a fan of the stuff, but even he can appreciate a good bottle when he has it. Not too sweet but just enough to mask the burn of alcohol, while pairing well with his steak.

All he’s really thinking at that moment is how much you would probably appreciate it too. So he flags down the stuffy waiter and insists that a similar bottle be brought to your table, on him of course.

He doesn’t really think too much of it, and later as Charlie’s doing his best impression of Parker to a host of hoots and hollers from the rest, does the waiter return. “Your friends send their thanks for the wine,” he says simply walking away.

So you took it… he finds it very interesting.

If there was nothing there, you could have said no and he would’ve put it behind him. But you accepted the wine… there had to be something more to it. Especially since you were on a “date” with another man, and what woman accepts a drink from another man if she wasn’t at the very least interested.

As he leaves, there is a part of him that aches leaving you behind, especially with another man, and the only solace he takes is that you accepting that bottle of wine had to mean something.

His home feels achingly empty as he walks in, even as he’s surrounded by his buddies. He’s trying to follow your advice with the whole set sleep schedule thing so it’s only midnight by the time he walks through his front door.

Even if come Monday you flat out reject him, he tries to content himself to have you just be his therapist. How maybe even after you graduate him out you can still continue being friends outside of your office and he won’t have to lose you as well.

Still all of that rings hollow that night as he recalls furiously jerking himself off in his bed, tears streaming down his face and your name on his lips, as he thought of you in that dress. What’s worse is that the fantasy he has of you is not even necessarily erotic, and by most standards, it’s practically mundane. But it’s precisely because of how normal it is that it feels so foreign yet nonetheless attractive to him, and thus far more dangerous than any wet dream he’s had of you before.

He imagines bringing you to Graceland from the restaurant. How you would strip yourself of that dress, effortlessly seductive as you swap it for a nightie, and how you would get a little bashful as you notice him staring before crawling into bed beside him. But unlike other dreams he has of you, you simply lay back and allow him to bury his face in your chest. “What’s on your mind Elvis?” you would ask him.

He can almost feel the scrape of your nails on his scalp, as you listen to his woes. The slight rise and fall of your chest as he rests his head on it. How all of your ministrations are comforting and relaxing rather than teasing or playful, like your content to simply sit and be with him alone rather than doing anything else. Like you’re there for him, not for Elvis Presley.

He wanted that. He wanted you.

And now he has you.

And nothing will ever take you away.

“Mmm, I remember this,” he hums to you while wrapping his arms around your waist as you put the finishing touches to your face. You preen under his attention, and wriggle a little as his fingers brush the hem of your skirt, both of you practically itching for a repeat of that first concert.

While in general he would have preferred you wore something he gave you, he has no doubt that the dress is not gonna survive the night once you get home.

“Where you headin’ lookin’ this good?” he asks, trying not to sound too sore about it.

You sigh as you put down your brush, squaring your shoulders as though you’re about to step into a battlefield. “Ma’s throwing me a Bridal shower remember,” you answer.

Yeah he does remember, but he honestly wishes you hadn’t. Though he can hardly begrudge you for being less than ecstatic about your party, as he also doesn’t want you to go but for very different reasons. Try as he might, he couldn’t justify going with you, and just the idea of you being out of reach made his stomach uneasy. His only solace in the situation was that he was able to convince your Mama to not invite any of your old college girlfriends, as the last thing he needs is for any of them to be putting ideas in your head again.

Besides, it marks the first time in awhile since he’s gotten all of his buddies together at once, so he’s determined to enjoy the night as much as he can without you. He thinks he’s had his fill of the bachelor life, so his party ain’t nothing too crazy all things considered.

For as much as he did clean house once he booted Parker out, there were still those in his circle he could do without personally but still served their purposes well.

He’s made it clear he won’t stand for any of them talking any kind of nonsense about you, but that doesn’t stop them from bemoaning the “life” he’s giving up all in order to get hitched yet again. The partying, the girls, the drugs he would give up ten times over for you.

By midnight he’s even close to calling it for the night hoping that you’ll be home soon.

For as much as they rag on him for becoming so domesticated he’s well aware of the fact that they are nonetheless happy for your presence in his life. He knows that while some of them are genuinely glad that he’s now better for his own sake, he’s all too aware that some of them only “care” because their very livelihoods depend on him.

Not you though. What you gave up when you thought you were protecting him, you proved yourself to be far more caring and loyal than anyone he’s ever met. And he rests easier knowing you’re watching out for him, even at a great cost to yourself.

It almost makes him feel guilty for what he had to do.

Almost.

And, as though summoned, you make your way through the front door. The second you walk in, he loses interest in just about everything else in the room. You look like you just got through twelve rounds with Muhammad Ali.

He already knows you don’t got the best relationship with your folks but understands you couldn’t get out of going without raising questions. But if it went bad it saves him the trouble from having to talk you out of visiting them too often.

Truly it makes his heart soar the way you light up a bit upon seeing him and he hopes

And then it goes to shit.

He sees you lazily look around the room, probably trying to figure out a tactful way to get rid of them all. But then your brow furrows, and you give the entire room a once over again, and then you seem to look intently at every single person in the room as though you’re tallying them up. And once you finish that, it only seems to distress you more.

You’ve got that same look in your eye when you’re reading your mysteries, with your brow furrowed and your hands to your lips. He’s confused as to what may be going on in that pretty little head of yours, until he looks around and remembers that ALL of his buddies are here now.

Something that shouldn’t be if he had really handled the ones that had apparently squealed the two of you out to Parker.

Huh… you figured it out just like that, he thinks. This is honestly what he gets for choosing a smart one like you, but he can't say he’s not a little proud that you were able to do so. Besides it’s not much of a choice when it’s meant to be.

He takes one last puff off his cigar before stamping it out into the accompanying ashtray, after all no use in trying to pretend anymore. You're cracking a case wide open in your head and he figures there ain’t no point in drawing it out for much longer.

“Hey Charlie,” he draws out, and your eyes snap back to him, apparently terrified to be proven right.

“Yeah EP?” he answers, always the good friend who would go along with any plan regardless of how he personally felt about it if it meant getting him back on track.

“Why don’tcha do that voice,” he says smiling a bit as his friends goes a bit ashen at the request. “Always gets a good laugh.”

Charlie thinks he’s subtle when he steals a glance your way. He is not.

“You sure ‘bout that EP,” he asks, nervously swallowing, his eyes begging to not have to do this. Which gets the attention of all of them, and some of them shift uncomfortably at what’s about to go down, downing the last of their drinks and nervously gathering their things hoping to make a quick getaway. The ones who don’t know are looking at Charlie anticipating a good laugh but they quickly pick up on how worried he looks and quickly follow suit, figuring nothing good would come of this.

Elvis only has eyes for you though, morbidly curious as to how you’re going to react, the same way your eyes are firmly fixed on him, no doubt fearing that you’re right. He almost calls it off at that point, but call it what you want he believes that once this secret is over and done with, the two of you will be all the stronger for it and there will be absolutely nothing to hold you back.

“Who am I talkin’ to?” Elvis asks Charlie all the while making full eye contact with you. Contrary to what you may believe he doesn’t in fact enjoy hurting you with these hard truths, he’s just not as skilled as you in breaking them to you in a more delicate manner.

Charlie lets out a deep, tired sigh before, without any more preamble, he says, “You’re talking to the man that gave the world Elvis Presley,” in his most perfect Parker impression.

Your face fully falls.

Once upon a time you had told him how sometimes people need to be guided by another to get what they wanted. And he knows for a fact that you wanted him, it was only your damn job and it’s rules that held you back. That’s where his head was at after that fucking anniversary party.

You are the only woman alive who can proudly say she’s broken his heart not once, not twice, but three times. The first time being when you threatened to switch him to another therapist, but luckily he saw right through that ploy.

The next time when you had the gall to lie to his face about where you were going. When you started speaking about Saturday, he could feel his heart flutter a bit, truly believing you were gonna invite him to meet your folks. Even now he could imagine how it would have felt to be offered such a thing, to be brought home and be introduced as your boyfriend proper. Even after you brought up your friends he could have dealed with that if only it would bring him much more into your life. Only for you to bring him back down to Earth with your refusal to bring him.

The last time was when you couldn’t say you loved him back. God was that a kick to the chest because he may not be the smartest man, but even he knew that it meant one of two things. Either you wanted to say it and you couldn’t for whatever reason… or you didn’t love him and you were just feeling particularly guilty about it that day. ‘

He couldn’t accept that though. Something in your life was preventing you from saying it back and really he knew there could only be one thing. Was it really so monstrous to remove it if it left you feeling like this?

You love him, he knows that you do and you only need a push in the right direction in order to admit it.

And if you didn’t… he couldn’t afford to think like that.

So he had to push through. Had to do what was necessary. Had to believe you love him.

Had to believe he was still worth loving.

He knew words meant nothing at the end of the day (you taught him as much) he had to find a way to prove you did love him and that you weren’t in it for yourself.

The only question was how.

After he sees you leave that place, looking devastated, it takes everything within him to not take you in his arms. But he has a goal in mind and he has to figure out where exactly you're at mentally in order to push through.

For all he knows you’re on your way to pack up your office right now, but he has to be sure.

Red tries to stop him before he gets out of the car, but ends up backing off, with a single glare his way. He waits for a bit before approaching the modest looking house after you had left, and knocks on the door, and once it opens he has to remind himself who he’s doing this for, and knock that fucker’s lights out.

Even when he has never met them before, people weirdly enough have a lot of trust in him. And Mark Whatever his last name is, proves to be no different. Elvis greets him with his first name and a quick hug as though they were old friends and lets himself into the house as Mark still gapes at the doorway.

He finds a den with two identical mugs on a coffee table, and he finds a very familiar lipstick color on one of them (how could he not there’s still a ring of it around his cock). Mark shuffles his way into the sitting room, absolutely struck dumb by Elvis' presence, and Elvis finds it hard to believe that he ever saw him as a rival for your love.

Mark notices the mugs still on the coffee table and makes a motion to grab them, stammering out an apology about the mess. Before he could do so, Elvis notices the light color from your mug and hides a self satisfied smirk at that. Where once you only took your coffee black, your tastes have now become closer aligned to his own.

Elvis puts a hand down on the mug as he says, “Why dontcha take a seat right down there Mark?” It’s kind of pathetic really seeing a man take orders from a stranger in his own house, but it serves Elvis’ purposes all the better. And with the way Mark awkwardly takes a seat it’s apparent that he is still flustered at Elvis’ presence in his den.

Good, he thinks. Should keep him honest.

“Wh-what’s this about?” Mark asks, uneasily.

“It’s about our good friend, Y/N of course,” he says as though it were so obvious.

“O-Oh, uh, she was over here not too long ago,” he stammered out, before his brows furrowed even more confused. “How do you know her?”

“Through her daddy,” Elvis lies coolly. “I don’t know if you noticed but she’s been a bit outta sorts recently. And I’m hopin’ you could help me figure out what’s been botherin’ her.”

“I-I don’t think it’s my place to say,” Mark sputters out.

“C’mon Matt,” he says, leaning forward just a little bit to really sell the concern. “You can talk to me ‘bout this,” echoing your own words from way back when.

If he noticed the wrong name he didn’t say anything as he nervously looks down at his own hands, before muttering out a soft “she’s been having some trouble with a patient of hers.”

“Huh…” he says, raising his brows a bit at this. “She tell you who?”

“She would never tell me anything like that,” he quickly defends and Elvis relaxes a bit. “But ummm… she-she just needed some advice as to how to handle this patient. And I-I let her know that whatever consequences she imagines would happen, are not as bad as the reality. So it would be better to act now as opposed to later.”

“Hmmm…” he hums, and just like that he can already feel you slipping through his fingers. But he holds on to that look you had leaving. How distressed you looked at the idea of having to drop him all together, but he also knows you’re a tough one that can make the right decisions, even when they’re hard, and that’s why he loves you so. “Tell me Max, what would you do if you were in her situation?” he asks even though he already figures the answer.

“Personally… I would’ve dropped the patient a long time ago,” he says without any remorse. He says this next part so coldly that he finds it hard to imagine that you have ever had anything in common with him save for your chosen field. “Not just because it is the right thing to do, but because, for as little information as I have about the situation, this patient is simply not worth all the grief they’re causing her.”

But it’s not me, Elvis wanted to defend. It’s her work, if it weren’t for that gettin’ in the way she wouldn’t have to be so goddamn worried all the time.

“And did you tell her that?” Elvis asks, worried as to what may be brewing in that little head of yours if this son of a bitch has been whispering in your ear.

“God no,” the professor says. “I told her to do what she can live with. But I know her,” he says leaning back, sure in his opinion, though unaware that these words perhaps just saved his life. “She’s gonna make the right choice on her own or it won’t mean much.”

For all his degrees, he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about, is all Elvis can really think in that moment. He can’t possibly even begin to understand the kind of relationship you have with him, and how in fact he is the right choice for you, as you’re his.

If a baby was about to walk into a pool, would he just let it happen because it was it’s choice? That’s downright evil in his book. Sometimes you need to make the decision for others and step in when they’re about to make the wrong ones. And if that’s what he has to do to for you then goddamnit he will.

“Well, I think I best get going,” Elvis would say after contemplating this man's words. He knew how impressionable you can be, so he needs to act fast to undo whatever poison this asshole put in your head.

“O-oh of course,” he stutters. “Umm.. thank you for stopping by today.”

“Now Mark, that fancy title you got, tells me you’re a smart man, right?” Elvis says a hand on his shoulder as he makes his way to the door.

“...yes?” he answers tentatively.

“Now this story, I think it best you keep it to yourself.” he says, and he watches the man's brow furrowed in confusion. “Afterall I don’t think you wanna be known in your field for blabbin’ anything to anyone who just walks in your door.”

“Of course not,” he says uneasily. “Thank you for your concern for Y/N, Elvis. Hopefully she’ll be back to normal soon.”

“Course,” Elvis would reply, holding out his hand for the professor, which Mark takes. “And please, call me Mr. Presley,” and on that confusing note he turns around and heads back to the car.

He stews on that asshole’s words the whole way home, no one daring to talk about it until he did. He wants to trust

But he knows if he lets this stand and doesn’t interfere, you’re going to make the wrong choice. Ultimately he decides to make the choice for you for your own good. He’s let chance rule his life for far too long, so he’s gotta make his own luck.

He cycles through just about everything he knows about you and tries to figure out how it could possibly help him.

And then he remembers how you once told him how your worst fear is seeing your patients fall back to their old ways, especially with those who abused them.

Just the thought of going back to Parker makes him sick to his stomach. For as much as he loves you, he’s not willing to do anything that will bring that bastard back into the fold, and he doubts you would want that either. But he almost resolves himself to do it until he’s pulling into the driveway and sees Charlie’s car.

And then he’s reminded that Charlie always did do a pretty spot on Parker impression. Especially if you ain’t ever heard that old toad talk before. And finally an awful plan began to form in his head.

It’s sneaky and underhanded, and it literally leaves a bad taste in his mouth that could only be chased away by that Wine. That sweet taste on his tongue reminds him of that first night in your office. He remembers how you cried so sweetly for him. How you pushed him away so overwhelmed with what you felt for him. How excited you got when he called you by your name. How you called him daddy for the first time.

What he remembers most of all is how he had to apply some pressure to you in order to break through that tough professional wall you’ve set between the two of you. But it was worth that sweet sweet outcome.

And if he gets the answer he wants from you, it would be worth it yet again.

You wanted him to take charge then, and you want him to take charge now.

So this is something he has to do and this is his cross to bear.

Ideally you never had to know.

Once the call was over Charlie could hardly look him in the eye, and practically scrambles to get the hell out of there once given the signal. He feels a twinge of guilt and hopes that this be the last morally bad thing he asks of the man. But with the way you’ve been able to keep him on the straight and narrow since you’ve met him, he thinks it will be.

Still he welcomes the solitude, knowing that this is undoubtedly going to be the worst minutes of his life, and the only one he could even fathom spending them with is the one he’s currently waiting on. He knows you well enough that you wouldn’t be one to sit on this for too long, so tonight he’s going to learn one of two things about you: either you tell him about “Parker” and try to help save him from the rat bastard… or you say yes to “Parker” and you prove yourself to be like the rest.

He tries to chase that nasty feeling out of his head with the wine, and the sweet taste of it reminds him of that first night with you. How for all of your fighting and protesting you still gave in, how you kept coming back even as he knowingly put you through the wringer. How you would settle just as easily in his arms as he did in yours.

If that ain't love, then I guess I don’t know what the hell is, he remembers thinking. You’re the last hope he has to believe that he can be loved for him, not for Elvis Presley. To love him through his fears, his hopes, his anxiousness, his temper, his jealousy, his dreams, all of it.

And his faith in you is rewarded as you as his phone rings within minutes.

Where most people would blow up in a rage and scream and curse till their hoarse about something like this, you’re not like most people. No you’re far too composed to ever do that. Growing up in a house where your wants and feelings were second to everything will do that to you he guesses.

You’re like that with everyone… except for him. You freely express all your thoughts and opinions with him, never afraid to give him the business when necessary but always honest in a way few people in his life are these days.

You’re at your most vulnerable with him. You’re so used to hiding how you feel for others' benefits, and he’s glad you don’t have to do that with him. It was a long hard road to get to this point but goddamn if it wasn't worth every moment.

He’s almost… giddy knowing that you’re going to be mad and he’s gonna be the only witness to it.

But for all your anger and fury, righteous or not. Ain’t none of it will change the fact that at the end of the day you still chose him.

And even as you wordlessly turn and walk almost robotically up the stairs he’s confident that you’re going to choose him again.

He barely has time to get the words out before the rest of them are in a frenzy to get out of the house, apparently unwilling to stick around for the fireworks. He doesn’t know what they're so squeamish about, he knows for a fact that they would’ve done worse if he asked them to.

He trots up the stairs, maybe going a little slower, wanting to really rile you up. When he gets to your shared bedroom, you’re packing up a storm.

It’s honestly cute that you think you’re going anywhere.

A part of him knows he should feel more guilty about it. He does feel some guilt of course he’s not a monster, but it does feel roughly the same amount of guilt if he had broken a vase or something. It felt bad in the moment, and he tried his damndest to hide it, but ultimately it didn’t mean much.

Sure you had been upset those first few weeks after the story dropped but eventually you did get over it and finally learned to enjoy your newfound life as his girl. Yes it cost you your job, but in the grand scheme of things it didn’t matter much.

And if he’s being honest it only really mattered in getting you to meet him.

Most people would be either on their knees begging for forgiveness from you or continuing to feign ignorance to all of it.

But he’s not most people. He knows what he did and he knows he ain’t got nothing to be sorry over.

“Can you believe them Hollywood producers ain’t never wanted me in no serious movies?” he says casually, now that there are no more secrets between either of you.

You throw a bottle of wine at him.

-------------------------

Ending Note: As Battie as my witness I’ve had this twist planned since the beginning. It’s up to you if I did enough to justify this choice but I am happy with the results.

Taglist

@venus-haze @djsjs13949 @ilovehobi101 @butlerslut @richardslady121 @giabelia @sydneyyyya @meetme0614 @tacozebra051 @myradiaz @thelifes-world @maythesunshineagain @rakitirakiti @lostteenagetale @j-v-9-2 @eliseinmemphis @dkayfixates @immi547 @thatbanditqueen @marriedtoeddie @cuteejeno @itlover8000 @isthlsfate @mgparker @thatbanditqueen @softsatnin @literally-just-elvis-fics @adaydreamaway08 @airyx0x0 @domoron @angelborn-1998

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flwersgarden · 1 year

Note

i don’t know if this is gonna make a whole lotta sense but i’ve been obsessed with your writing for like ever and i was hoping maybe you could do a combination between little!reader and daddy!elvis but make elvis like a yandere sorta with it? like he takes advantage of readers little space and uses it to make sure that he’s the only one who can really like take care of her when she’s in that space you know? i have no idea if that makes sense or not, if it doesn’t or you don’t wanna write it don’t worry about it! :)

note: it makes sense, my love, don't worry! i will write this one with austin!elvis in mind since i'm not very comfortable in making real life elvis a yandere soooo, either way, please enjoy!

“ how are you, baby? ”

you looked up from your drawing book, smiling brightly at the sight of elvis with his leather suit entering the room you were in.

“ daddy! ” you squeaked out, running up to him, leaving your crayons on the floor.

elvis smiled, crouching so he could hug you; giving you some twirls before kissing your face making you giggle a bit at how funny it felt.

“ hey, baby. ” he whispered before leaving you on the ground, patting your butt a bit before walking to the sofa. “ how was it? ”

you immediately knew he was talking about the small trip you went to with one of his bodyguards; you insisted on someone taking you to the park since you felt yourself dying from boredom locked in the room, elvis being the amazing daddy he is allowed you to (of course, not without security).

“ it was great, daddy! ” you jumped, taking advantage of elvis' tired attitude to pick everything up so he wouldn't rebuke you about it.

elvis nodded, sitting on the couch, patting his lap as he looked at how cute you were. “ 'm glad. ”

you sat on his lap after putting everything on its place, kissing his cheek before patting your own pink dress. “ how was the performance, dada? ” you put your face in the croon of his neck, enjoying the small touches he gave to your hair and back.

“ it was good. i think. ” he murmured the last part, kissing your forehead before a knock interrupted the both of you. “ who is it? ”

“ the colonel, my boy. ”

elvis rolled his eyes while sighing, patting your butt again but this time for you to move.

you pouted, not only did you missed him but you wanted some cuddles. so when elvis opened the door, you subtly showed your tongue to the colonel, who just frowned at you before turning to look at elvis.

“ we need to talk. ”

elvis hummed and for a few seconds it was quiet before he looked at you, who was still sitting on the couch. “ doll. ”

“ yes? ” you asked.

he grabbed his wallet from one of the closest tables around him, giving it to you as you walked to him. “ go and buy us some snacks, will ya? ”

you nodded, grabbing his wallet before leaving.

but just as you were exiting the room, you stomped in colonel's foot making him howl in anger.

“ THAT GODDAMN-. ”

you couldn't hear the rest of it as you ran away.

️️ ️️️️️️️️️

as you walked through the set, you couldn't help but stare at everything. when elvis and you walked in here you didn't paid much attention as you were too focused in playing with the new toy elvis gave you.

almost everyone in there knew you were little, that's why no one gave you strange looks. also because they were terrified of elvis and how he may react if you go and tell him if someone treated you badly.

you skip to the table full of food, beverages and drinks, smiling as you catch some cotton candy. you go to grab it but as you do it, some hand grabs it and offers it to you.

“ here. ”

you look up at the strange man, not bad looking but... strange.

“t-thank you. ” you stiffly say, grabbing the stick of the candy before turning to leave.

“ wait. ” he steps in front of you.

you are caught off guard with how this man is acting so you just bring the cotton candy to your chest, quiet.

he smiles. “ okay. look. ” he takes off a small notebook from his jacket, a pen too; clicking it as he searches though his notebook's pages. “ i wanted to interview you for so long and. ” he chuckles but it seems tired. “ that man of yours just doesn't fumbles the bag, huh? ”

you frown, confused at what he is implying.

“ so. y/n presley, would you mind telling me. ” he puts the pen ends in the notebook. “ is this, ” he points at your outfit. “ some kind of sickloving trap elvis has you in? ”

“ excuse me? ” you quickly answer.

the man just shrugs. “ yeah. is this some kind of syndrome he put in you after he married you? ”

you step back, feeling your heart crushing with his words. “ i don't know what you mean, mister, i-. ”

he laughs, interrupting you. “ come on. i mean, the press knew you were weird but-. ”

suddenly, a hand pushes the man's figure away from you as some arms surround you.

“ man, what did i said?! no fucking reporters! ” jerry exclaims from behind you, walking to the strange man with his fists clenched but abruptly turns and points at someone behind you. “ take her to ep! ”

that person grabs you, carefully, taking you to elvis while you drop the cotton candy on them ground. elvis' wallet is still being gripped by your hand as if it's the only thing telling you this is real.

️️ ️️️️️️️️️

“ i fucking told every single one of you! ”

you sit in the white couch of Graceland, the home your daddy bought, drawing some flowers while he and his staff, alongside the memphis mafia, are sitting on the diner room. bit far from you. enough for you to not hear anything that was being discussed in that room.

“ ep, we told y-. ”

elvis raises an arm, turning with his hands in his waist. he looks at you.

silence overpowers the moment, everyone except you and elvis uncomfortable. elvis slightly smiled as you frowned in concentration with your gaze stuck on the drawing.

“ did y'all ever fell in love, folks? ” he suddenly asks. some men clear their throat as everyone denies it. elvis nods. “ some of y'all may think that yes. you have. ”

he turns to look at them. “ but you haven't. at least not like me. ” he points at you. “ that girl keeps me from going insane. ”

he walks to the fridge. everyone keeps silent.

the fridge gets harshly closed, making some people jump in their seats, a beer being opened is heard.

elvis takes a gulp out of the beer.

“ i thought i was very clear. ” elvis mutters.

“ you were, ep. ” jerry stands up.

elvis looks at him.

“ it's our fault. ” he looks at everyone in the room as they nod and gives affirmative responses. jerry looks at elvis again. “ i promise you, that man has being taken care of. nothing like that will happen again. ”

elvis nods, walking up to jerry patting him on the back and just as he is about to give him his thanks for admitting his fault, someone stands up. the chair screeching. everyone looks at that man.

“ no. ” he says, clearly afraid.

everyone, expect him and elvis, open their eyes in shock and horror.

“ man, sit down. ” someone mutters with a harsh tone, trying to make him sit but he pulls his arm away.

“ no, man, this is fucked up. ” he shakes his head, looking at everyone before sticking his gaze to elvis' piercing blue eyes.

“ ep, ignore-. ” jerry tries to take elvis away.

“ no. ” elvis raises a palm, making jerry quiet. “ i'm interested. ” he keeps his arms on a chair top, looking at the man. “ why do you say that? ”

elvis' calm demeanor makes everyone tremble. the calm before the storm.

the man sobs before pointing at you. “ that woman doesn't know what the fuck is going on half of the time. ” he whispers, his arm falls to his side again. “ when you just introduced us to her, she was... ”

everyone looks down.

of course, they know what he is talking about.

when you and elvis started dating, you weren't much into your little space. you felt safe enough in your relationship for you to run to that comfort zone.

but after something personal happened to you, you cried to elvis, telling him how the little space was something you weren't usually comfortable in talking with partners since some of them shamed you for it but that you needed to run into it for comfort.

elvis just smiled at your ranting, kissing your head and caressing your hair while nodding his head.

“ it's okay. i understand. ” he said to you.

you raised your head, teary eyed, looking like an angel. “ w-what-... do you mean? ” a sob interrupted you mid sentence.

“ i mean that it's okay. you don't have to feel ashamed about it with me. my love. ” he grabbed your cheeks, making you look at him. “ i accept you and love everything about you. it's not something to be shamed about. ” he kissed your nose, making you pout.

he smiled. “ you'll just have to guide me through it. ”

and that you did. you explained him everything trying to be as clear as possible.

elvis loved little you. for multiple reasons. but the one that stood out the most was because little you always looked for him.

she always wanted him.

he loved to come back home from a long day of filming to find little you drawing, to see your shiny eyes looking up at him as if he hung the moon and stars.

he loved that you were so dependent on him. he loved to take care of you.

but when he noticed that you weren't into your space as much as he'd like... he started to change both of your lives.

making your room bright pink with the excuse that the color suits you.

buying you fluffy dresses with the excuse of how comfortable they looked to wear and how they would match his own outfits.

gifting you candies and toys with the excuse of them being from a different state so he had to bring you a souvenir.

and with small steps, he turned you into his little babygirl.

you started slipping into your little space more often since everything reminded you of how wonderful it is to be in it.

and everyone knew. because elvis told them to don't say shit about it.

‘ don't you dare make her slip out. ’

‘ don't let anyone question her about it. ’

‘ she won't do any interviews, not even with me, she will stick to the room. ’

that's how it was. of course, only if they wanted to keep their job and their future secure.

but it seemed like someone didn't want that.

elvis fully stood up, the beer long forgotten in the table. “ so. ” he slowly walked to the man, his hands on his back. “ you are saying... ” he raised an eyebrow.

the man scoffed, feeling confident all of a sudden. “ what i'm saying is that what you're doing is fucked up and i will no longer take part on it. ” he looked at everyone else. “ and every single one of you are as guilty as him, you are all going to hell, you fucking assho-. ”

a gunshot sounded through the room. everyone covering themselves.

jerry just jumped back, staring at the scene in shock.

elvis had his gun pointed at where this man's head would've been seconds ago, his posture stiff, showing his side profile to everyone. his jaw clenched with his free hand besides him forming a fist.

but he relaxed, sighing.

everyone looked at him again, slowly lowering their arms.

“ no bad words in this house. ” elvis simply said.

jerry simply sits in the chair he was sitting in the beginning, still paralyzed.

“ daddy?! ” a girly voice calls out.

elvis throws the gun in the table before walking out of the room. “ yeah, babydoll?! ” he calls back, exiting the room.

jerry grabs the gun. he looks at everyone before moving to the gun to a side, revealing its bullets.

he feels like throwing up as he sees all of them empty.

he only had one bullet.

#yandere austin!elvis x reader #yandere elvis x reader #yandere elvis #yandere austin!elvis #austin!elvis fic #austin!elvis #austin!elvis x reader #request 🤍#austin elvis x reader #austin elvis imagine #elvis presley x reader #elvis x reader #elvis 2022

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ophelia-writes-stuff · 1 year

Text

�� talk like an angel . oneshot ♥

. pairing : yandere!doctor!elvis x patient!fem!reader

. summary / request : after barely managing to escape with your life after a car crash, you're rushed to the hospital by medical professionals. elvis is assigned as your primary doctor, and you find yourself enjoying his company. he's sweet, caring, and also incredibly funny. though slightly off-put by some seemingly random gifts and love letters you get from an anonymous person, you manage to enjoy your time there. and yet, as time goes on, you grow increasingly unnerved as the letters and gifts get more personal, and to your horror, later come to the discovery that maybe elvis isn't quite as sweet as he portrays himself to be. (request from @itlover8000)

. notes / warning : depictions of a car crash, portrayals and mentions of death, survivor's guilt, dark/yandere themes that include stalking, manipulation, threatening, forced affection, allusions to kidnapping, swearing, physical abuse, intimidation, drugging, more may be added.

. word count : 6.7k

(♥) . . . request something . masterlist . taglist . navigation

It was a late summer afternoon, and the sun had only just set. You and your friends had been saved from the sweltering heat of Memphis, though it was still quite warm inside your car. Luckily, the cool wind blowing through the window saved all of you from the stickiness of the heat.

You and your friend Laura let out peals of laughter at Cindy's joke. You couldn't quite remember what it was about-- but nights like these typically went in that fashion. No one quite remembered what had happened a mere five minutes ago, much too focused on the present.

Cindy, too, joined in the laughter, eyes scrunching up in delight as soft giggles left her cherry-red lips. She was much too focused on her own laughter to notice a deer attempting to cross the road.

Eyes slowly returning to the street, Cindy let out an audible gasp as she rapidly slammed down on the brakes, all while mindlessly turning the car away from the poor animal.

You all but shrieked as the car promptly lost balance and swerved off of the street. It all went so quickly-- one moment you were on the road, giggling like idiots along with your friends, and in seconds, your world was turned upside down-- literally.

For many moments, you just hung in some uncomfortable position, wavering between consciousness and unconsciousness. Eventually, though, you did move, slowly-- perhaps too slowly-- unbuckling your seatbelt. You let out a displeased groan as your head promptly made harsh contact with the car's ceiling.

You stayed in that position for a while, too, the heat blazing from some unknown source slowly drawing you into a deep sleep. You didn't want to move-- felt as if it would take much too much energy and effort

And then, after regaining your barrings and realizing the situation at hand-- because, after all, your life was at stake-- you frantically unbuckled Laura's seatbelt, and then Cindy's. Their heads, too, hit the car ceiling, hard.

"Laura? Cindy? We need to get out of here..." Your voice hardly exceeded a whisper, much too weak to make any more sound. A series of coughs followed your statement, and you closed your now burning eyes-- as if it would help the situation.

You roughly shook their bodies in a futile attempt to wake them up, but found that they didn't move in the slightest.

"Laura!? Cindy!? Please! Please, I can't--" Realizing the weight of the situation, your eyes started to water. You wouldn't be able to drag them out of the car with you, and it was already on fire. If they didn't drag themselves out, they'd surely die.

Frantically, you clawed at Laura's ashy skin. Sobs racked your body. They needed to wake up.

Your breathing was ragged as you attempted to then wake up Cindy, but the heat of the blazing fire was hurting your skin, causing you to give up on the idea.

"C'mon guys-- I can't bring you guys out-- we-- we need to go..." Another series of coughs followed your pleas, and, eyes widening, you realized why they weren't responding.

It felt as though your body moved on its own as you dragged yourself out of the car, despite your desperate wanting to get back in as soon as possible to let your friends out-- despite knowing that, if you did, you'd be just as dead as them.

In moments after barely exiting the car and dragging yourself just off the road, you all-so-suddenly collapsed, your body no longer able to support your own weight. It made sense, too; you were sure that almost every bone in your body was broken. And you were just so, so tired.

Because all you felt was the heat radiating off the car, and your now burnt skin, and your aching bones.

The heat radiating off the car, your burnt skin, your aching bones...

You soon fell unconscious.

You woke up in an unfamiliar place.

A hospital, you'd soon come to realize, buzzing with doctors and employees from just outside your room.

"She's awake!" You heard a voice yell, followed by the presumable entering of another person.

"Leave me to her. I'll call you if I need any assistance," a male voice spoke. You couldn't yet see him, your eyes having not fully opened to accommodate any new light.

"Ms. L/n, I'm going to have to ask you to open your eyes, if you would be so kind," the deep voice then gently coaxed. Nodding slowly, you allowed your eyelids to open, and you blinked harshly at the bright lights shining above you.

"I can turn down the lights if you'd like?"

Nodding slowly, your lips curved into the faintest of smiles as the man did as he said he would.

Once your eyes had successfully adjusted to the softer lighting, you took notice of the man standing before you-- most likely a doctor, by the way he was dressed. Coifed, sleek black hair hung atop his angular head, and a small smile was planted on his lips. He looked no older than his mid-twenties.

"It's glad to see you in the land of the living, Ms. L/n. We weren't quite sure you'd make it," the man lightly joked, a twinkle in his eyes. "I'm your medical professional, Dr. Presley, but I'd prefer you call me Elvis. You were involved in a car crash 'bout a week ago, if you recall-- we got a call from someone who found your body near the site of the crash."

His voice then grew solemn, sympathy lacing his next few words. "Unfortunately, you were the only survivor. The other two didn't make it. 'm very sorry."

Although your recollection of the incident had been only but a hazy memory when you woke up, it all came crashing back at you at the mention of your friends. Your eyes quickly watered up with tears as you stared at the sheets of your bed shamefully.

"Laura and Cindy..." you mumbled, the memory slowly but surely coming back to you. Your hands then gripped the sheets tightly, as though they were an anchor.

Once your mind had fully registered the memory, your eyes widened. Your hands gripped the sheets tighter. Your voice barely exceeded a whisper as you spoke, "I did it, didn't I?" Desperation and guilt laced your voice as you said those words ever so quietly. "I killed 'em. I left them there to die--"

Elvis was quick to notice your almost incoherent mumbling, and all the more so to put an end to it. "You didn't kill them, Ms. L/n."

Your eyes wandered to his own. You shook your head in disbelief. He couldn't be right. You saw them-- they were in there. They couldn't move. If only you'd just been less selfish and saved just one of them! "No, you're wrong. I was there-- I saw them. I could've saved them-- I could have--"

Elvis knelt down and clasped your hand in his own. "Ya' couldn't have done anything. We ran procedures on their bodies. Even if you'd managed to drag 'em out of that car, they would've already been dead. They suffered too much trauma to have been saved by any doctor. You yourself only narrowly escaped with your life. You're incredibly lucky you're still alive. Be proud of that, that's what I say."

It was odd, to think that someone you'd just met could cool your nerves in so few sentences-- and even though you still felt guilty, Elvis certainly made you feel much better about yourself. Though you supposed it must have been part of the job-- he was a doctor, after all. Still, it was sweet-- he seemed to care about someone he barely knew.

"Thank you," is all you said in response, allowing your appreciative smile to speak for you. You were still quite exhausted. Elvis returned your smile warmly, before standing back up and walking further from your bed.

"Your family's been waitin' outside of here for a while. Ya' fine if I let 'em in?" To this, you slowly nodded, and Elvis swiftly exited the room. A silence permeated through the air for lingering moments, before the door swung open.

In came your worried mother and father. Your mother quickly rushed over to your bed, though she hugged you gently. You let out a small chuckle-- the best you could do without hurting your ribcage-- before she pulled away and smiled brightly in your direction.

Your father, stoic as ever, merely smiled at you, though you could tell from the new creases near his eyebrows and forehead that he may have been even more worried than your mother.

And then in came your boyfriend, who maintained a polite distance from you, though you could tell that, if your parents weren't there, he'd be much closer.

"Oh, Y/n! Me and your Pa have been so worried!" Your mother exclaimed, grabbing onto your father's shoulder for support. "We've been here night and day, I tell ya', darlin'-- every procedure, we've been there! We've just been so worried. We're so glad you're safe..."

The confession didn't help with the ever-growing guilt in your heart, and yet, in spite of your own feelings, you smiled warmly at your parents.

"Oh, and of course, this young fella's been here whenever he could be." Your mother pointed to your boyfriend, and you felt your heart swell in your chest at the comment.

"But we're just so glad you're safe... we were so worried..."

The rest of the interaction with your parents went on something like that until they eventually let you have some alone time with your boyfriend.

"Hey, honey. How's a' going?" Caring as ever, he sat at the foot of your bed and placed one hand on your leg carefully, rubbing comforting circles with his thumb through the sheets.

"Well-- everything just kind of... hurts." You let out a faint chuckle as your boyfriend stared at you sympathetically.

"Okay, I guess, I just," your voice dropped to a whisper as you continued, "I guess I just feel guilty. For, you know." You didn't want to utter their names-- felt as though doing so would make everything more real. The grief was still heavy on your shoulders.

Laura and Cindy were your two closest friends, and now they were gone, and you were left to fight the grief on your own. You felt angry at them, in a strange way, but you could never really be angry with them. You felt like you lost a part of yourself upon hearing of their deaths, and it hurt you. Even if you couldn't have saved them, you still felt such a pang of intense guilt that ate away at your flesh.

Because all you could wonder was, what if I had saved them? What if I had convinced them not to go to that restaurant?

What if...?

What if?

You hadn't even noticed you were crying until you felt strong yet gentle hands engulf your fragile figure in a soft hug, and you let out a soft sob into your boyfriend's shoulder as you leaned into it. "It's okay, honey. It's not your fault. I just wish I had been there too..."

Your family and your boyfriend, after much convincing on your part (as they needed to get back to their own lives and take care of themselves), did eventually leave, though not without promising to visit almost every day. Knowing you wouldn't be able to convince them otherwise, you nodded in defeat and offered each one of them a supportive smile as they left. You were sure your parents needed the sleep, anyway.

Life in the hospital was odd, but it was nice-- nicer than one would expect. Your doctor-- Elvis-- was kind and thoughtful, more-so than he needed to be, you liked to think. He'd often sit in your room during his lunch break and eat and chat with you, which you always appreciated greatly.

The both of you bonded over practically everything, and you found yourself growing quite fond of the man. Had circumstances not drawn the two of you together so late in your life, you would have openly admitted that, had you met him before, you would have most certainly been the closest of friends with him.

"I actually wanted to be a musician when I was younger."

After some gentle prodding into Elvis's passions, he finally told you about them.

"Oh yeah?" You titled your head, invested in his next response. "Why'd you become a doctor, then?"

To this, Elvis shrugged and sank into the seat beside you. "I tried my hand in the music industry, but I jus' don't think it was for me. My music wasn't half bad, but people didn't like the way I moved."

"The way you moved?"

"The way I danced-- I liked to wiggle my hips a little. The audience wasn't much of a fan. Figured I oughta get a safer job with better pay." He shrugged. "Here I am."

"So, what-- you just gave up on your dream?"

All but surprised by your comment, Elvis stared at you, eyes swimming with confusion. "Well, I gave it my best shot, it just didn't work out."

A mischievous expression twinkled in your eyes. "One try and then it's over? That sounds like giving up to me. How about this-- you sing me a song, and I'll tell ya' if I think it's good or not.

An awkward silence settled as Elvis made his decision. And then, slowly, he nodded, and closed his eyes, as if to think of something. You stared at him in wonder as he sang.

"And yes, I know how lonely life can be," his voice weak on the first few words, but quickly grew in strength.

"When shadows follow me, the night won't set me free," his voice sounded like honey, sweet and smooth as he sang every word.

"But I don't let the evening get me down, now that you're around me."

Upon his eyes reopening, you clapped, impressed thoroughly by his musical ability. "That was wonderful!" You praised earnestly. It surprised you that Elvis gave up on a dream like that-- with such a talented voice, it seemed like a waste.

Elvis merely stared back at you, a dazed expression on his face, before slowly smiling and accepting the praise. His voice was quiet as he muttered a quick thanks, before exiting and saying something about getting back to work.

It was early in the morning when you woke up and found a gift at the side of your bed, accompanied by a card with a stamp shaped like a heart. Curiously, you first read the card and found written into it:

I remembered you mentioning that you loved stuffed animals and the color blue, so I thought I'd get you this. Although it cannot express well enough just how much you have filled my heart as of late, I hope it can somehow relay the message.

With love, Yours Truly.

You then opened the gift to find a blue stuffed bear inside. Your heart warmed at the thought of your boyfriend leaving you such things-- let alone remembering such small details about you! Abashedly, you had to admit, you yourself weren't quite as good at retaining that kind of info, so it made you feel all the more special.

Later, when your boyfriend visited you that day, you thanked him for the gift, to which he confusedly explained to you that he did not, in fact, buy you a gift. You delicately changed the subject after that and managed to convince yourself that he must have simply forgotten.

And yet, you couldn't help but wonder how could he have simply forgotten something like that?

Regardless, you were thankful for the present and found your gaze lingering on it quite often.

It wasn't even a week that had passed by the time you got a second one.

You opened the envelope of the card to find-- not a card, but a letter, and in it, inscribed a heartfelt and meaningful poem. You couldn't help the smile that grew as you read it, and found yourself blushing at many of the comments written in it.

You then opened the present to find an opulent necklace, littered with the finest of diamonds. Now, this drew your attention. Of course, you knew your boyfriend's job had quite decent pay, but this must have been worth at least a few months of wages. And so, you had to wonder: how could he have gotten all that money?

You thanked him and asked him about it, and once again, he was as confused as ever, leaving you to predict that perhaps it was not he who had given you the presents. But then you had to wonder: if not him, then who?

Deciding to ask Elvis since he must have had some insight into the subject (after all, you doubted anyone was sneaking in and leaving you a present), during your shared lunch together, you inquired about the gifts. At the mention of them and your expressed lack of knowledge on exactly who was giving them to you and your initial belief of it being your boyfriend, Elvis grew quiet for a long, hard moment, before replying, "I really don't know."

Slowly nodding, confusion evident on your face, you allowed the topic to fizzle out into a different conversation with Elvis.

As weeks passed in the hospital you didn't receive any more gifts, though you had started getting into therapy for walking and using your limbs after so long, which you picked up relatively easily. Still, the nurses who specialized in the field ensured you were careful, not wanting to provoke your injuries whatsoever, which you supposed made sense.

After about a month or so passed, the nurses finally decided that you were ready to return to your home so that you could resume your daily life, to which you were more than glad. Other than bi-weekly checkups, you'd finally be free of the hospital that you'd been stuck in for ever so long.

"I'm gonna miss ya'," Elvis said, offering you a gentle hug. You rolled your eyes fondly as you accepted it, knowing full well he was being overdramatic.

"I'm still going to see you every week, Elvis. Twice."

Still, the goodbye left you feeling somewhat bitter, knowing you wouldn't be able to see Elvis daily from now on.

Life at home felt normal, in a sense. Of course, you weren't out and about quite as much as you'd been before the crash (and although you hated to think about it, it would make sense since your friends were gone), but it was nice to be able to live your life without the confines of a hospital.

Letting out a content sigh, you opened the door to your porch, keen on spending some time outside and getting some well-needed fresh air. That was, until you found a gift in front of the door.

Your brows laced together as you stared at the gift, and the letter on top of it, which so clearly resembled the ones you'd gotten at the hospital. You'd be a fool not to conclude that they were both from the same person.

Cautiously, you looked around you to see if anyone was watching-- because as paranoid as you may be, you were still getting love letters from an anonymous source who now apparently knew the location of your house-- before taking the present and card and slipping into your home, locking the door behind you.

Firstly opening the letter, you found another quite beautifully written love letter (this much, you had to admit), though what concerned you was what was written on the bottom.

To my dearest Y/n,

I know you love candies, I've seen you at that small bakery just down the street from your house, so I truly hope you enjoy this gift. I got it just for you.

You know, I find it quite odd how you wander around those stores and buy so little baked goods, but I suppose that's my purpose, and I in no way oppose that duty. I simply hope that someday we'll be able to go together, just so that I can make sure I buy your favorites.

With love, Yours Truly.

At the mention of the bakery you frequented, your stomach twisted with unease; you'd only gone there less than a day ago.

Once you opened the present, your heart only sank deeper into your stomach. Inside was a box of heart-shaped chocolates from said bakery-- a warm gesture, had you known who it was from at the very least.

But that was just it. You didn't. Whoever was sending you these knew both where you lived and where you went, which only unnerved you all the more.

A loud knock at your door quickly startled you out of your thoughts, and you quickly hid the chocolates and wrappers upon hearing your parents beckon for you. You'd forgotten that they said they were coming over.

The rest of the evening went by relatively calmly, your mind buzzing with worried thoughts and your parents cooling your nerves. Dinner was all but one of the best ones that you had, though you couldn't deny the sinking feeling in your stomach that grew upon saying goodbye to your parents.

Of course, you knew they'd drop everything and anything in the blink of an eye to stay with you had you asked, but you couldn't find it in your heart to ask them to do so-- they'd already given up so much for you.

And so, once they left, you quickly closed your door and locked it, and ensured all the windows to your home were locked, too. You didn't need any other things to keep you awake at night.

And yet, in spite of your trust in the blinds that covered your widows and the locks that sealed your doors, you simply felt exposed. And, sure, it was dramatic, but you simply couldn't shake off the feeling of being watched as your head hit the pillow and as you were slowly lulled into a deep sleep.

Despite your recent unease, life carried on as it always did. You had checkups with Elvis twice every week, your boyfriend would be over at your house constantly, making you dinner and such, and your parents would insist on visiting you nearly every day.

And yet, the ongoing buzz of the passing days was not enough to quell your buzzing mind and your thoughts of more pressing and recent matters.

The death of your friends was still something you felt the burden of, and regardless of the irrationality of the whole ordeal, you felt as though it was somehow your fault that they weren't still alive, living and breathing.

You also couldn't take your mind off the gifts you'd been getting, and the letters that were growing increasingly personal. They'd mention places that you'd been to mere days before and mentioned things about your past that not many were heavily informed on.

There were some nights when you'd go out and would find things like dresses and purses which you had all but glanced at the stores, and after about ten seconds of deciding whether or not you desired them to be your own, deemed them too expensive, but then later found them at your doorstep. Those types of gifts unnerved you incredibly, especially since they'd sometimes appear on your doorstep before you even came home.

There were also times that, after hanging out with your boyfriend or someone you'd met recently, the letters would lightly suggest that you stopped spending time with them, and would often go into detail as to why. And, although you didn't often listen to them, you certainly considered it.

You'd also considered calling the police about the issue several times, but what would you say? Hey, someone's been leaving me an excessive amount of presents in the past weeks. I don't know who they're from, so could you please track them down and tell them to stop? The question simply seemed preposterous.

And so, with a heavy heart, you kept it all to yourself-- only went so far as to suggest that your boyfriend stay the night with you so that you'd feel safer. Of course, you'd never tell him the real reason, only spun harmless white lies that you didn't quite need, anyway, as he was always willing to drop anything for you.

It was about an hour before noon when you went to get your presumably last checkup, and you were overjoyed. you'd finally be able to completely return to your normal life-- almost. Of course, you couldn't forget what you lost in that crash, but you were glad at the prospect of no longer having to visit the hospital, a place that constantly reminded you of your losses.

Walking into your designated room, Elvis turned around and smiled in your direction, and gestured for you to come closer. You obliged, and Elvis walked towards you and began running the normal procedures.

"You sure seem happy today," he remarked, to which you smiled wider.

"Yeah, I'd say so."

"It isn't because you're glad of gettin' rid of me, is it?"

As the question, a small giggle erupted from your lips as you shook your head.

More witty banter ensued as Elvis did your checkup, and you appreciated it-- his seemingly natural ability to make you forget your circumstances and to simply focus on the moment.

Once you were just about finished with your checkup, Elvis shot you a grin and a thumbs up that seemed to indicate for your departure, but none was such the case. Just as you waved goodbye and spun on your heel in an effort to leave, Elvis spoke, his voice quieter than usual.

“Hey, Y/n, I was actually been meaning to ask you something before ya’ left.”

Turning around at the statement you were all but taken aback at Elvis’s seemingly nervous demeanor. He’d never been anything short of confident since you’d met him, so you were curious as to what he was going to say.

“Shoot.”

Elvis cleared his throat before he spoke. “What do you think about… getting dinner sometime? With me?” He paused, cleared his throat. “A date.”

The question rendered you speechless for quite some time. Ever since you’d met Elvis, you’d assumed that he was married– if not already settled down with some children. After all, why wouldn’t he be? He was charming, kind, and you had to admit that he was easy on the eyes.

“Oh, um, Elvis, that’d be wonderful, but…” You shifted awkwardly in your place. You never liked delivering bad news. “I’m– I’m sorry, but I have a boyfriend.”

At the rejection, Elvis’s eyes flashed with an emotion that you couldn’t recognize and he opened his mouth as if to speak before it quickly snapped closed. Solemnly, he nodded and gestured to the exit.

You didn’t like saying goodbye to someone with such bitterness, but you knew no amount of solace or apologies would mend the situation. Truth be told, you had never expected Elvis to develop romantic feelings for you, and you felt utterly despicable for rejecting him after everything he'd done for you, but you knew it had to be done. You had a boyfriend, whom you adored, and you wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Unfortunately, you later found that that wasn’t your decision to make.

A single letter was left on your doorstep the following morning.

There was no gift in sight, which both calmed your nerves while simultaneously sending them into an erratic frenzy.

You'd grown used to seeing the letters attached to some paper-wrapped box, but never had you seen one, alone on your doorstep.

You'd never noticed how dark the red of the heart-shaped stamp was, not until today. Or maybe it just wasn't that color until today. You didn't know, but you did have to admit that it did resemble the color of blood.

You shook your head at the thought of the ominous detail, successfully scattering your thoughts. You were merely overreacting.

And yet, your heart pounded fiercer than ever as you brought the letter over to your table. You were much too preoccupied with examining it to remember to lock your front door.

Slowly, fearfully, you opened the letter, sliding it out and taking a deep breath before reading it. Your breath caught in your throat as you did so.

Y/n,

I am truly very disappointed that you denied my proposal! I love you, as I am sure you must know by now, and it breaks my heart to see you choose him over me.

I realize now that I must take control of the situation. I had initially expected for things to go smoothly, but I suppose nothing goes quite as planned.

I'll see you soon.

With Love, Yours Truly.

You felt sick to your stomach. The letter slipped out of your hand, and you let it. Slowly walking backward, you recounted your interactions with Elvis.

But how could it have been him? He seemed so nice, and he seemed so respectful, too. And yet, looking back on it, it all made sense. From how he got your address to the fact that the gifts temporarily stopped when you brought the subject up to him--

You bumped into something warm.

You froze for a moment before you tried to quickly move away from it. Your attempt was futile, however, as the figure, much faster than you, wrapped one arm around your torso and the other rested firmly on top of your mouth, successfully pulling you impossibly closer to him.

You tried to let out some kind of scream-- a sound-- anything to alert someone that you were in danger-- but your voice was muffled by the figure's hand.

"Now, darlin', do you really think anyone's gonn' hear you?" Elvis's voice was deep as he whispered those words into your ear, the warmth from his breath sending a shiver down your spine. It sounded almost as though he was scolding you.

Your attempts to scream came to a halt and you felt a satisfied hum rumble from Elvis's chest. "Good girl."

To say that you were shaking would have been an understatement. You were trembling, your breathing ragged as your hands quivered. You were unable to do so much as to lean away from the man who held you ever so firmly in his grasp.

There was silence, for a long moment-- a silence that you did not dare to break.

"Y'know, Y/n, things could have gone by so much easier if you'd just gone out with me," Elvis then said, one of his hands idly toying with your clothing and brushing over your skin. You didn't even bother trying to pull away-- you knew you wouldn't be strong enough. "But now-- look what ya've done! You messed this entire thing up. This entire thing."

His hand traveled lower along your body, slowly, almost imperceptibly.

"I liked this dynamic-- doctor and patient? Would've liked to have kept that up."

Both of Elvis's arms then detached from your body, and he walked in front of your figure. He cupped your cheek and rubbed what would have been soothing circles along your skin, had the current circumstance been different.

"Oh baby, why'd you have to go choosin' that son of a bitch of a boyfriend of yours over me? Don't you know how much I've invested in ya'?" Elvis let out a scoff. "Probably more than he's made in a lifetime."

You didn't respond-- felt as if he didn't specifically want you to. Elvis paused, his anger slowly fizzling into an almost pleased sort of emotion.

"But it's fine. I took care of him, so you won't have to worry about him getting in our way. You hear that? He won't bother you no more."

At his statement, your eyes grew wide, having an idea of his implications. At your reaction, Elvis seemed to grin even wider-- as if your fear offered him even more pleasure.

"You look so pretty like that..." He then muttered mindlessly, his eyes slowly wandering to your lips. He brought his hand over to them and brushed his thumb over them. He smiled slyly, his eyes resembling that of a serpent.

And then, slowly, tenderly, he kissed you, and you let him-- kissed him back, even. It wasn't like you had much of a choice, so you gave in-- drank his invigoratingly sweet poison. You allowed Elvis's hands and tongue to roam your body as he did so before he deepened the kiss-- turned it into something hungry and desperate.

At that point, you tried to push him away, tried to stop this from becoming all too much all too soon, tried to gain some distance from him-- but his grip on your body suddenly grew firm to the point where you were sure you were going to get bruises by the way his fingers dug into your skin, and he bit down on your lip, hard, as if to scold you.

And then, after what felt like an eternity, he finally pulled away, but lingered inches away from your face. Unease crept up your spine as he stared at you, passionately, intensely, before saying, "Grab your things."

You didn't know what to say before Elvis pointed to your bedroom. You then simply nodded and ran upstairs. To both your surprise and delight, Elvis didn't follow. And so, heart palpitating in your chest, you walked up to your bedroom and closed the door as silently as you could before locking it.

You had to get out.

You quickly searched your bedroom for a phone of some kind-- anything to contact the police or the outside world and to alert them that you needed help-- but found that it was nowhere to be seen.

Your stomach sank. I need to get out of here.

Loud, heavy footsteps hit your ears as you searched for some different way out. They were slow, but calculated, and took their time between each step.

It was then that you realized: he was baiting you.

Still, you wouldn't let your moment go to waste. Your eyes flitted to your bedroom window.

Bingo.

You rushed over to it and unlocked it, before trying to pry it open. And yet, despite your efforts, it wouldn't budge. You pushed and pushed and yet it remained firm in place, strong as ever.

Oh god, you couldn't breathe. Why on Earth wouldn't it move-- the one time you needed it to open? You weren't oblivious to the footsteps coming closer as you tried to do anything to make the goddamn window open. You didn't care if you needed to break some bones on the way out-- you just needed to get the fuck out of here.

"Y/n?" Elvis's voice beckoned for you as he approached, like a predator teasing its prey. "You almost done in there?"

You didn't speak-- you couldn't speak. You were so close-- so close-- to being able to leave, to calling the cops, anything. And yet, it seemed as if the universe found it entertaining to taunt you with the impossible.

The footsteps were suddenly put to a halt, and Elvis knocked on the door. "You still in there?" His voice was calm, peaceful, in a way. It lacked any sense of urgency or worry.

It was then that you realized: you weren't getting out. You didn't know how, but you did know that, somehow, Elvis planned this-- after all, why would he be so calm in this situation?

Elvis tried to open the door, but the lock stopped him from doing so (one thing that actually worked in your household). You could hear him let out a small, quiet chuckle before he spoke, amusement prominent in his voice.

"Y/n, the window's locked."

At that simple statement, you froze. Your hands shook as you ceased all movements and just stood there in shock. How did he know? How could he see you?

Elvis knocked on the door once more which-- you had to admit, you almost found funny, because why would he offer you the courtesy of opening the door to your own bedroom and not the door to your own goddamn house?-- before saying, "Baby, would ya' mind lettin' me in?"

Maybe, if you could move, for fear you would have, but you couldn't. You only stared at the door in terror, unease settling uncomfortably in your stomach. You wanted oh-so desperately to move, to speak, anything, but you were paralyzed, trapped inside your own body and your own mind.

"Oh Y/n, c'mon now. I know you can open this door, and there's no way outta' that room." Your body finally released you from its firm grip of paralysis at that statement, and you were able to move once more.

And then, finally, you opened your mouth to speak. "Elvis...? Why are you here?"

Your voice was shaky, but the words managed to get through eventually. The fear was evident in your voice as you spoke. You stared at the door, afraid of what his answer might be.

"Baby, all I want is to take care of ya'. Isn't that all you've wanted? Someone to take care of you and to make you feel safe?" His tone was sincere, and you found yourself almost falling for his deception. And yet, you were no fool-- you were now aware of the duplicitous man he was.

Elvis let out a small, light-hearted laugh before continuing. "Now, why don't you open the door and let me in? There's nowhere else you can go." The ending sounded more like a threat than a reassurance. Still, you didn't open the door-- only hoped that by some miracle the moment would end.

This, as it turns out, was a large mistake.

Elvis's tone turned from soft to infuriated in a matter of seconds as he banged loudly on the door. "Y/n, you better open this goddamn door right now." You let out a small, panicked sound at the harshness of his voice as you curled up in a ball and closed your eyes, as if that could somehow make you feel safer or make him leave.

You didn't listen to what he said next, only heard the loudness of his words that banged against your skull. And then, the loud slamming of a door opening. You let out a pained cry as you felt rough hands pull your hair in their direction.

"You just can't make this goddamn easy, can you?!" A loud voice screamed into your ear. "I've given you do goddamn many chances, but you just think you're so high and above them! Is that it?!"

Elvis tugged harshly on your hair at your lack of response. "Answer me, goddamnit!" But you couldn't-- could only let out a muffled whimper as he did so. He then paused, chest heaving for breath, and let go of you, slowly.

Elvis sat down beside you and placed one hand on your cheek, lovingly, sweetly, as if the moments just minutes prior hadn't occurred. "You look so pretty when you cry..." He muttered, guiding your face to look in his direction. "But you have to do what I say when I tell you. You got that, baby? Whatever I say, every time-- or I'm gonna have to go out and hurt some people, and neither of us wants that, do we?"

Head slowly shaking side to side, you agreed. Elvis smiled. "Good girl. Now, I didn't want to have to do this, but seeing as you've misbehaved so much, I'm afraid have to." Staring at Elvis fearfully, he offered you a sympathetic glance. "Don't worry, it won't hurt for long."

It was then that you felt a stinging pain in your neck. Unsure as you what exactly was happening, you attempted to pull away, but Elvis's grip grew tighter as he held you in place. Despite knowing that your efforts would be in vain, you thrashed against him, but he only held you closer, fingers digging deeper into your skin as you did so.

And then, slowly, you felt a certain exhaustion run through you as you eventually leaned right into Elvis's arms and were lulled into a deep sleep.

want to join my taglist?

taglist: @iloveaustinelvis, @powerofelvis, @kendralavon7, @bobthefishiesworld

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memphis-menace · 1 year

Text

Siren!Elvis Headcanons (Horny Edition)

THIS IS NSFW. IF YOU ARE A MINOR, SHOO. GO ON, GIT. BEGONE.

So these are my Horny Thoughts about everyone's favorite gator boy.

TW: Dubious consent, coercion in the form of siren magic, blood, idk what the specific warning is but dude's got sharp teeth and claws and he likes to use them so there WILL be wounds. Like nothing insane but scarring will happen.

If you're into that stuff, proceed.

So as I mentioned in the OG headcanon post, sex with gator Elvis can get... messy.

He has sharp teeth and sharp claws and lord almighty does he use them.

For instance, he'll be railing you from behind, biting into your shoulder so hard you're pretty sure his teeth are hitting bone, all while he's gripping your hips so hard his claws are digging into your skin, sure to leave some deep scars.

There is no way to fuck this man and come out unscathed. He just loses himself in his instincts and has to mark you up and let the world know you are HIS.

But he's also super sweet afterwards and will help you patch yourself up. He'll also try to lick your wounds because that's just how he's used to taking care of bleeding but hey he's doing his best. He also likes the way your blood tastes so that m a y factor in to the licking and biting thing.

Now he's got a pretty good sex drive normally, but when mating season rolls around? Oh boy. You better call in to work sick because you aren't getting away from Elvis for a good while. This is when you may seriously want to consider investing in a muzzle. Cause you think he's bad about biting normally? When he's in rut he STRUGGLES to remember that you are in fact, not a gator like him, and your human skin is MUCH more fragile and cannot handle aggressive gator mating marks.

Now, gators are known to fight for dominance when it comes to mating. So Elvis likes it when you make him work for it, so to speak. So if you REALLY wanna get him riled up, wrassle him. Make him prove to you that he is a strong and capable mate.

Sometimes, he may even let you win the aforementioned wrassling. So if you've got some dominance in your nature unlike me , that's your chance. For example; tying the poor boy up so he can't touch or grab you, gagging him so he can't bite you, and riding him at your leisure, enjoying his desperate whimpers and whines.

Deep down he's a good boy and just wants to prove himself to you.

You tired? Not in the mood? Don't worry he has a song for that, you'll be rearing to go in no time :) He'll sing to you so pretty you'll wonder why you ever tried to tell him "no" in the first place. That's not to say he does this ALL the time, he tries to respect boundaries. But sometimes he's just so needy and needs you so bad ):

He doesn't mind fucking in a more "normal" setting, like your bedroom. He understands that for humans, those places are more comfortable. But he much prefers doing it in the swamp. Really he just likes being in the swamp overall for "personal" and "intimate" matters like that. It's just where he's most comfortable. Plus if y;all fuck in the swamp he doesn't have to worry so much about his tail breaking something or your blood staining your sheets/couch/carpet/etc.

I'm sure I'll think of more this is just what I have for now

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

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wanderingelvis · 3 months

Note

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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iloveaustinelvisandmannymore · 1 year

Text

His girl.

Pairing; Austin!Elvis x reader

Warning: STEP-INCEST! Yandere Austin!Elvis, Creampie, Forbidden love, Asshole boyfriend, Love confessions, Slut-Shaming, Forced filming, Mentions of murder, Gagging, Fingering, Forced cleaning, Innocent kink, Squirting, Humiliation kink, Meanie Elvis/loving Elvis, Innocent and naive reader, Dacryphilia.

Summary: You were Elvis Presley's little sister, his step-sister but it still counts! When your parents left to have their honeymoon vacation they left your big brother Elvis in charge and he swore that it was his job to protect you, even if it meant from yourself..

You tried to hide your excited smile as your parents told you about going on their honeymoon your brother leaning against the entrance of the dining room, his eyes bore into your happy buzzing self but you just ignored him. You were so happy, you can finally show your boyfriend that you were a woman and not a prudish little girl! You could finally show him that you were serious about him! "And Elvis is in charge while we're gone." Your mother broke you out of your daze 'What?' "But Mama I can take care of—" you started to protest but the feeling of your big brother's warm big hand on your shoulder stopped you "Don't worry Ma'am, I'll keep er safe." Elvis smiled, his charming smile that could make the toughest woman swoon and your mother did just that.

'Okay it's a minor setback but I'll think of something' you thought with determination, you promised to show Johnny that you loved him, and you couldn't go back now.

God, you were just cute, with that little pout, Elvis would do everything to make you happy, you were so precious and innocent unlike most of the women of your age, he wanted to protect you but some twisted part of him wanted to corrupt you, having you under him, mewling and moaning, make you his wife, his woman but he couldn't you were his little step-sister and he couldn't betray his father like that. You and Elvis waved goodbye to your giddy mother and father, once they were out of sight you headed up to your bedroom, saying you wanted to talk to your best friend barely staying to hear what your brother had to say in the matter. You called your boyfriend to tell him the great news and as expected he was just as excited about it as you were, he said he'd be there in 15 mins, which give you enough time to get ready.

Elvis knew something was up but he wanted to trust you, really just a nagging feeling kept bugging him. It got too much he decided to see what his good little mama was doing but nothing could prepare him for the anger he felt as moans and groans left your closed door which by the way broke a rule he placed in his house. Elvis took a breath and pushed the door open to peek in and if he thought he was angry before then what he was feeling was undeniable rage. Your limp-pencil-dick boyfriend was thrusting into you in a sloppy frenzy, close to cumming and you were obviously disappointed, unsatisfied, and miserable. He slammed the door open, you screamed out in shock and horror at seeing your handsome brother "What the fuck man?!" your boyfriend turned to curse elvis but stopped at the cold-deadly stare he wears "Camera." He asked cool, calm, and collected, the Calm before the storm "Closet." you answered with a shaky tone "You, go get it, yar goin' film how A man pleases a woman." Elvis order your boyfriend, and he didn't take it so well "Like hell!" Johnny shouted and that was it, Elvis walked over grabbed your boyfriend by the back of his shirt, and yanked him off you, his other hand gripped around johnny's throat "You wouldn't want everyone to know what ya did to that girl? that's right I know." Elvis whispered so you couldn't hear "So be a good lil' boy and get it."Elvis shoved Johnny towards the closet with much force that your boyfriend's face smacked into the door before he stumbles back to get the camera while Elvis took his clothes off slowly as if to tease you like he knew..

As if he knows your feeling about him, the dreams you daydream, the dream of being his cute housewife and stay-at-home mother, going on dates, that he knew you didn't want this to stop, you wanted him. Elvis loomed over your naked body, his clothes laid on the floor and his hardened cock lay against your pelvis bone, Johnny held the camera in his shaky hands. Elvis jerked himself just a bit before pushing into your wet pussy, how that fuck got you wet he didn't know, all he knew is each little inch was driving him mad, once he was balls in, he let everything out, "You're a fuckin' slut, ya know lettin' any man fuck ya? You're mine" He growled, his blues are now black and his skilled hips began to work. You moaned loudly as tears glossed over your eyes from the pleasure of each pump of his hips, his pace was fast and hard, but calculated and his cock hit all the places you didn't know you had, was this what sex was supposed to feel like "More!" you cried, gripping the bed sheets, suddenly Elvis's fingers were pushed down your throat, enough to make you gag around them "You don't give orders lil' girl." he hissed, pounding downwards into you. Johnny gulped, feeling sick that he was getting turned on, seeing his toy being fucked by Elvis Presley, her step-brother, he zoned onto where you and elvis was connected.

You sucked on his fingers, like that of a lollipop, eyes hooded, looking at him with those innocent eyes, Elvis's chest rumbled with a groan, he pulled his digits out, replacing them with his burning hot tongue, his pointing finger rubbed your clit in short, fast circles. You whined in the kiss, the knot in your stomach snapped, your back arched and your hips jerked, walls fluttering, sucking for everything he could offer. Elvis throws back his head, a deep, gaspy groan left his throat, and his hips stuttered. A heat poured into your already warm walls.

You let a small protest when Elvis slipped out of you, the feeling of him inside was addicting and you didn't want that to go so soon, your protest didn't last as Elvis sat beside your slight sweat-coated body, and parted your cum leaking folds, showing the camera his cum dripping out, letting go of your outer lips and sliding his two fingers down your clit and into your cunt, nothing could have prepared you for that was to come next. His digits fucked into you, like a hard-working machine, repeatedly hitting your g-spot, your eyes widened when Elvis bend over and bit-nippled your sensitive clitoris. A deeper pit took over you, screaming, tears flowing, you squinted all over the recorder and Elvis's face, still, even with your slick dripping his face held a smug smirk at your boyfriend.

Elvis got up and, licked away one of your tears "Such a pretty crybaby." He praised you, kissing your temple. His eyes turned to your boyfriend "Clean her." he spoke sternly, "S-sure just let me get a rug." johnny put the video record on a dresser and went to get a rug "With your tongue." johnny stopped mid-step "What?" he turned to look at Elvis in pure disbelief "Clean. Her. With your tongue. Now." your boyfriend gulped and nodded, rushing to get in between your legs. His tongue dragged up your clenching opening, catching your and Elvis's mixed cum on his tastebuds, johnny squeezed his eyes shut as he sucked and licked your cunt clean of cum.

Johnny winced moving from your legs, his cheeks got with embarrassment and humiliation "Can I go now?" he asked looking at the floor, "Sure go ahead," Elvis smiled, wiping his face with a wet rug from the bathroom, "Tell anybody about and I'll kill ya" Elvis whispered, grabbed his arm on his way out, johnny's face paled and he nodded fearfully as Elvis jerked his arm away, once he was free, he ran straight home. Elvis walked over and smiled at your passed-out form, cleaning your pussy with the other side of the rag, and laid beside you "I love ya lil' mama." he kissed your forehead, he was of course, gonna call his Memphis Mafia to deal with your sad excuse of a 'boyfriend' but for right now it was just him and you.

Just how he liked it.

@kiankiwi @18lkpeters @louisejoy86 @chasingwildflowers @crash-and-cure @plasticfantasticl0ver @galaxygirl453 @edgeofrealitys-blog, @flwersgarden.

#elvis imagine #elvis presley x reader #elvis x reader #elvis smut #austin butler smut #austin butler x reader #elvis 2022 #yandere!elvis x reader #austin elvis imagine #yandere austin butler x reader #tw:incest

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melancholicbutterflies · 11 months

Text

You Don’t Own Me

Summary: You’re tired of Elvis always telling you what you can and cannot do as his wife. You decide to pushback. He puts you in your place.

Warnings: underage, smut, dubious consent, bdsm themes (dd/lg), cursing, yandere!Elvis themes, breeding kink, 18+ (cannot stress this enough!)

Word Count: 4,046

It was a decision you would come to regret, but you were young and naive, and dreaming of a better life.

You met him at your high school. Elvis, up and coming rock ‘n roll sensation, had just returned from two years in the service and had successfully reformed his bad boy image in the eyes of parents everywhere. As such, he was permitted in venues since objected to (and the ones of teenage girls’ wet dreams).

Elvis the Pelvis was coming to your school, and students and teachers alike were all abuzz. Growing up in a very Christian family, you weren’t allowed to watch his performances, and knew only what you heard from friends of less strict upbringings, and the odd radio programming when you snuck into the teacher’s lounge.

Nothing could prepare you for what he looked like up close. Thick, dark hair that was somewhat cartoonish framed a devilishly handsome, tanned face with high cheekbones, sultry eyes, and a snarling smile that beckoned you. And he was tall, taller than any of the boys in class (although they were much younger, you had to concede). Still, he looked dapper in his suit, his well-loved acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder, devil hips cocked to one side.

He was a stunner, all right, and you were as good as gone.

You watched as he gave each and every person his undivided attention, all smiles and bashful head ducks. You wouldn’t have pegged him for humble, couldn’t imagine him being so with the amount of talent and charm and good looks he’d been endowed with, but he surpassed your every expectation. He was here to teach some scripture, and at some point he wove in some music, too. His voice was like a siren’s, no business singing such innocently devout lyrics.

At the end everyone clapped, and he went to signing autographs; the line took up the whole classroom and wrapped around the hallway as other students from classes that broke out joined in.

When it was your turn, he started, “who should I make it out to?” Pen poised, eyes tired as he lifted them to look at you with a waning smile, and he stopped. Nearly dropped the pad of paper then and there as he stared at you. You stared back, entranced, and found you were the first to break eye contact. “Well, it’s Y/N.”

“Y/N, huh” he snapped out of his reverie, eyes alight with... something, as he licked his lips. “What a pretty name for a pretty gal,” he scribbled something on the pad of paper, barely legible, but finished with a heart. His next words you couldn’t predict in your most wondrous of fantasies:

“Say, you wouldn’t wanna grab a burger and shake with me one o’ these days, would ya? Or am I gettin’ ahead of myself?”

Your mouth opened and closed like a fish, in shock. He laughed, hair flopping as his head tossed back. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

You nodded vigorously, finally finding your words, albeit breathily. “Yes!”

“It’s a date,” he said lowly, gaze now stuck on your lips.

It was nothing short of sweet. You avoided your coworkers interested looks as you sat down with Elvis, who’d held your purse as you slid in the booth opposite. You were hungry and he vocalized he liked a girl who ate and set down a tip that was more than you made in a shift. Ice cream followed, a nice walk in the park, and he drove you home, politely not commenting on the sort of neighborhood you lived in. “I had a nice time,” he said in the low light of the fading sun, leaning in real close. “I did, too.” You said it as you looked down in your lap until he picked your chin up, forcing your gaze to his. You thought he looked sinful for someone so religious.

“Good, because I really wanna kiss you, Y/N.”

You stopped him with a hand at his clavicle. “I can’t.” Looking backward, he saw a figure by the window, felt your sudden nervousness. It was about more than just want, and thankfully he understood. “Sure, baby, I get it. You’re unspoiled, aren’t you?” His eyes implored you.

Reticently, you nodded, not fully understanding his meaning but knowing enough.

It should have concerned you how happy he looked at that.

Pretty soon he showed up everywhere. At the local diner, your ballet lessons, even one late night you were out walking your dog, Marnie. You could have sworn you saw a car at the end of the street, eyes watching under darkness. It was unnerving, it was exciting; you hadn’t experienced the weight of someone’s entire attention on you before now.

If you were less naive, you might have questioned why a grown man who had plenty else to do was expending so much effort getting to know you. It all became clear one day when he took you out to dinner, not just at any restaurant, but the fanciest one in town, followed by a romantic moon-lit walk at the beach and kneeled before you in the sand asking you to marry him.

You said yes, of course, and he looked like the happiest man alive as he wrapped you up in a breathtaking kiss. You two couldn’t wait to get to his hotel, and made love right then and there, the sounds of the ocean waves lapping in the distance.

He wanted to marry at once, and only a few days later you were at the courthouse exchanging vows. None of your friends could come (they were all in school), and only a few of his came, including his father, who hadn’t exactly looked favorably on you, but knew his son couldn’t be reasoned with once he set his mind to something. The colonel scowled in the corner, smoking his pipe up a storm. Your mom and dad wanted nothing to do with the whole affair and had all too happily washed their hands of you, signing paperwork to allow you to wed before your eighteenth birthday.

When it was time to say, ‘I do’, you did so enthusiastically, and a beautiful smile broke out on his handsome face. He pulled you in, thumbing your bridal veil, and kissed you like a man possessed. You were forever changed in that moment.

Mrs. Elvis Presley. It was like a dream come true.

And for a while, it was.

Elvis was attentive, doting, a true joy to be around. He took care of everything for you. You wanted for nothing. You were happy, happier than you ever thought possible in your short and, up till now, wretched life. Elvis changed everything for you, and you were eternally grateful.

But, like all dreams, there came a time when reality set in. The bubble burst. Oh, boy, did it ever.

It started with little things, at first.

Before he’d met you, you worked at a diner waiting tables. Now that you were married, he claimed there was no reason to keep waitressing. “Waste of time,” he remarked, “’sides, who’d wanna keep on their feet like that all day long when you don’t have’ta? Nuh-uh, didn’t think so. You’ll put in your notice tomorrah’.”

You thought to object, but he had a point. It was enjoyable enough to you, sure, passed the time all right, and gave you some pocket change to buy things for yourself that your parents never would. But now with Elvis occupying your days, and making just about a hundred times what you ever did after a full day’s work just sitting around, what was the point? Your coworkers, as nice as they were, were hardly reason enough.

So you promptly shut your mouth and smiled, giving him a big hug, and that was that.

Then it was your hair:

“Oh, doll,” he crooned one night after a heavy bout of lovemaking, running his meaty paw through your thick, wavy hair. “Wouldn’t you look good with straightened hair?”

You turned to him in mild surprise, still blissed out. “You never said a thing about my hair before. Don’t you like it?”

“Oh, ‘course I do, baby. I just thought you might like to keep up with the fashion is all. All them girls have their hair straight these days.”

“I guess that’s true.” You admitted. “And, say, maybe you ‘oughta darken it while you’re at it. Might be nice to have us match, you know.” You touched a hand to your hair, furrowing your brows as he leaned in to nuzzle your neck, applying light, sweet kisses there. It was awfully distracting, your hand falling limp on the bed as you gasped.

“Promise me you’ll think ‘bout it, at least...” He murmured low between kisses that went ever lower. “Oh, sure.”

“Good girl,” he growled, and he said something about “...have Jer make an appointment at that salon o’ Sandy’s.” And he proceeded to eat you out.

As time went on, that charming, subtle needling to shift your behaviors in his favor turned meaner:

Once before a press conference, he stopped you in the hallway, seizing your arm. “Hey, what’s wrong—” you winced as he twisted it around harshly in an effort to inspect your hand. “Quit it, E, that hurts.”

“What is this?” He looked at you angrily, disappointed, even.

“What is what?” You didn’t see anything other than your ring, which was where it should be, on your ring finger without anything out of the ordinary. When you saw where his eyes were directed, you realized he meant your nail polish.

“So it’s a little chipped. Who cares?”

“Who cares?” He seethed. “I care, and if you had any sense in ya you would too! Everything you do reflects on me, little girl, so when you look like a cheap hussy, you make me look bad. Make ‘em think I can’t take care of my baby. Get it?”

He wasn’t shouting, he wasn’t even raising his voice, but the venom dripping from his quiet wrath was so much worse.

Tears built at the corner of your eyes and you ducked your head, turning on your heel to run back toward the bedroom before he caught you by the arm again. You thought he’d apologize, say he overreacted. He didn’t. Instead he said: “Dry those eyes, girl, and put on a smile. I don’t care if it ain’t real, but I won’t have ya embarrassin’ me.”

It only snowballed from there.

Your whole wardrobe was thrown out, and a new one replaced to match with Elvis’. You didn’t finish school, didn’t do ballet anymore. You still cooked and baked now and then, but only on special occasions. Mary did all the real cooking in the house, and she already knew what Elvis liked and she did it well. Drinking, although technically not even legal, was forbidden (“a lady shouldn’t drink, you’ll get sloppy and less chivalrous men than myself’ll take advantage. Don’t want that, do ya?”)

Want to go to the movie with some friends? Think again. Boys weren’t allowed anywhere in your vicinity: he barely let Red, trusted bodyguard of the Memphis Mafia, guard you. He said he didn’t like his wandering eye one time. Personally, you thought he was delusional, but didn’t bother arguing since you hadn’t exactly taken a liking to the man.

Your friends were more acquaintances now, and when you saw them, you didn’t know what to say. They’d moved on, had new friends or new boyfriends. They felt you abandoned them (you did, although not intentionally). You never felt more alone in your life, and yet you were never alone; Elvis made sure of that, always having someone stay behind to watch you when he couldn’t.

Eventually it was the summer, your first summer as a married couple in fact, and you were invited to your cousin’s wedding. It was her high school sweetheart; they got the bug from you and wanted to get hitched as soon as they graduated high school. You were hellbent on making it to that wedding, come hell or high water. Elvis, as your husband, was of course also invited and expected as your plus one. They were renting out a small venue in Nashville, and the bride-to-be wanted you as her bridesmaid if not the maid-of-honor (a role you suspected in the back of your mind would have easily been yours pre-Elvis, but post-Elvis you was less reliable, and you couldn’t fault her for making that decision).

Elvis’ first reaction to it surprised you. After all, he’d hardly wanted you to leave his side and had grown increasingly controlling. So when he said, “Sure, hunny,” you almost questioned if you’d imagined it.

You were ecstatic. “Oh, thank you, Elvis. Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Each word of gratitude was punctured by a kiss all over his face and any other bare patch of skin you could reach. He laughed that booming laugh of his and pulled you in to give you a proper one. “Well, if that’s the way you were gonna thank me I ‘oughta have more o’ your friends get married!”

This was Fall. Now that it was summertime, and the wedding weekend was upon you, he put his foot down.

“No,” he said simply, not even sparing you a glance as he casually strummed his acoustic guitar, legs spread apart on the couch. Your mouth nearly fell to the floor, and you felt a distinct ringing in your ears, your heartbeat speeding up. Blinking, you saw a few of his Mafia crew milling about, pretending they’d gone deaf and blind as your temper rose.

“What?” You screeched.

You did.

You almost forgot what it sounded like, your defiance. It was spectacular, and you thought you had never felt so angry in your life.

And you had a right to, damn it. You did everything this man said and more. You dyed your hair black, you straightened it to his liking, you always had a fresh paint of nails, you wore the dresses he picked out for you, even the ones with the ruffles that you couldn’t stand, and wanted to make you tear your eyes out of your sockets. You stopped working because he said so (although that was not entirely something worth fighting). But you left school, and you stopped talking to your friends for months until they stopped trying so hard and all you had was him and his damn Mafia. The girlfriends and wives didn’t even hardly talk to you. You were too young and there was very little in common.

You think you spewed all this out to him in your rage, not thinking it even made sense, but you wanted him to feel what he put you through, and being his wasn’t enough if you didn’t have a life outside of his wants and desires.

Finally, chest heaving, out of words to say in your tirade, you saw him through blurry, teary eyes. He’d frozen, shoulders hunched, body tensed for a fight. He looked around the room, but he needn’t — his Mafia was nowhere to be seen now. His eyes cut to you, dark and stormy, as he rose to his full height and strode towards your panting figure.

It was a sight to behold, your husband so angry. He’d been cross with you — lord knew he’d been annoyed on many an occasion — but enraged was new. It felt like the point of no return. Like he’d really hurt you this time, all those words about never laying a hand on a woman falling by the wayside.

“Now, Elvis, hold on now—”

“Long past time for that, baby. You been backsassin’ me and I won’t stand for it.”

Your eyes cut to the side, seeing a crack in the doorway.

“Don’t you even think about it, lil’ girl.” Elvis growled. You yelped as he took you in his arms, forcefully tugging you to the couch where he fell back against it, the momentum leaving you to fall across his lap in a rather unlady-like manner.

“Elvis, please, I’m sorry,” you began, attempting in vain to rise from the precarious position he had you in. His arm only tightened its hold around your waist much like a boa constrictor around its prey. “Should’a thought ‘a that before you went off like that. Now, sit tight and take your punishment.”

He hit you, then. He actually did it. But it wasn’t across your face or strangling your neck like you’d heard some women claiming of their husbands. He’d pulled up your dress so that it hung your belly and pulled down your lace underwear so that you were bare-bottomed and smacked your butt with his open palm, rings and all.

You gasped first, shocked that it had happened, and that it felt like it did; the contrast of his warm skin and the cold metal rings was a contrast you hadn’t known you needed. Then as one became two, and two became three, and four and five, and so on... you’d lost track, a strange feeling built up in your lower abdomen that felt familiar yet also foreign.

Were you... enjoying this absurd, perverted version of punishment? Surely you weren’t getting turned on by your husband beating you like an errant child?

And yet... you couldn’t deny the flare of hot want flowing through you, and you certainly couldn’t deny the wet stickiness that started collecting in your bared cunt. You had to bite your lip from making your desire audible; you were angry, aghast that your husband would go to such lengths for simply voicing your very legitimate frustrations to him.

When a slap fell slightly lower, just catching the bottom of your pussy lips, you couldn’t contain your excitement. A moan slipped past your lips.

Elvis froze, cock hardening in his pants some.

Your eyes widened, cursing yourself internally. The last thing you wanted was for the bastard to know some part of you was enjoying yourself. You wouldn’t look at him, burying your head in the side of his thigh, even as you felt that hot and searing gaze of his on you. You were humiliated, something you hadn’t thought possible after what he’d already done.

“Well, well,” he drawled, voice deeper, thick with lust. “Seems my baby likes this more than she should.”

“Please, Elvis, let me go,” you begged.” You’ve had your fun, being humiliated like this is punishment enough.”

He laughed, barrel chest vibrating against you. “Oh, hunny, I ain’t nearly done with you. In fact,” he circled your ass with his palm, your slick wetting his fingers now. “The fun’s just begun.”

“What—” You interjected, only to cry out loudly (or perhaps moan, it was some contrived version of the two), as he promptly pushed his fingers deep into your crevice, the warm, wet walls hugging his long digits with gusto.

He hissed, “oh, baby girl, that vice of yours just about does my head in. I need to be inside you now.” He started fumbling with his slacks, the belt coming undone in record time as he pulled his rock-hard cock out of his boxers. He gave it a good tug, grimacing at the action. The tip was red and weeping, practically twitching with need.

“C’mere,” he said, positioning you where he wanted you like a doll. “On all fours, that’s right, just like that hunny.” Your knees met the carpeted floor, hair falling around you like a curtain as your head bent. You know he could go deep like this, but usually you had sex facing one another. He could piss you off to no end, but sex was always a sacred thing between you two. This felt cold, unfeeling. Fucking was what it was; he could care less to see you, he only wanted to possess you. You felt cheap, a plaything — and yet your cunt continued to thud with need.

“Jesus, you’re a pretty sight,” he rubbed his cock over your pussy lips, grab at your ass, take another smack of it and delighting in the jiggle of it. “Please, Elvis, just...” You pleaded, and he cut a look at you. “Don’t think you’re much in the position to be makin’ any sorta demands, doll.”

You hung your head, sighing, waiting for him to get his fill. “Oh, hell,” he said, “you’re lucky I can’t hardly wait anymore either.” And with that he pushed into you, causing a surprised yelp to leave your throat. Pulling on your hair, causing your back to arch towards him, he set a punishing, brutal pace, one that hard you seeing stars. In this position, he could hit your g-spot dead on, and hit it he did.

“Oh, godddd,” you groaned, scraping a hand back to hold onto his arm holding onto you. He huffed a laugh that turned strangled toward the end. “Not God, darlin’, but close.”

You would have snorted at the cheesy line if you weren’t full of his cock.

“Nothin’ to say?” He taunted. “That’s a real shame. To think you just needed some good dick to quiet down. Bet you ain’t never had one good as me.”

It wasn’t a statement, he expected an answer, but you were too far gone in the blissed-out feeling to recognize it.

Smacking your sore ass harshly, he repeated his words. “Ain’t you? Say it, or I swear to God I’ll stop right now and won’t let you come.”

“Yes, E, yes! You’re the best I’ve had,” you cried as the building sensation waned. “That ain’t my name, try again.”

“Daddy,” you whispered, feeling some shame about it. You always felt weird about calling him that even though your relationship with you father had never been close, but he demanded you refer to him in that way.

“Daddy what?”

“Daddy you’re the best I’ve ever had,” you admitted. He smiled; really, you would have said anything to have him keep fucking you the way he was.

“That’s right,” he pet your head, slipping his cock back into your tight hole as your eyes rolled back in your head. “You’re my good girl when you’re like this, almost forgotten you was bad earlier. Throwin’ a temper tantrum back there after all I done for you. Ungrateful. And for what? Some weddin’ you felt you needed to go to?” He tutted you, each word punctured by a punishing stab at your cervix; the pain intermingled with pleasure to create a heady concoction leaving you at a loss of words. Intelligible ones, anyhow.

“Ye-ah...” you moaned.

“What was that?” Elvis goaded, pinching your swinging titties between his hands.

“A-agree, I w-was bein’ bad.”

“Right. ‘Cause the only person you should be worryin’ about is me. Your husband.”

“Mhm.”

“Hmm,” he hummed deeply. “Need you just as much, more than ‘em. Can’t have you halfway ‘cross the state if somethin’ came up.”

He soothed your head, running his fingers through your dampening hair. “Need my yittle baby by my side, and she needs her daddy,” he cooed in the baby-talk language he loved so much.

You nodded, more so due to the buildup in your pelvic region. He groaned, feeling the tighening in his balls as your walls started fluttering around him.

“Shit, hunny, you got me ready to burst. You gon’ take it? Take all my lovin’?”

“Yes, Daddy! I’ll take it all.”

“Gonna fill you up,” he mumbled, hips moving erratically now. “Fill you up with my babies ‘till your big and swollen with my seed. Shi-itt—!”

You cried out at the sensation of his warmth shooting into you, triggering your orgasm.

“Agh!” He yelled, falling over you, hips slowly still moving as if to fuck more into you. You collapsed on the floor, and he was right behind you. You two laid on the floor in the fading light that spilled through the French windows.

Turning so that he was looking at you, he pulled your face to his in a deep, slow kiss. “You gonna let Daddy take care of you?”

You hesitated, knowing what he wanted of you. “Yes, Daddy. I’ll make the call tonight.”

He grinned, looking every bit the angel and devil as he hovered over you. “Good girl.”

#elvis fanfic #elvis x reader #elvis x you #elvis #elvis presley #oneshot #elvis fanfiction #elvis presley oneshot #elvis presley smut #smut #melancholicbutterflies #yandere!elvis #fanfiction #fanfics

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venus-haze · 2 years

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

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

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

Word count: 6.5k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Speaking,” you answered.

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

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

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

“None taken,” you said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sounds good to me,” he said.

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

“Seriously harm?”

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

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

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

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

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

“And your father?”

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

You nodded, taking quick notes as he spoke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you blame yourself for her death?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m doin’ just fine.”

“That’s good to hear. I’m glad.”

“Are you here alone?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“As in Elvis Presley?” Mark asked.

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

“I won’t answer that, Mark.”

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

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

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

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

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

“So, how was the wine?” Elvis asked.

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

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

“No, just a friend.”

“You married?”

“No, but–”

“You ever been married?”

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

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

“Sure,” he said.

“How did you meet Priscilla?”

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

“What attracted you to her?”

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

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

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m doing this for my own safety.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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elvsz · 2 months

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ARE YOU NEAR, MR PRESLEY? “

summary : Elvis chose someone else and you did too, it was one late night in his Vegas penthouse when he told you the truth — the love he felt for you was becoming too much, even for him. His constant need of having to be near you, to see you and to make sure you were safe was making him feel insane. You both being busy with shows was also becoming too much, you hardly saw each other. The breakup was hard but you both ended it on amicable terms yet every night he finds his heart asking the same question, are you near? when he sings on stage; Do you watch him the way he watches you?

warnings : ex!yandere!elvis. female!reader. Kidnapping. reader is the lead singer of a 70’s pop group (abba was in mind). possessiveness, protectiveness and threats of violence. reader is calm and collected but also arrogant (lolz). mdni. cheating! kissing. age gap, elvis is 41, reader is 25. priscilla is his ex wife, reader is his ex gf. lisa marie doesn’t exist in this. can be read as austin elvis. BDE!elvis. 70’s elvis. petnames. substance abuse, alcoholism (from main characters). reader is named ‘delilah’ as her stage name / y/n is used.

based on : love me, suspicious minds & too much.

by elvsz / yandere / mdni

It was 1972 when you were told the news by one of elvis’ men.

Elvis and Priscilla were to be married - again.

In many ways, you wasn’t surprised. Elvis hadn’t been a fully faithful man when you were together, back in 1968 when you were merely 21. Though you must admit that when Son called you - his own voice full of sympathy that she could only shake off - to tell you the news, your world stopped for a moment or so.

Elvis was getting older, as were you, but the drugs he took seemed to make him believed he felt young. You weren’t a completely pure woman, your own intake of alcohol when your stage name name - Delilah kicked in on stage wasn’t healthy either. But you knew when to stop.

You only said okay to Son, trying to come across like it didn’t bother you - which it shouldn’t of done. You were with somebody knew, Max Charlton was his name, the 27 year old who fell in love with Delilah but ended up loving you only a few weeks after you and Elvis had the cruel break up.

You don’t respond to Max when he asks you who called, merely shaking your head and getting back into bed next to him. Your heart is heavy and her mind is full of guilt when you wonders to yourself; Elvis, are you near?

You turn onto your side to turn the lamp off on your bedside, letting the darkness indulge her into something better, calmer. Letting Max sit there and wonder what had happened. You still feel Elvis’ hands on your skin, when Max puts his on you..

Elvis didn’t ask who was performing in the International Hotel that day, he already knew who it was. Roses, the band you were in had started rehearsing for the late show that night. Yet he couldn’t hear your voice at all, it was the one thing he always wanted to find no matter where he was.

The voice he had known for what felt like all his life was too far for him to hear, you were too far for him to feel. And it made his heart hurt, almost burn with something cruel and sinister.

Then he hears you, your soft voice calling out to him as you sing Season of The Witch, the song you and your band had decided to create over night. He can feel the passion in your voice root itself in his soul, making his head fuzzy.

Elvis shakes himself out of a haze when Jerry — one, if not his greatest friend — tells him to come over and see them. You and your band who spray out before him, two members by the speakers. Some laying on the floor. Jerry being a big fan, which was funny to many as he was a member of the greatest’s inner circle, he’d always get up and dance to the music you made.

There you were sat there with your hair up like a doll, pretty headband on, ear piece long forgotten about as you sang and danced with your backup singers.

“C’mon! Give me somethin’!” Elvis heard, you were talking to the guitarist, who with the your very sweet, but arrogant pressure ended up making a very good riff for the song.

You knew Elvis was there, the way your other band mates seemed to quiet down into whispers told you it all. But you ignored him and Elvis was sure his heart was cracking.

“Ms. Y/N?” Tom Parker had always been a man you hated, so when your name left his mouth you wanted nothing more than to swing for him. Your turned her head over her shoulder, eyes bitter as they landed on the man.

“What?” You spat out, annoyed at being distracted, she took her music very seriously. The paper’s said even more than Elvis did which truly was something, you can only shake your head as the man tries to tell you something.

You turn to finally look at Elvis like you used to, back when fans would push themself against you and you’d look like a fawn, eager for him to do something. Your own heart threatening to break, but Elvis saves it again — patting Parker on the shoulder, telling him to come and see his plans for his new album.

You can only send him a nod as a thank you when he gets the man far from you. You turn back to your guitarist, but your soul begs for the man who just walked away. Your heart begs for Elvis, like every night before.

Elvis can only lie to his manager’s face, he had no album planned but he didn’t enjoy the way you tensed up under the cruel man’s harsh gaze and his weird words. Elvis nods for Jerry to go and take his manager away, he doesn’t say anything when he leaves.

He can only sit before the mirror, his head in his hand as he feels his heart beating more than usual, the pills on the desk before him are calling his name.

But then he hears your voice, your very, very angry voice.

“Like hell I will!” You spit out at your manager, who follows you to your own dressing room — Elvis requesting for yours to be next to his, he can only sit there and listen as you practically scream at the poor soul — and then he hears you cry.

“You said I could go goddamn home after tonight!” Your voice is breaking and Elvis knows you’re sobbing at this point. He can hear things breaking, you probably stand there throwing things at the man. Elvis’ door is opened, he watches your manager shake his head as he walks out.

Elvis stands up, calmly walking to your dressing room, your own door open. There you sit on the floor, things broken on the floor, smashed into pieces as you hold your head in your hands.

“Baby..” You don’t reply to him, merely sobbing into his hands, he shudders as he sees the broken mirror, he looks at your hands and there they are, bloody.

“Someone get a damn medic!” He calls out to the people hanging in the hallway, he hears footsteps running around. He crouches down to you and he can nearly sob himself when you flinch from him.

You look up at him and he wants to break your manager’s face. Your mascara is down your face, headband broken by the door, blood smeared near your mouth where you put your hands. Hands which are cut by the glass shards.

“He..” you mutter, choking out. You put your hand on Elvis’ arm, your grip week. He comforts you by whispering sweet words.

“He said I could go home an’.. I’m gonna die here Elvis.” His worlds stops, he looks at you confused, angry and dazed.

“What?” His southern drawl comes into play when he’s angry, his gaze darkens.

“I gotta stay here for ‘nother five years.” Your own gaze is hazy and angry. But the tears that won’t stop running down your face is what really anger him.

“Sweetheart, what’re you talking ‘bout?” You wish to answer him, you really do, but then your eyes fall to his engagement ring and you can only get up on shaky legs and a heavy heart.

You walk passed him, the man who sat down next to you who now is quick to follow you. Asking you questions. You don’t say anything when you walk into the bathroom in the hallway, you only lock the door; refusing to look at him.

You stay in there for what feels like forever, and when you finally open the door you don’t see Elvis to be anywhere.

Elvis is so close to your manager - Chris - that he’s sure the younger man can almost feel his red, hot, rage. Elvis is asking him questions because he needs answers and for the fact that he loathes seeing you so upset.

“Listen.. I had a talk with the hotel owner, he wants her to sing for him!” Chris tries to come across friendly, he knows he tries, but Elvis can see his anger building and the gun that rests in his holster is becoming heavier.

“For what!” Elvis shouts, “Another five goddamn years!” His fist finds the wall next to Chris’ head and the man watches Elvis become a monster.

A man turned cruel because of sin, is nothing less than a monster once adored as a king. He can feel the rage that made him leave you - he was tired of watching people beg for a kiss from your pretty lips every night on that godforsaken stage - begin to blossom in his gut again.

His world spins, the drugs and the alcohol kick in, Chris barges past the man who now sways. He runs for the door and he finds it, not before Elvis tells him to get rid of that contract.

Or he’ll blow his brains out.

You sit in a chair in a new dressing room, letting the make up artists put eyeshadow on you. The lipstick on your lips feels thick, your hair now all done up feels wrong and your eyes still gloss over.

It had been a long day. Too long of a day, by now you would’ve cancelled the show and gone home to your cats, but alas you sit there and let them prod at you like you’re no more than a doll.

“Five minutes!” Your manager shouts down the hallway, your open door letting you hear it clearly. You can only hum one of the songs he’s making you play tonight.

The dress you wear is white, and it’s so tight you can feel every stitch as if you did it yourself. One of the makeup artists wipe the tear off your cheek, her smile is sympathetic.

The walk up the hallway is cruel, heeled covered feet aching for something kinder, you read over the set list for the night that sits in your hand.

How can you mend a broken heart, Take me in your arms, Somethin’ stupid— you don’t finish looking at it. Only crumbling it up in your hand as you find the door to the stage.

The red curtain is down, you wish to see Elvis. You wish to feel him but the guilt eats at you alive.

He’s getting married again to somebody who isn’t you, stupid girl. That’s what rings through your head; you nod your head to the band members, the back up singers. They all compliment you.

Your eyes gloss over, you can feel your manager tapping your shoulder as you stand before the mic. He passes you a cup of what you can only imagine is alcohol.

“Welcome back, Delilah.”

The first song you play isn’t any on the list you read before, you start with Son of A Preacher Man, swaying as you let the music take you.

Your breathing is heavy and your words are yet to be slurred, Elvis watches from his own table with Jerry and a few other friends. Priscilla is yet to be seen by any of them.

Your voice is like silk when you bend down to the crowd, letting a twenty something year old man kiss you softly, you smirk as the crowd screams.

“Was a son of a preacher man..” you smile, teeth white and pretty, eyes full of something.

You can only watch Elvis and his reactions, the way you grip the end of your dress; giving the crowd something to blush and whistle for.

They knew you as this, the woman who made people feel dizzy with sin, dizzy with desire as you suddenly shake your hips.

Trouble suddenly comes on, your hips are moving as are your legs. You can feel the aura of the audience change, people stand up, pushing against the stage to touch you.

Hands close to your heels, as you rock your way around. Elvis hated this, hated watching people and their nasty desires try to get to you.

But he loved that glint in your eyes when you got what you wanted, which when Elvis was involved, was all the time.

This went on for two hours, you smiling at the crowd, shaking with them as you wiped the sweat off your forehead. You took your final bow, this was it — the last show at the international. No matter what your manager said, this was it.

The last person you look at is Elvis. Who happens to be the one to find you first when the curtain goes down, he’s by the end of the stage waiting for you like always.

You practically run to him, suddenly your world is hazy, breath heavy. Your world goes dark and the last thing you remember is him and his strong arms wrapped around your body.

“Elvis?” You mutter, the bedsheets you lay on aren’t your own, they’re too soft and a different colour. The covers are draped over your body, you feel like a small child who’s been tucked into bed.

The room is almost pitch black, if it isn’t for the lamp on the desk in the corner. You know he’s there, and the whine you let out is almost pathetic.

He remembered how much you hated the dark - childhood trauma you explained to him - and how much you feared to be alone if left in it.

He walks towards you slowly, a robe is all he wears, your eyes are full of tears and you ache for him. Your soul aches for him.

You crawl to the edge of the bed, you notice the nightshirt you now wear, soft and in your favourite colour, you look up at him.

His hands are soft on your face, cradling it softly as he kisses you ever so gently. You pull away, “you- you said the love you felt for me was too much.”

You repeated the words he said to you that night in ‘68, your heart heavier than anything. You watch as he shakes his head, his voice is deep and husky.

“I lied. I.. I didn’t want to hold you back anymore.” He hints at the age gap between you both, his mouth moves to your cheek, your jawline and your neck as he pushes you back down onto his bed.

You cry out, feeling overwhelmed as you push yourself away from him. “You went back to her, Elvis.” You move off the bed, standing away from him as he watches you in the dim light.

“Baby.” His voice holds so much adoration, he finally has you back where he wants you. Finally has you back to himself, the sob you let out when you see your hands now wrapped with gauze is sad.

He cared for you. He always had. He always will.

You let him pull you into a hug, his arms tight around your waist as you sob into him. You hit your fists against his chest and he lets you, all he wanted was for you to come back to him.

And now you were back together, his engagement ring long forgotten, purposely thrown out, and there was nothing Elvis wouldn’t do to get you back to him.

Such as making your manager sign you into a five year deal at the place he performed.

Like making your manager and his sign a deal that stated if either yours or Elvis’ career ended, the other would have to.

You were his, sweet girl. No woman, man, or person would ever change that. He’d make sure of that.

#elvis presley x you #elvis presley x y/n #elvis presley x reader #elvis x you #elvis x y/n #elvis x reader #austin!elvis x you #austin!elvis x y/n #austin!elvis #austin!elvis fanfiction #austin!elvis x reader #austin!elvis fic #yandere elvis presley #yandere elvis #Elvis Presley

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takincareofbusiness · 10 months

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From Me'n Elvis by Charlie Hodge,

"Elvis never liked to talk too seriously during a meal if it might lead to an argument. One night in Hollywood, Elvis and I got into a little spat at supper. He got up and walked out. When he came back to finish eating, he said, "Charlie, let's don't ever argue like that again when we're eating. I just went back there and lost what I ate." When Elvis got a little bored with making Clambake. I walked out on the set one morning. It was the original Phantom of the Opera movie set. A bucket of water hit me from way up on one of the high catwalks. I looked up and another bucket hit me. My shirt was soaked. I took it off and neatly placed it in front of a heater to dry out. Then I went to the wardrobe department and got a dry shirt to put on. Every 20 minutes or so, I'd go back and feel my shirt to see if it was getting dry. It felt as wet as ever. I couldn't understand it. At the end of the day, I checked it again. Still soaking wet! I walked away from it, then sneaked back and peered around the corner. There was Elvis, sraying it with a fire extinguisher. He had been doing that all day long. As soon as I felt it, he'd come back and spray it again. Then Elvis came out of his dressing room to do a scene, Richard Davis, his valet, hit him from the same catwalk with a ballon filled with water. Elvis looked up and said quietly, without anger, "I'll get you for that." Elvis went back into his dressing room and came back out a few minutes later in a dry costume and did his scene. Then he found a heavy fire hose, and blasted Richard off the catwalk. The movie director, Arthur Nadel, had been hit by firecrackers so much that he started coming to the set wearing an old Nazi helmet. In one scene, Elvis goes to answer the phone, he says, "Hello." Just Then Nadel lit a huge round firecracker and rolled it across the set floor at him. He dropped the phone and yelled, "Oh he#$, and fled. In another scene Bill Bixby was acting in front of the camera and Elvis simply walked up to him and pushed a cream pie in his face. Pies started flying everywhere. Everybody came in for our practical jokes, from the director on down to the coffee man. Movie crews loved to work with Elvis and they asked to. Everyday was different from the last one and you never knew what to expect when you got up in the morning. With Elvis, life was great."

#elvisaaronpresley #elvis movie #elvis presley x reader #70’s elvis #elvis presley #elvis x reader #big daddy elvis #vampire elvis #hannibal lecter x reader #yandere elvis x reader

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crash-and-cure · 1 year

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If I Were You Part 3 (Yandere!Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Summary: In the months since his return to the stage, you have been doing your best to keep the relationship between you and Elvis underwraps while also trying to continue treatment. You’ve been able to somewhat manage this this precarious balancing act, but an upcoming event threatens the stability you’ve created while also having you reflect on your past and worrying about your future.

Note: I know I said in my last update that I would have had this done earllier, but good news, i ended up breaking what was planned for this part in two so that should be done... soon. All together this part was orginally 24k words, so... yeah the break was necessary, and works slighty better for the flow. Reader is cis female, as well as some background in readers home life, and aside from that no other descriptors are used. I do have a Bachelor’s in Psychology, but I am not a therapist, so nothing here should be treated as genuine mental health advice. Please read the warnings before deciding to read.

Also getting together a taglist so let me know if you want to be tagged for the next chapter or alternately, if you are tagged and would like to be removed let me know.

Words count: 12k

Warnings: Yandere!Elvis so expect themes of obsessive, manipulative, jealous, and delusional behavior as well as some heavy allusions to blackmail, emotional and otherwise, here too. Dubious consent in some areas. Depictions of Therapy sessions, in which topics of relationships with parents, emotional abandonement, self-destructive behavior, performance anxiety, and exploitation, are discussed. Inappropriate relationship with Therapist (Which should go without saying). Explicit sexual content depicted that includes Penetrative sex (m/f), Daddy Kink, Praise kink, cum eating, vaginal fingering, cockwarming (kinda), overstimulation and allusions to oral sex (f. recieving). Depictions parental abuse that including depictions of parentification, favoritism, as well as emotional neglect and abandonment. Also mentions of Elvis' mommy issues, and more exploration readers daddy issues. Period typical misogyny depicted. Finally depictions of a toxic relationship that include power imbalances, emotional manipulation, uses of coercion, grabbing that leads to bruising and verbal mistreament. Please do not interact if you are under 18.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4 Part 5

My Masterlist

When you had received your Doctorate, it was perhaps the proudest moment of your life. One of only a few women in your graduating class, you remember seeking out your parents in the audience and hoping to see their beaming faces after all that you had accomplished. Instead you found them apathetic with virtually no change in expression when your name was announced, about as excited to see you up there as they would be watching water boil. You remember only feeling the slightest twinge of hurt at that, before plastering on your biggest, fakest smile to receive your degree.

After the ceremony they would both greet you with smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes, limp hugs, and mild platitudes about how hard you worked. You can at least appreciate that they would go through the motions of putting on the facade of proud parents. Your father would take you to the nicest restaurant in the city and let you order whatever you wanted. He would also call you “fellow Dr.Y/L/N,” as though he hadn’t spent the past four years rolling his eyes at your chosen field as a whole. Your mother would present you with a blue Tiffany box containing a pearl necklace to wear now that you were a working professional and follow up the night interrogating you as to whether or not you had a boyfriend. Even your brother made an appearance at dinner, claiming to have been too busy at the hospital to have gone to the ceremony, and you all politely ignored the grass stains on his pants, telling you he was anywhere but seeing patients that day. Afterwards you would go back to your own apartment that night, throw the blue box into a drawer and cry yourself to sleep. This is one of your more pleasant interactions with your family in recent memory.

That night you made a promise to yourself that regardless of how they all felt about it, you promised to always take pride in what you accomplished. You would take pride in it because who else would?

Now though, as you gaze at the degree over Elvis’ shoulder as he thrusts erratically into you and whispers filthy things into your ear, it is nothing more than another source of shame. Somehow you can feel it mocking you with its presence, stating how you aren’t worthy of it, as though it’s privy to every single way you’ve violated your moral duty as a therapist just tonight.

You would close your eyes to it, choosing to revel in the feeling of him within you as you both neared the edge. All of the problems you're facing seem so far away now that you’re with him, even though logically you know that he’s the source of many of them.

“You’re so good for me mama,” he would whisper against your skin, sending reverberations throughout your whole body, and involuntarily making you let out a soft mewl in response. After months of encounters like these, you’re still paranoid that anybody could overhear you, so he takes particular pleasure in his ability to make you lose yourself in your office like this. He makes a pleased hum, rewarding you by rubbing your clit in tight circles that has you seeing stars. You fall back on your desk, your degrees forgotten, as you wrap your legs around him to keep him in as much as you can.

Elvis halts as your walls tighten around him, his brow furrowing and his breathing getting more ragged as he tries to prevent himself from cumming. The look in his eyes has you kissing him hungrily in an attempt to muffle yourself as the aftershocks run through your body. You’re hyper aware of every sensation he’s giving you from the way his fingers lightly trail from your hip to the back of your knee to the way his chest hair feels against your nipples. You’re far too sensitive, every nerve is a live wire ready to burn, but he’s far from done with you.

He’s still hard inside you, a fact he’s not about to let you forget as he continues his unforgiving rhythm once more. That last orgasm took everything out of you and you barely have the energy to lift a finger let alone meet his thrusts no matter how much you want to. Elvis takes advantage of your pliancy to grab a hold of your knee and hook it over his shoulder, giving him a new angle to better spear himself into you.

“You love taking care of me dontcha darlin’? You live to take care of your daddy?” Every word drips like honey on your soul.

“Yes daddy” you breathe as tears threaten to stream down your face. You hate how easily it falls off your tongue.

“You got another one in ya’ baby?” he growls, feeling his lips brush against the skin above your knee.

“N-no, it’s too much ahh-” you’re interrupted when he takes an especially harsh bite at the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You can already feel the bruise starting to form as he lathes his tongue along the bite and asks you again.

“You know what I wanna hear mama,” he grunts, a particularly feral grin as you feel a few tears escape.

“Pl-please make me cum again daddy” you beg, desperate in a way only he has ever been able to make you. You let out a needy whine as he stops to plant a knee on your desk, before he takes a hold of your hips and pulls out of you until only the tip remains, before proceeding to ram you back into place.

He’s not moving, instead he’s moving you up and down his cock, and you’re left a keening mess beneath him. The obscene and humiliating feeling of being used by him as more a thing to fuck into in the end is what does it for you. You blindly reach out onto the desk behind you, frantically needing some sort of leverage as you peak once again, this one even more devastating than the last. You clench around him, desperate for everything he can give. And never let it be said that Elvis Presley is not a giver.

Elvis lets out a guttural groan as your walls close in around him again, and you feel hot streams of cum paint your insides. After what feels like an eternity, he finally pulls out and you see him take a bit of a step back as though to fully admire his work. A chill goes up your spine at his intense gaze on you as well as the feeling of his cum beginning to leak out of you, and you feel rather than hear his purr of approval at the sight. You give a strangled yelp when you feel him dip his fingers back in before he hoists you up into a sitting position.

“How’s it taste mama?” he says, removing his fingers from your mouth.

“Good” you’re barely able to breathe out.

“That’s a good girl,” he says, bringing you closer to him and giving you a long languid kiss.

He had been in a particularly jovial mood as of late due to his suit against Tom Parker finally being settled in his favor. After all the evidence of mismanagement and shady business practices was brought to light, along with Diskin’s absolute bombshell testimony of all other unethical behavior behind the scenes, the Judge had no choice but to rule in Elvis’ favor. It had been a long battle, and Elvis discovered the people he could and couldn’t trust, but seeing him healthy and looking forward to the road ahead without all that was holding him back shows you that it was worth it in the end.

The last few sessions had simply been mostly him discussing all that he’s excited for with this new chapter in his life. How planning for the world tour is now officially underway and all the places he’ll be able to visit and perform, and you’re able to share in his excitement, but for a much different reason. Today, he even proudly announced to you how soon he’s going to begin training to get his pilot’s license. Despite how off the rails his treatment has become, you’re proud to see this development and view this as a small victory as he told you months before how he’s always wanted to fly, but was always hesitant due to his mothers fears.

It was at the very least a good indicator of the progress he’s made in therapy in the fact that his risk taking behavior has become far more controlled. If you remember correctly he had first brought up the idea months ago. Right around the same time he returned to the stage.

The weeks following the concert were a silent struggle between the two of you, with you trying to retain whatever agency you could and attempts at reducing his tighter and tighter grip on your life and him trying to enmesh himself further into your life. It was a careful balancing act of compromise, mostly on your part, and picking and choosing your battles.

Officially he’s no longer your patient, however that doesn’t stop him from meeting with you at his regular times, nor do you even attempt to fill that vacant spot in your schedule. You attend any and all social events he wants you to, but you tell no one your full name, let alone your official title. He wants you all but sitting in his lap during session and you have to settle for being within arms reach of him at all times. He refuses condoms, but begrudgingly accepts that you’re on the pill, and so on and so forth.

Now with this… unconventional development in your relationship there is now the expectation of reciprocity from him. Any probe you make for treatment, if you can even call it that anymore, now always has to be preceded by a look into your own life. You learned this a few sessions in when the two of you had gotten on to the topic of his early days of touring, and how it affected his relationships back home.

“It was real tough on my Mama, bein’ away for so long.” he said, before looking at you. “But ain’t that how all of ‘em feel when the kids leave. Like you.”

“Elvis this isn’t about me.”

“I know,” he says with that smirk that makes your face feel warm. “It’s about me, and me? I wanna know how your folks felt when you started goin’ to school?”

You give him a deadpan look, and he responds by leaning forward, elbows on his knees, seemingly eager to hear what you have to say. The look on his face tells you that he wasn’t going to talk until you did.

“Ok, if you’re so insistent,” you sigh, ignoring how his slight smirk turns into a full blown grin as he gets his way yet again. “I lived at home while I was getting my Bachelor’s, and if anything, my mother wanted me out and about as often as possible. She treated my education more as an expensive hobby that I would use to get a husband. She still believes that Benny was a boy I was seeing in my last two years, and not the diner I was working at.”

“How ‘bout your daddy?”

“He…” you hesitate a little, as this isn’t something you’ve ever been comfortable discussing. “...didn’t really like the idea of me going to school, thought I was too… delicate I guess. He especially didn’t like the idea of me with any man, but I do think it was more because he wanted to pick one for me.”

“You two close?”

That gets your attention as you realize you're treading into dangerous territory, as it's starting to sound suspiciously similar to when the two of you talk about his mother. Especially given the fact that he is very much aware of your…odd tendencies in bed. But you fear avoiding the topic altogether will only showcase that there is something to be prodded in the first place so you decide to leave him with something.

“I mean we were when I was a kid, but then, as it goes, we sort of drifted when I became a teen,” you tap your fingers along your notebook, knowing how to transition from this subject, yet hesitant to broach it. “Speaking of fathers, is there a reason you’re so interested in the topic today?”

He looks dismayed for a moment, before giving a small dry chuckle. “So I see you’ve been keepin’ up with them magazines.” His eyes however aren’t accusing, simply defeated.

“In regards to you Elvis, I try to avoid tabloids so as to be as unbiased as possible when it comes to our sessions.” This is a lie, as any time you’d been away from him you made it a point to scour these rags, to make sure they hadn’t caught on to your relationship. As you discovered they are aware of your existence, but no information beyond that other than a few pictures of you at some of his events. Because you are unknown to the public, and the fact that Elvis is remaining tight-lipped in regards to you, this only raises interest in discovering who you are. “I pay no mind to rumors, but when an event such as this occurs, I feel it warrants discussion. But I do want to hear from you what happened, if you are comfortable talking about that.”

He huffs at this, clearly angered by the situation, and maybe with you for bringing it up, but eventually he does concede. “What’s there to say, that piece of shit, got my own daddy to side with him as a character witness or whatever. Now I can’t even trust my own goddamn family to look out for me, ‘cause Parker may have them in his pocket too. Maybe I’m just easy to throw away if my own daddy can’t stand by my side.”

You let out a sigh as you plot your next words carefully. “Elvis, the decisions of our parents affect us no matter how young or old we are. It’s difficult to not internalize rejection as some sort of short-coming on our part, especially when it comes from family. I can’t speak for your father’s motivations to side with Parker, but I can say with absolute certainty that he chose wrong.”

He takes a second to look at you before giving you a somber smile. “Can’t say I’m surprised though. Ever since I found out ‘bout Parker, he’s been going to bat for him. “Trying to get me to forgive him or drop the case, and when I brought in someone else to manage the business, we just stopped talking altogether. Well… he stopped talking to me.”

“I know exactly how that feels,” you say without even thinking about it. When you realize what you had just said, you quickly try to recover. “I mean I… I’ve had patients who have experienced something similar,” you clear your throat. “Elvis, part of maintaining healthy relationships, is also recognizing when you're the only one putting in effort to preserve it. Did these feelings of abandonment exist prior to you firing or even meeting Parker?”

“I mean… I was always closer to Mama, and when I think about it, Daddy was just… there,” he says, looking at you for reassurance that you understood.

This certainly sounds like a familiar story you’ve heard before, but with the new information, you realize to some extent that Elvis had no choice but to latch on to his mother, with a father like this. “It… sounds to me that what you're describing is emotional abandonment,” you say to him. “Many patients have described how there is a relationship in their lives where they feel they put in all the effort of maintaining it. And how the person in question has ‘checked out’ essentially in that physically they’re present, but otherwise they don’t engage.”

“But he’s family.”

“I recognize that Elvis, but a hard truth about codependency is that it’s not limited to romantic relationships or friendships, and it can in fact occur or even be shaped by familial ones, considering that those tend to be the earliest ones in development.”

You wouldn’t say you’re exactly jumping for joy that he has an unhealthy dynamic with his father as well, but you do believe that being able to deconstruct his relationship with Vernon will at least act as a bridge that will allow him to reflect better on his relationship with his mother.

And luckily it seems to strike a chord with him, as he goes from defensive to angry to sadness to acceptance all within a few moments. “So what should I do ‘bout it doc?”

“I’m not going to tell you what you should or shouldn’t do in regards to your father Elvis. But what I can say is you’re the only one who can decide what you want a relationship, if any, with your father going forward to look like.”

“What ‘bout you?”

“Excuse me?”

“What does your relationship with your daddy look like”

“Oh… it’s fine,” you wave dismissively, desperately hoping for a change in subject.

“I know you better than that, Y/N,” he said, his eyes hardening. “You got something to say about your daddy and I think you really wanna tell me.”

“Elvis I didn’t mean to bring that up.”

“Yes you did,” he says, so sure in his words. “You’re always so careful with what you say, ain’t no way you did that by accident. And if I’m going to figure out what relationship I want with my daddy, I think I need an example of what one could look like.”

You clench your jaw in frustration but you sigh in defeat, and give in, Because you always do, you think spitefully. What can you do though, he was able to discern that there was something with your relationship with your father from what little you’ve revealed, and now he’s latched on to getting it out of you. Not to mention he’s made a pretty convincing argument as to why it would benefit his treatment.

“My father and I have a very… troubled relationship. Prior to me going to college he didn’t interact with me outside of trying to guide where my life should go. And I listened every time in a vain attempt to return to that previously close relationship. But when I chose to go into this field he stopped interacting with me whatsoever. I still see him on occasion, because I want to maintain a good relationship with my other family members. And that’s the relationship I choose to have with my father.” you finish, feeling rawer than you have ever felt. Elvis, in the few months you’ve been doing this, had been able to get more out of you than most other partners you’ve had.

You look up to see him and find that he’s surprised and maybe a little confused at your answer. “I can’t believe he ain’t proud to see his own daughter become a doctor,” he says.

“He’s also a doctor, though in the medical field. As far as he cares, I have a useless degree in a useless field.” you say, biting your lip to stop it from quivering. “But I don’t let it get to me. I’m proud of the work I do and the people I help, even if he’s not.”

He goes quiet with your confession and silently he takes your hand, “Well for what it’s worth Doc… I’m glad you didn’t listen to him.”

You give a small smile at that, “Thank you.”

“I mean it Y/N, I’m so goddamn proud of all that you done. I feel like you don’t hear that enough.” Those words, though you hate to admit it, have an effect on you, and you lean forward, resting your forehead against his, your eyes welling up with tears.

Lately he had the courtesy to not start anything sexual until at least the 45 minute mark of session. Though you don’t hold your breath at the thought that this is progress in any way. The more pragmatic part of you believes that he is simply getting over the high of having you at his beck and call, and now he’s exploring other aspects of a relationship. Part of the reason you’ve let this continue is that you hope to some extent that you can help him model what a healthy relationship looks like with emotional vulnerability, compromise, and honesty. You suspect with the world tour on the horizon that the end of this arrangement is on the horizon, and you can only hope that he takes what he’s learned from this simulation and he goes on to have a better romantic relationship in the future.

Surprisingly enough you are able to help him to some extent with this turn in your relationship. Particularly he felt more comfortable in discussing previously more touchy aspects of his life. About a month after his return concert, the two of you discussed the anxiety that his status as a sex symbol has caused him over the years.

“I always hated bein’ called that,” he stared morosely looking at the floor. “It felt like I was always workin’ and always had to be what everyone thought I was.”

“In what regard?”

“I was always worried that if I didn't give these women the best night of their lives, it would get back to the world that I wasn't what they called me.”

“I can imagine that this was a major source of stress, due to public perception being essential in your line of work.”

“I guess,” he said. “Sometimes it felt more like a… like a chore. If I didn’t live up to what they were hopin’ for, then I wasn't doin’ my job. But ain’t that normal though doctor?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean ain’t there always somethin’ you're scared of happenin’ with your work. Like you, doc. What’s the scariest part of the job for you?”

You mean aside from this whole situation, you think sarcastically. You want more than anything to tell him that, but still you feel the ardent need to keep this going due to your sense of a breakthrough on the horizon. Though you can’t totally trust your own instincts anymore when it comes to him, as you can’t rule out that this isn’t you insulating him from the truth of the matter.

Greatest fears is not an uncommon question to be asked, but you can usually respond with the standard, snakes or spiders, but his specific wording of it having to do with your job also has you nervous. Does he want you to admit the truth so he has a reason to be mad and avoid delving deeper or does he want you to lie and validate that this relationship isn’t the worst thing to happen to you? Ultimately you decide to err on the side of caution and give him a half truth.

“Given the nature of my specialty, my greatest fear for all of my patients is seeing them return to their old habits. Specifically when I see them return to those who abused them,” you answer. “It’s like saving someone from a fire, only to turn around and see them run back in.” This is certainly not untrue as, while not so frequent, you have had this happen more than once, and experiencing it is a particular type of hell in your opinion, as it reinforces the fact that at the end of the day there is only so much you can do to help people. Before Elvis, you thought it was the worst thing you could possibly experience as a therapist.

You're wrenched from your thoughts by a comforting hand on your knee. “You don’t gotta worry about that with me baby,” he whispers to you. “I ain’t ever goin’ back to him after all the shit he pulled.”

If you can take comfort in anything about this whole situation, you can take comfort in that fact. You rest your hand on top of his for a moment, even curling your fingers slightly, before looking into his eyes. Truly he has some of the most mesmerizing eyes you’ve seen in your life, his dark lashes outlining the deep oceans that never fail to leave you a drift. You even begin to reconsider your opinion on hypnosis, considering his ability to make you act like a completely different person with seemingly a single look.

You pull yourself away from those thoughts, remembering that you have a job to do. So you gently squeeze his hand once more before clearing your throat to continue the session, though you don’t make any motion to remove his hand from its spot on your leg. “I would like to circle back to your frequent flings in Vegas if you wouldn’t mind.” you probe softly. You have a theory, but you want him to reach that first.

“Go ahead.”

“When most people describe their reasoning for affairs, it typically boils down to some want or need not being met in their relationship. Previously when we talked about this topic before, it was to my understanding that the distance from Priscilla was the driving factor in this behavior,” he shrugged his shoulders at this. “But now you’ve described how you took little satisfaction from these encounters, even likening it to a chore. Please help me better understand what you gained from these experiences or what was different with these women.”

He sits on this question for about a minute, bringing a fist to his mouth as he typically does whe deep in thought. “I ain’t gonna lie and say I didn’t wanna fuck at all, but I guess more than anythin’ I didn’t wanna be alone those nights.” He smiled sardonically at that statement before continuing, “Funny thing though, it was never as good with women I didn’t know that well, and it just made that lonely feelin’ worse. What do ya’ make of that Doc?”

You ponder his response, though it is pretty much what you suspected. “It sounds to me, that what you were seeking wasn’t necessarily sex, but intimacy,” you state.

“Ain’t they the same thing?”

“They certainly can be,” you say. “But what separates the two is an emotional connection. I suspect that the reason that these encounters weren’t satisfying for you was because that connection was missing.”

“Yeah,” he says with a long tired sigh “Yup that sounds ‘bout right.” He covers his face with his hand as though ashamed, before saying, “Fuck, I feel so stupid. How I ain’t never noticed before?”

“Elvis, please don’t speak about yourself that way,” you say in your softest tone. “It’s hard to truly reflect on our behavior and how it affects us, unless directly confronted with it. To some extent we view ourselves with blinders on, making self-reflection and by extension, change, nearly impossible without the intervention of consequences.” Taking his hand away from his eyes and holding it before continuing. “Especially when you’re living a life where outside forces are encouraging the behaviors that you were exhibiting. I commend you for having enough courage to change.”

His expression is still solemn as he says, “you sound like you knew already. Is this real common with the others?”

“I can reassure you that to some extent, everybody on some level wishes to be understood. I’ve heard stories from patients who have admitted to hiring escorts for the sole purpose of listening to them speak about their day and pretend to be their girlfriend. You don’t have to feel alone in your need for companionship, as it feels like part of the human condition is to seek out understanding from another person.”

A small smile finally breaks his grim face. “Lucky for me that I think I found her,” he says, kissing your hand. As you put your hand over his once more, all you’re thinking about is that the only difference between you and a prostitute right now is that you’re partially covered by his insurance.

When your time was officially up that day, you were already prepared for him to initiate something with you, but to your surprise instead he would simply bring you to sit on his lap and hold you for a while before letting you know that he wanted to head home now. You quickly gathered all your things and followed him to his car all the while he held your hand. You recognize what this is about almost immediately: He’s testing the waters with non-sexual intimacy.

You contemplate sabotaging his attempt by initiating tonight, but scrap that plan, as A, you don’t want to give him the wrong idea, and B. you’re not going to ignore someone who's clearly communicating their emotional needs.

“Whatcha readin’ darlin’?” he asks later on as he gets into bed.

“Oh uh just some Agatha Christie,” you say, showing him the cover.

“I didn’t know you like mysteries,” he muses, motioning for you to come closer to him and you abide, wanting to settle for the night. He positions you so that your back is to his chest with his arms encircling your waist, with his legs on either side of you.

“I guess I just like problem-solving,” you say.

“Read it to me.” he says, planting a kiss on your temple.

“You sure? I’m well into it, so it’ll probably be boring,” you warn.

“Then I’ll fall asleep faster.”

You huff in amusement at him, but comply nonetheless. You won’t lie this feels… nice. It was moments like these where you were able to forget how truly disturbing this entire situation was. You were not his therapist who was strong-armed into this relationship by a deeply disturbed man to fill some sort of mother role. No. You were a woman who was reading in bed while being held by her boyfriend. It feels… simple.

True to his word he was asleep within twenty minutes of when you started reading. In all honesty you enjoyed it, especially after you were able to gauge from him that this wasn’t something his mother did when he was a child.

You’re not too far behind him as you have found it easier and easier to fall asleep here the more time you spend in Graceland. Though you can recognize that it’s very much by design at this point. Elvis’ bouts of insomnia seem to correlate perfectly with the nights you spend in your apartment, and he had taken to late night calls on those nights. His calls are nothing short of psychological warfare, as they are both constant yet unpredictable. He had no qualms calling you while you were asleep or even multiple times a night, no regard given to whether you were asleep or not. It’s gotten to the point where you barely sleep in your own apartment anymore and just wait in an agitated state waiting for his calls. One night he even refrained from calling at all, but rather than relief, you were left an anxious, sleep deprived mess until you saw him later that day.

It was only as the words asking why he didn’t call you last night left your mouth, did you realize the trap you walked into. You hung your head in shame at your misstep, no doubt missing his smug expression as he promised to not let that happen again, and that he’d call you every night the two of you weren’t together from now on.

Even away from him, you couldn’t fully be away from him. You had a total of two days out of the week where you didn’t expect to see him, and yet somehow these were the days you felt most anxious. He’s almost akin to an ambush predator, able to strike when your guard is down and coerce you into relinquishing some sort of freedom to him. It’s how he was able to get you to reduce your work week from five to four days.

He had walked into your office earlier than his scheduled time that day, take-out in hand, insisting on an early dinner with you. At first you were only counting your stars that your last session had wrapped earlier than usual today, as even mere minutes ago he would have barged in on you with a patient. You had thought you had already subverted whatever powerplay he was making by sheer luck and you were thinking of ways to tactfully ask him not to do this again. As you were coming up with an excuse, you see him put down the food and you see his once amiable expression drop into that of disdain. It’s only then do you realize you left your notes from your previous session fully on display a top your desk.

You as casually as you can move your notes out of sight, and shift the conversation back to the food at hand. He quickly changes back to his previous mood when you accept his offering, though that does little to quell your nerves. So as the both of you eat, he talks casually about his day so far, and you try to rationalize that with the quick glance he got at the papers, it is unlikely he got anything more than maybe a name.

“I didn’t know you were seein’ other men,” he said oh-so casually putting down his plate.

And that’s all he needed apparently, you thought ruefully.

Samuel Baker. Mild-mannered accountant who had sought out your services after separating from an emotionally abusive ex-wife. He had come to you after a distant relative of his had recommended your practice and was one of the few male patients you helped on a weekly basis. Just today, you had talked to him today about strategies to employ when having to meet with her when doing custody exchanges. He had also just unknowingly become the object of Elvis Presley’s ire for merely existing in your presence.

“Elvis, please don’t say it like that,” you said, putting your fork down. “Yes, I have many patients, and yes some of them are men. But I can reassure with total certainty that you don’t have to worry about any of them as it is all strictly professional.”

“Ain’t that what you used to say about us?” he argued back. And what can you say to that really, you know he’s right.

His bouts of jealousy are nothing new to you, as you have both heard from him and experienced what it’s like when he gets this way.

“Elvis, this is my job,” you emphasize. “I help people through their emotional turmoil, and I take pride in the work that I do. I’m not going to stop helping them because you don’t trust me.”

“It ain’t that I don’t trust you,” he said, caressing your face. “It’s them. They don’t know you’re my girl. And I can’t protect you.”

“Elvis, why would you need to protect me?” you said, truly baffled at that statement.

“Darlin’, as smart as you are, you don’t understand men like I do,” he said. “They see you and think you can fix ‘em. I don’t want to see ‘em take advantage of your big heart.”

Is… Is he being serious right now?

“What would you have me do Elvis?” You are genuinely curious as to what he wants from you.

“Baby I don’t like seein’ you havin’ to work so hard for these other men that don’t deserve you,” he says. “Maybe you should drop ‘em.”

And there it is, you think snarkily.

“Elvis,” you say, standing up to your full height to look him in the eye. “I’m not going to do that,” your voice firm and your fists clenched.

He looks taken aback by your hard stance, and his dismay from being refuted passes as a near sadistic glean in his eyes takes its place. “Y/N, I just want to ease your workload. I guess I can start by transferrin’ over to that other therapist you were reccomendin’.”

“No, no,” you say quickly, closing your eyes in defeat. “If you’re really worried about me working so much, then I-I can rework my schedule so that I work fewer days in the week.” bringing your mouth into a tight line in an attempt to keep it from quivering.

“Three days.” He says.

“Four and I give myself a three-day weekend.” You say.

He thinks on that for a moment doing some internal calculating, before smirking and agreeing on the condition that you start on that schedule immediately.

He ultimately rewards your compliance by laving your pussy for almost the entire scheduled session. It’s become something of a pattern, where you push back against a demand of his and when you inevitably end up compromising he does this. Your worries about this being some sort of conditioning you chalk up to paranoia. Even still a month after the shift in your schedule did you notice that many of the patients that you ended up transferring or graduating out, just so happened to be men.

One Wednesday evening, as you were settling in for the night in your apartment, you feel your blood run cold as you hear a loud knock, because it’s not a stranger you fear at the door. You however breathe a sigh of relief though when you find Mark at your entrance. In spite of the fact that it had felt like months since you had talked to him, he seemed happy to see you greeting you with a big hug. You welcome him in and he remarks at how long it’s been since you’ve seen each other.

You laugh nervously at that, knowing it’s due to the fact you're rarely at your place anymore. You’re barely able to maintain contact with your own family anymore, having to swap your previously regular phone calls to weekly, because anything less would have your father filing a missing persons report on you. Even so, you try to dismiss his concerns with a weak statement of work having kept you busy lately, quickly changing the subject by asking about his students and how his research is going.

As you’re chatting you look at the clock and realize that it’s around this time that Elvis would call. He has maintained his promise of calling you regularly now, and you’ve never missed a call from him, fearing what he may do in retribution. However you can’t exactly talk to him now while Mark is in your place nor can you let Elvis know that he’s here. So with that in mind you “accidentally” knock over your drink onto the coffee table.

You curse at your supposed clumsiness as he acts quick to save your mail on the table. You grab the glass and run to the kitchen to grab a towel after quietly disconnecting your phone. You’ve decided to roll the dice and hope he doesn’t decide to call until Mark is long gone. Either way you need to get him out of here, as you’ve already experienced his jealousy with hypothetical men he’s never met before and you don’t want to think of what could happen were he to find out another man was here alone with you.

“Oh that reminds me” he says holding up the red envelope he managed to save. “I got the invitation.”

You feel your heart stop. “What invitation?” you manage to squeak out, worried that this is Elvis related.

“To… your parent’s 40th Anniversary?” he said, confused as to why he was the one to remind you.

“Oh… right, that um…” you say, trying to gather your thoughts. “That… really snuck up on me this year.”

“Right? So… do you still need a date for it?” he asked. Since grad school he had been your go to in regards to a plus one to family gatherings such as this. He was somewhat familiar to your admittedly complicated relationship with your parents, and with his success in the field as a professor and overall innocuous presence, he was the perfect candidate to help stave off the comments of you attending alone.

A part of you wishes to walk into the party, arm-in-arm with Elvis, just for the satisfaction of seeing something beyond indifference on all of their faces. You quickly banish that thought and say yes to Mark as a result. You can’t help but notice even in conversations not about him, your thoughts somehow find a way to make it about him anyway.

You chat with him a little while longer, though you are still uneasy, as you can’t quite put it past Elvis to show up at your doorstep because you didn’t pick up your phone. Before long you’re excusing yourself, saying you have a session early in the morning and he thankfully takes the hint. You walk him to your door and when he leans in to give you a kiss, you turn your head so he kisses your cheek. He clearly caught that, but thankfully says nothing, before taking his leave and promising to see you Saturday.

You fall to your couch and bury your head in your hands feeling awful, though when you hear the pounding on your front door, you know you’re going to feel alot worse. You open the door, only for Elvis to push past you to stand in the middle of the room, “Who was he?” he asks, cold as the grave, as you close the door.

You’re not even going to pretend to play dumb. Though you are perturbed as to how he knew, the how isn’t as important as the what now? You approach him from behind to put a hand on his shoulder, and you feel him tense up under your touch. “Elvis please sit down so we can talk about this,” you say, simple but firm.

He whips around and before you know it he has a bruising grip on your arm and gives a firm yank towards him. “Answer me!” he roars.

Though you’re shocked and more than a little afraid, you refrain from letting him see how scared you are right now. You swallow and look him right in the eye, and say, “You will not treat me like this.” If your years working as both a therapist and waitress has taught you anything, it’s how to be yelled at and not let it affect you. “Elvis, you’re hurting me. Please let go,” you say though you don’t let your voice betray your pain.

You know it would be easier to placate him with tears and begging and whatever else he wanted to quell his nerves at the situation, but you know in the long term that it will do you nor him any good if he’s not called on this behavior now.

Your words seem to snap him out of it as he lets go, but you can still see him huffing, and know he’s still raging inside. “Now let’s sit down and discuss this,” you say, leaving no room for argument. You guide him to the sofa, and sit with him and breathe a sigh of relief that you were able to bring him down somewhat. “Now as for who that was, he was my friend and colleague, Mark,” you see that fire in his eyes return full force, “and he stopped by today, unannounced, because we haven’t seen each other in months and because he hasn’t been able to get a hold of me he wanted to make sure I was okay. We talked for a while and then he went home, that’s it.” you say as concisely as you can, without going into further detail.

“Why the hell didn’t you answer your phone?” he asks, calmer but still very angry.

“Like I said, he’s a colleague and I didn’t want to take any chances of you calling me and having him overhear and find out about our relationship. So I unplugged my phone, and I haven’t plugged it back in yet, and I’m sorry that I missed your call.” You know you have nothing to be guilty about, and you act like it. You’re not going to beg him for forgiveness beyond disconnecting the phone, and you won’t give in to any intimidation tactics he has. However you still feel your hands go clammy as though you did betray him in some way.

For all his initial bravado you see him deflate and ease back into the couch, and you can finally swallow that lump in your throat. This is where you truly mess up, and betray all your years of experience, by leaning into him and letting his arms wrap around you.

You wish for it to end here, but you know very well how this is going to end, so when he turns your face towards him you simply close your eyes and accept it. He plants a filthy kiss on you bringing you closer so you can straddle him fully.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he says between kisses, the delusional look in his eyes telling you that that is very much the case. You fumble with the buttons on your blouse, as all the while he still hungrily kisses you as his hands move underneath your top to unclasp your bra. Once bare from the waist up you remove yourself from him, only to take his hand to lead him back to your bed.

Seeing him in your bedroom is always an odd experience, it’s why you rarely allow this to happen. Being with him here doesn’t have the otherworldly mystique of Graceland or even the salacious allure of your office. No. Here next to your various tchotchkes and cups that you need to wash, it feels… real. There is no hiding behind the thin veneer of treatment that what you two have isn’t a full-on relationship.

But it’s also a sobering reminder of the fact that for as personal as it felt, you still have a life outside of him that he simply can’t be a part of. You’re his therapist and you know that this can't go on forever. You two will eventually go your separate ways and this will all feel more like a dream in the end, but you don’t think you’ll be able to forget how beautiful he looked against your floral sheets or how the rug burn on your knees felt.

Nor do you think you want to forget.

He takes his time with you that night, making sure to stake his claim on your body, leaving no inch of you untouched and leaving the occasional bruise to fully mark you as his.

And you want to indulge in him as much as you can because you don’t know how long you truly have left with him.

Later on, as you're laying on his bare chest listening to the steady thrum of his heart and you feel him going soft within you, is when you remember the anniversary party to come. You don’t even know how you’re going to broach the subject to him, especially given the fact that he had just gotten into his feelings about you having a life outside of him. Mix in the fact that you’re going to be attending with a man who you just told him not to worry about, and this is going to be nothing short of a disaster.

You realize how manipulative it looks to ask for something (Though you shouldn’t really have to ask) right after having sex with him, but you know this is not something you can simply put off for later, because you realize the effect he has on you. If you don’t do it now, you fear you may lose the courage to do so having to face him in the light of day. You can no longer justify putting off your personal life for his benefit anymore.

So truly is it not better to just rip the band aid off now?

“Elvis?”

“Yeah baby?”

“This saturday…” and with your ear over his heart, you hear it speed up a little, and that makes you take the coward's way out. “I made plans to meet with my graduate class for a get together.”

He’s quiet and his steady breathing has you fearing that he’s already fallen asleep, until he says, “Alright then, what time should I be ready?” he says.

“No, Elvis,” you sigh. “I’m going alone.”

You never quite understood the phrase cut the tension with a knife, until the heavy silence fell over the both of you in that moment. You swallow thickly as you feel him remove one of his arms around your waist and turn the lights on temporarily blinding you. Part of you wishes it had become permanent as you see the heartbreak etched into his face as he whispers, “Why don’t ya’ want people knowin’ ‘bout us?”

You close your eyes in frustration, because this is certainly not the first time you’ve had this conversation with him, but this is the first time it’s been so emotionally charged. You get off of him and sit on your knees to fully look at him, far too comfortable in your nudity than you should be, especially for what is about to be discussed. “Elvis you kno-”

“I know, but I don’t understand mama,” his eyes glassy. “You do all this work for people who don’t appreciate you like I do, and for a job you don’t even like.”

“What are you on about?”

“You’re unhappy,” he accuses.

“I am not,” you lie.

“Yes you are,” he raises his voice, so sure of his assumption. “I see it every goddamn session. How tired you look at the end of the day. How even when you're home you’re thinking about the others. Hell you don’t even see you’re own fuckin’ family because of the job, and now you say you can only go out with friends because they’re shrinks too.”

“The reason I don’t see my family is you,” you redirect.

“When the hell did I ever say you couldn’t see ‘em!”

This clamps you up because it’s true. That was your choice, not seeing them in the past few months, but that was only because the last thing you wanted was for him to want to join you.

“How long before you end up choosin’ this job over me?” he says with the most heartbroken tone you’ve heard.

Your continued silence speaks volumes.

“So that’s it, ain’t it? This job is already more important than me?”

“Elvis this is what I've spent years of my life working for, I can’t simply throw it away for you,” you say, trying to justify yourself. “You can’t demand someone quit their job so they can be with you.”

Whether at your words or you directly, you feel the resentment in the look he gives you as he turns away from you and plants his feet on the carpeted floor. You hear him huff for a bit before he ultimately clicks his tongue and says venomously, “You got work in the morning dontcha? Well I best get outta here since it’s so important to ya’.”

As he stands to get dressed, you want so badly to ask him to stay and against your better judgment you reach out to him.

“It’s all the same to you, ain’t it?” he says, pulling up his pants interrupting your attempt. “We pay you to listen to our troubles and feelin’s and you tell us how we should act and shit.” Throwing on his shirt, he gives a small mirthless laugh before turning around, grabbing your face and saying “‘cept I’m the only one who gets to fuck you?” with a dangerous look in his eyes.

“Yes.” you answer looking away in shame.

You wish you had been looking at him, because then that you would have at least been a little better prepared for the fingers that were suddenly in your cunt. Though mercifully you were still very wet, you still can’t help but the soft shriek of surprise at the sudden intrusion, which is all he needs to get to work once again. He knows you well enough now to know exactly how to touch you in a way that has you falling apart in minutes.

You want to lean back, but his firm grip on your face makes it impossible to run away from the sensation. You're forced to look in his eyes and know who is making you feel this way. You make a token effort of trying to push him away or clench your thighs together to prevent him entrance, but you just can’t stop yourself from chasing the pleasure only he has been able to give you.

“This just part of the job too, Y/N?” he whispers angrily.

You don’t get the chance to answer as he curls his fingers in just the right spot and nips your ear just the way you like, and you're falling apart yet again. You can’’t help your cry, and he responds in kind by shoving his fingers into your mouth forcing you to taste yourself, while your hips desperately seek purchase from your sudden emptiness. Once he wrenches his fingers from your mouth, you see that he still has that cruel look on him and you're not entirely sure if that shudder that run through your body is one of fear.

“Since it’s just a job to you, I best pay you better for all the extra services,” he growls, before pulling out his wallet and throwing whatever cash he had at your face. “That enough?”

You want to be mad at what he’s implying, but your feelings of anger are quickly stamped out as you see the genuine hurt in his eyes before he turns away to angrily shove his boots on and stomps out of your apartment. You cry to yourself until you hear your alarm go off and you're forced to get ready for the job you’ve chosen.

He doesn’t show up for his scheduled session.

That Friday, because of your altered schedule, you don’t even have the luxury of work to distract yourself, so you can only really stew at home. He’s mad at you no doubt about that, and why wouldn’t he be? He truly wants to treat what you two have as an actual relationship, and you made it clear you have a life outside of him that he’s not welcomed in, not to mention him finally figuring out where your priorities lie. No matter how reasonable it is to keep him separate, it no doubt hurts for him. Especially given the fact he’s opened up his whole world to you.

It’s the uncertainty that is killing you though. If he were to call right now and tell you that he was going to report you, that would at the very least be better than the silent treatment you're currently receiving.

Of the two impending disasters in your life you choose to focus on your parents party for the time being. You were not looking forward to this whatsoever, given how your typical family get togethers go, and with you having been far less available in the last few months, you can only imagine how this will go.

When you had first begun to circle in on Elvis’ issues surrounding his mother, he had pushed back as many do by asking the same of you. This wasn’t an uncommon avoidance tactic, so you already had vague answers prepared for all general questions you asked of your patients. Your go-to descriptor of your family dynamic was simply ‘fine.’

Fine as in you had an open invitation to all holidays and family get-togethers, which almost always consisted of you helping your mother in the kitchen before and after the meal where she would talk your ear off with gossip she heard and try to set you up with someone from her church. You would eat with the entire family, you would play with your niece and coo over your nephew, and grin and bear your sister-in-laws backhanded musings of why anyone would ever choose anything else over this. Your brother and father would separate from the lot of you to sit and drink on the porch in loaded silence. You would say hello and goodbye to your father, and that would be the totality of the interaction between the two of you. Neither of you would acknowledge this. You would go home as soon as was appropriate. You would repeat the next time.

The story of your parents is, all things considered, picturesque. Your father the baseball star, your mother the prom queen, who married right out of high school. He would attend college and then medical school right afterwards, she would have a beautiful boy and become the ideal homemaker. Your father would later be drafted and served on the western front until the end of the war and upon his return is when you enter the picture.

Your father was a prideful man, and why wouldn’t he be; Chief Physician of the biggest and newest hospital in the city, beautiful wife, smart and successful children. Image was always a great concern of his, taking great stock into who he associated himself with and what he owned. Though you and your brother, Danny, were undoubtedly your fathers most prized possessions though.

Your brother, the very image of your father from his career down to the way he walks. Aside from a brief rebellious stage when he was a teen, Danny had followed the path your father had made for him down to the letter. You can never recall any instance in which your brother said he wanted to be a doctor, though you do remember your father always saying he was going to be one. You remember this specifically because in one instance you had asked him what you were going to be when you grew up and he replied with a kiss on the forehead saying how you would make a man so very happy one day, because you made him so happy. In retrospect, most of your childhood you felt more akin to a doll, meant to smile and be fussed over when he was interested, while also being quiet and sitting unobtrusive when he wasn’t.

And you played along: good grades, good social standing, good attitude, all around good girl. In fact you can only really point to two instances of rebellion in your life, your chosen field of study and your relationship with Elvis.

You’re not too sure how your parents would react to your relationship with Elvis even under normal circumstances. Your mother you’re almost positive would approve as her highest aspirations for you were that you would marry a rich man. And you don’t remember her having strong opinions about… anything really, let alone Elvis Presley. Though she doesn’t often disagree with father, so whatever hypothetical reaction she would have, you can at least guarantee that it would be a joint one with your father. As for your father you do remember his near violent rage towards your brother for playing Elvis’ music during his more controversial days, as he had adopted the opinions of his fellow bible thumpers. You can also recall him immediately showering you with love and affection in front of your brother, audibly complimenting how much he loved you because you weren’t a difficult child. That is still one of your fondest memories of him.

The dynamic between you and your father was always an odd one, either very hot or very cold at any given moment. From a very young age you remember him having, what your mother would refer to as episodes, where he would be home from work but not entirely present. He would sit for hours in front of the fireplace and be in a near catatonic state. Apparently when you were a baby one got so bad that he was there nearly the whole night and your mother at the end of her rope with him, thrust you into his arms, and it ended up having the desired effect of snapping him out of his state.

From a young age he had described you as a godsend for him, how all the men he had lost in the war still haunt him, and how you were the only one capable of making them quiet, and how you were a reminder that he was still capable of life, whatever that meant. At one point you asked him once if there were ghosts in the house, and you remember him giving you a pained smile as he reassured you that ghosts only live inside your head. You fear that he was all too correct about that.

The burden of quieting these ghosts was always on you. Your brother who remembered your father prior to him being drafted was perturbed by his apparent shift in personality. And your mom saw nothing wrong with the arrangement as he wasn’t stuck in his head forever and you got to spend quality time with your father. If by quality time she meant talking, singing, etc., to your father while he silently held you in his arms. Mostly you read to him and once he snapped out of it he would praise how smart you were, though even from a young age you could recognize that he hadn’t heard a single word of what you had said.

Though for all that it helped him, it was not particularly healthy for you. You can recall how being anywhere without your father was stressful, as you feared he would have an episode and you wouldn’t be there to help him. The negative effect it had on your social life as you would rush home to be there when he got home from work and finally you would learn that this was not a common experience amongst the other girls. How you would barely sleep some nights due to the fact that he hadn’t had an episode in some time so you knew one was on the horizon.

This all came to a head when you were twelve or so, and asked if you could go to a friends, whose name you don’t even remember, sleepover, only for him to immediately shut you down and remind you how much he needed you home just in case. You don’t even remember what it was about that particular sleepover that made you want to go so bad, but this would be the first time you butted heads with him in your life.

Specifically you remember telling him how you weren’t going to be a little girl forever and you should be able to do things without him. You think you even remember saying how he needs to talk to someone about his episodes and how he shouldn’t always rely on you for them. Almost as soon as you said those words, did you regret them, as you watched the humiliation and pain in his eyes turn hard. He would let you go, but you could hardly enjoy yourself there, knowing how badly you hurt him. The next day you would come home to find your dad training a new dog, he refused to talk about it and you didn’t want to push the issue, so you let it be.

You would regret that the next time you saw him having an episode, he would dismissively ask you to go back to your room all the while looking only at the new dog. And how could you complain, or more aptly, what did you have to complain about? Is this not what you wanted when you said that to him? For him to rely on someone else because you wished to be independent, and now he is doing just that. Even if that meant he didn’t really look your way anymore.

For the next few years you would have little interaction with your father outside of him giving you orders and you almost always followed them, desperate for that connection you had once more.

You would be lying if you didn’t admit that this was part of the reason you got into your field in the first place, however you have since made a vow to refrain from attempting to diagnose any family member. Though of course now you can look back on it and conclude that turning you into essentially an emotional crutch since your infancy was an unhealthy coping mechanism on your fathers part and you wish that it did not happen, and you have worked to unpack all that on your own. However you don’t believe it has had any lasting damaging effects on you.

Come Saturday you had decided to fully push Elvis out of your mind and focus on the party. Your mother had called the night before to invite you as her plus one for a spa morning before getting ready for the party. Your father is a perfectionist and you always knew when he was like this before a party the best place to be was out of his way.

As you approach the spa, you try to take comfort in the fact that your mother at the very least will be able to get all her intrusive more questions out before the party. You have no doubt that everything you say to her will be parroted back to your father before long. In spite of this you try your best to relax that morning and take your mind off of everything.

Your mother brags that this trip was an anniversary gift from one of your fathers more high profile patients. It’s odd to you how your father can so easily accept gifts from patients in your eyes, when not only your job, but your own safety is reliant on an ability to maintain a professional distance from your patients. Your father is able to not only do this so flagrantly, but to thrive on it socially, as you know from past experiences that a good portion of guests that attend any of your parents' events are in fact his patients.

You on the other hand reluctantly accepted one bottle of wine from a patient and your life has been on a downward spiral ever since.

You ponder what your life may have been if your father had been able to talk you out of switching majors. “I just want to see my princess succeed,” those words, seemingly gentle in delivery, when they in fact pierced your heart like a knife. Whether he was trying to intentionally break your spirit or not becomes irrelevant, as his message was clear: you would not find success here.

And look at me now daddy, you thought bitterly. Fucking a patient who has the eyes of the world on him, with my entire future uncertain as to whether or not I’ll make it to the other side of this. I sure showed you what it means to succeed. Though you wouldn’t be surprised if this was in fact a success in your fathers eyes.

You and your mother would return to your childhood home as the staff was finishing setting up. Every party your parents threw was nothing short of an event and this time was no different. Your parents took the concept of this being their Ruby anniversary seriously, even going so far as forcing you, Danny, and his family to wear the exact same shade of red for the full effect of family unity.

The dress chosen for you was more conservative than you would have liked, but as a result was a nice breather from the more risque dresses Elvis has been having you wear. You grin and play your part of the adoring daughter for the obligatory family photo, to which Danny reveals he’s going to have the portrait painted for the mantle for their wedding anniversary. You would gift them an expensive watch and necklace that you picked up last minute yesterday, and would secretly hope for your brother's plan to fall through because the last thing you want is to have to see this period of your life staring you in the face for years to come.

You would play with your niece as guests started to trickle in and quite honestly it’s the closest you’ve come to reprieve in a while. She wanted to show you her new doll and you in turn showed her how to braid their hair, and you idly wonder if she would get along with Lisa Marie. You yank the doll's head a little too hard when you think about the circumstances of the two of you meeting, let alone her meeting your niece, as you are hoping for the relationship between you and Elvis to peter out before that point. Eventually one of your cousins with kids arrive and you no longer have the excuse of keeping her company to avoid adult interaction.

As a child you were always so mystified with these parties, sneaking to the staircase to watch all these fancy people milling about in your home below. Doctors, and lawyers, and businessmen and even politicians from around the city, all mingling together and having important discussions you were too young to understand fully. Your mother, beautiful as always, would play her part as hostess perfectly, occupying the women in a separate room to talk about whatever gossip had been brewing in their circle. But it was always your father who was the proverbial belle of the ball at these parties. He could walk into any room and all eyes would eventually gravitate towards him, he could hold a conversation with men of all backgrounds, and he could enrapture an entire party with one of his famous stories. You wanted more than anything to be down there and see up close what was essentially your father holding court.

Now as a grown woman, you are far more jaded to the experience, as going to these parties primarily entails intrusive questions of your love life, and attempts at playing matchmaker by most of the women. Not to mention the comments of how much you’ve grown with tones of varying levels of appropriateness from the men. It started when you began college, as before conversations with these people tended to be generic questions on if you were doing well in school and clubs you were in. Now, in spite of your status as an independent adult with a career and expanded interests, these people struggle to make conversation with you that doesn’t pertain to your love life.

The evening was going as well as you could hope, considering you were able to connect with some old friends and family members you hadn’t seen in a while, though a glance at the clock tells you that Mark is running late and you have to take the judgemental looks from distant family members as to the whereabouts of both a ring and a boyfriend. There is still some time to go before the end of the evening and you plan to make a quiet exit once everyone makes the obligatory speeches and toasts.

That is until you hear, as does everyone else, the heavy entrance doors open simultaneously and you feel the air shift. There seems to be a hush that falls across the attendees before you start to hear the incredulous whispers, each one filling you with dread.

Is that?!

I can’t believe it!

Why is he here?

You feel everything slow down, and without even needing to see him, you know exactly who just arrived. But the optimistic side holds out hope, so you have to confirm for yourself. You turn slowly as though that will prevent what’s about to happen and you feel your heart stop as you meet his gaze for the first time in days.