#elvis fandom

with the memphis mafia being out to run errands for your husband, it was a quiet afternoon in the hills—quiet except for the sound of someone definitely not being sneaky in the bushes.

you were by the pool, lying on a beach towel two sizes too large, flipping lazily through a paperback while elvis paced nearby, shirtless, barefoot, and chewing a piece of ice like it owed him money.

“darlin’,” he said, squinting up the hill, “you see what i see?”

you lowered your book and looked past the lemon tree. sure enough—half-hidden in the hillside brush, crouched like a war photographer behind enemy lines, was a guy with a telephoto lens the size of a baseball bat.

“paparazzo,” you said flatly. nothing foreign for the two of you, but definitely annoying.

elvis nodded. “i swear, one of these days i’m gonna put a cardboard cutout of myself out here just to mess with ‘em.”

you stretched your legs and gave him a slow, wicked grin. “or… we could give him a show.”

elvis turned to you, eyebrows up. “oh, you wanna play dirty.”

“let’s fake a fight. something big. something tabloid-worthy.”

he rubbed his chin like he was deep in thought. “like... money? jealousy?”

“no,” you said, sitting up. “something juicier. what if you told me you bought another house in palm springs... and didn’t tell me?”

elvis gasped softly, lip quivering with a smirk that threatened to break through on his features. “oh that’s cold. that’s ice cold.”

you nodded. “exactly. i find out right now, by accident. you try to lie. it gets messy. someone ends up in the pool.”

knowing elvis, it was probably going to be you.

he laughed, then got into position, shaking his limbs out like he was about to go onstage. “alright, baby. let’s make some headlines.”

you stood, sucking in a deep breath and trying to suppress the giggles in your throat. you and elvis talked quietly at first, but animatedly, so the fool with the camera in the bushes knew something was up. then your voice raised louder, loud enough for the paparazzo to hear clearly, voice sharp. “palm springs, elvis? you bought another damn house without telling me?”

elvis turned slowly, squinting at you, getting in his role. “now hold on, i was gonna tell you—”

“really?” you stepped closer, pointing a finger in his chest. “when, exactly? after you furnished it? or maybe once the maid called here by mistake?”

“i didn’t think it was a big deal!” he shouted. “it’s just a lil' hideaway, nothin’ fancy!”

“oh just a little hideaway?” you shot back. “jesus, you collect homes like they’re stamps!”

he threw his arms up. “well, excuse me for wantin’ a little privacy!”

you got in close, nose to nose, voice low but harsh—because you knew the paparazzi was trying to get closer, hearing his shoes shuffle through the bushes. “is that what it’s about? privacy? or someone you don’t want me to know about?”

elvis blinked. “you better watch your mouth.”

“or what?”

he grinned, too fast.

“oh no.”

and with that, elvis grabbed you around the waist, hauled you up over his shoulder, and—with perfect comedic timing—tossed you into the deep end of the pool as you were inhaling a deep breath of air before you went under.

the splash was glorious. you came up sputtering, hair in your face, water in your ears, shouting, “you lunatic!”

he stood at the edge, hands on hips, grinning like a man who knew he just nailed it. “you started it, honey!”

then, behind him—crack! snap! crash.

the paparazzo—poor bastard—had tried to get closer during the argument and lost his footing. with a rustle and a yelp, he tumbled out of the hillside and right into the backyard, landing flat on his back in the grass.

elvis turned, not startled—just smug.

“well, look who dropped in.”

the guy scrambled upright, camera miraculously still in one piece, red-faced and panting. “i—uh—mr. presley—i wasn’t—”

“you weren’t snoopin’? you just fell outta the sky, huh?” elvis drawled, arms crossed.

you pulled yourself out of the pool, dripping and laughing, water pooling around your feet. “hope you got the part where i accused him of cheating with a maid. that was good stuff.”

the paparazzo blinked, confused. “wait… it wasn’t real?”

elvis clapped a hand on his shoulder. “course it wasn’t real, son. you think i’d be dumb enough to buy another house without tellin’ her? i like sleepin’ indoors.”

the man looked between you, baffled, then gave a small, sheepish laugh.

“you thirsty?” you asked, wringing out your hair. “you fell hard. you want a coke or somethin’?”

“uh… sure?”

elvis motioned him toward the patio like he was inviting over an old neighbor. “come on, you might as well get a couple planned shots for once. we’ll pose. you tell your editor it was all exclusive.”

“and next time,” you added with a grin planted on your face, “wear quieter shoes.”

the man sat down, clearly still trying to figure out what just happened, while elvis tossed him a towel.

“you ain’t the first one to get played in this backyard,” elvis said. “but you might be the first we let stay for a drink.”

the next afternoon, you were in the kitchen, barefoot, sipping coffee from your favorite mug. elvis was at the breakfast table in a robe, reading glasses he only wore in private sliding down his nose, pouring over a spread of tabloids like he was reading one of your bedside novels.

he held one up between two fingers.

“listen to this: ‘elvis presley’s private poolside blowout: love nest lies and betrayal in beverly hills!’”

you snorted. “is that the national tattler or the daily screamer?”

chuckling at the names you made up, he flipped it toward you. “confidential star weekly—real classy joint. i like the sound of national tattler, we should suggest that one to ‘em.”

you walked over and glanced down at the front page. there it was: a grainy, high-drama photo of you pointing angrily at elvis, face twisted in mock rage, and him mid-gesture like he was defending himself in court. below that was your favorite one—the shot of you mid-air, half-flipped, just before splashdown.

“oh my god,” you said, laughing. “i need to frame that one.”

elvis flipped the page, reading aloud in his exaggerated southern radio voice. “an anonymous source—likely the photographer who risked life and limb to document the encounter—claims the couple was arguing about an alleged secret home in palm springs. could presley be hiding more than real estate?”

you raised an eyebrow. “alleged source? it’s literally him. he was in our lawn.”

elvis leaned back, holding the paper up like it was holy scripture. “they say we’re on the verge of a split. you’ve ‘stormed out before’ and i’ve ‘been seen dining with a mysterious blonde’ who, by the way, is your mother.”

laughing, you poured yourself and him more coffee. “well, it’s official. we’re scandalous.”

he held up a second magazine. “oh, no no, it gets better. ‘presley love triangle: betrayed by a maid?’ apparently, i’m having affairs left and right.”

you nearly spit your drink. “our sixty-eight-year-old maid who only talks about the way knitting is art and her arthritis?”

“the very one.” elvis chuckled and then looked up at you as you stood beside his chair, throwing the magazine down and pulling you on his lap. “this is your fault, y’know that? ya couldn’t have said the name of some starry eyed actress out here in hollyweird?”

you let out a small shriek and laughed as he pulled you down on his lap, your arms snaking around his neck, manicured nails playing with his hair. “no, that would’ve made it too believable,” you teased, grinning as he shot you a glare before laughing again. “you think the fans believe this stuff?”

“some,” he said, wrapping his arm around your waist firmer. “but most of ‘em’ll just laugh. hell, they know i can’t even sneak pie into the kitchen without you findin’ out. you think i could hide a second house?”

“well, that’s what you get for trying to eat pie without me,” you say matter-of-factly, smiling. “so what now? do we clear it up?”

elvis shook his head, eyes twinkling. “nah. let ‘em wonder. at least somethin’s happenin’ around here now.”

you sat back against his chest, watching the afternoon sun come through the kitchen sliding doors, lighting up the glossy mess of headlines on the table. you couldn’t help but laugh.

“you know,” you said, “some people pay pr firms a fortune for this kind of publicity.”

elvis raised his mug in a toast. “and all we needed was a fake fight, a pool toss, and one clumsy man in camo.”

“you think the colonel’s gonna be losing his mind over this?”

elvis laughed, shrugging and then putting his chin on your shoulder, kissing your cheek. “he probably would’ve come up with this foolery himself, but if he does, let ‘im.”

nodding in agreement, you clinked mugs. “to backyard chaos.”

“to free press,” he corrected, grinning.

and somewhere up in the hills, probably sweating in a new bush with a fresh camera roll, the paparazzo waited—just in case the next scandal broke poolside again.

it started with the sound of voices—heated, passionate, and oddly organized.

you stood by the upstairs window in a way nobody saw you there, watching the growing cluster of fans gathering at the front gate. elvis wandered up behind you, fully dressed and ready to start the day, just like you.

“what’s the ruckus?” he mumbled.

you tilted your head. “looks like we’ve got... factions.”

he squinted out the window. sure enough, there were two distinct groups forming outside the black iron gate. one side held signs that read “elvis deserves peace” and “marry me instead, elvis.” the other had a giant banner that said “y/n deserved better.”

“oh lord,” he said, laughing loudly and nearly making you nearly go deaf as his face was right next to yours. “we’ve been turned into a damn soap opera.”

one girl on the “y/n deserved better” side yelled, “he didn’t even bring her a towel!”

another, on the elvis side, shouted back, “she overreacted! it’s not like he sold the house to someone else!”

“oh my god,” you said. “they're quoting the fake argument.”

elvis turned to you with a grin. “well. you wanna go clear our good names or let ‘em keep throwin’ tomatoes?”

you smirked. “let’s go have some fun.”

a few minutes later, the two of you walked down the driveway arm in arm, shit eating grins on both your faces. the second the fans saw you, the shouting kicked up again.

“there she is!”

“elvis, you better apologize!”

“he’s lucky he didn’t throw me in the pool!”

you held up your hand. “alright! okay! calm down—everyone breathe!”

elvis stopped in front of the gate with you, hand lingering at your lower back. “now what exactly do y’all think happened?”

“she caught you cheating!” someone yelled.

“with a maid!” another added.

a woman near the front pointed at you. “she should’ve pushed you in the pool!”

you cracked a smile and raised an eyebrow at elvis. “wow. tough crowd.”

elvis shrugged. “guess i’m the villain this week.”

a teen girl on your side yelled, “you deserve someone who tells you about all the houses!”

“oh my god,” you laughed. “okay, okay—time out.”

elvis slipped his arm around your waist and pulled you closer. “y’all wanna know the truth?”

everyone leaned in, as if the two of you were going to tell them some scandalous secret. which, maybe, in some way you were.

“it was fake,” you said, holding up both hands. “all of it. we saw a paparazzo in the bushes and decided to mess with him.”

elvis nodded. “i threw her in the pool on purpose. she told me to.”

gasps. someone dropped their sign.

“you mean—none of it was real?” a woman said, deflated.

“no secret house?” another added.

“no cheating?” someone from “team elvis” whispered hopefully.

“nope,” you said, giving that side a raised eyebrow before laughing softly. “just a bored couple with too much imagination and a very bad habit of messing with nosy photographers.”

elvis pointed at one of the magazines someone was holding. “y’all really think i’d get into a screaming match over palm springs? i can barely argue over where to order lunch.”

one fan, who had been clutching her “she deserved better” sign like a weapon, lowered it slowly. “i made a t-shirt,” she mumbled.

you smiled kindly. “wear it anyway. it’s still kinda true—i washed my hair that morning.”

elvis rolled his eyes and laughed, squeezing your hip as some girls giggled like they understood exactly how annoying that was, and they most likely did. more laughter broke out, someone shouting, “you two are evil!” and another followed with, “i love it!”

the inevitable “can we get a picture?!” came and you wholeheartedly agreed, elvis throwing an arm around your shoulder instead and playfully putting his hand around your throat. “only if i get to look like the villain again.”

you both posed for the fans, giving them exaggerated angry faces, fake sobs, and mock dramatics. this time, it wasn’t about headlines, but about having fun with the fans and letting them create new memories they’ll most likely never forget.

after taking more pictures with the fans, elvis signing anything from records to teddy bears and personal photo albums, you and your husband waved goodbye and made your back to the house, still giggling about the whole thing.

“you think they’ll believe it was fake?” you asked.

he tilted his head. “some will.”

“and the rest?”

"I just wanna fuck!" You shouted, finally letting it out. "I want to peg you, Elvis! I want you to beg for me! So get on your knees and strip!" Your chest heaved as you tried to steady yourself, heart pounding against your rib cage. Elvis only stared, luscious lips parted slightly.

He began to kneel, grasping at the hem of his t-shirt where he pulled it overhead, tossing it aside before reaching down and unbuttoning his jeans, pulling the zipper down after. You watched as his hands made quick work of his clothes, saliva collecting at the corners of your mouth. Soon enough, he was completely naked, adjusting his position to being on all fours, looking up at you with sleepy Blue eyes. "Then give it to me." He muttered, ensuring you knew just how much he wanted you to be in control of him just by the way he gazed up at you. You licked your lips, stepping toward him where you then grabbed a handful of his thick, Black hair, pulling his head back. "Yeah...? You're gonna be a good Boy for me, Elvis?" You muttered in question, cocking your head to the side. "Yes, Ma'am." He nodded. "Gonna be the best for you."

As a wide grin spread across your lips, you stepped away momentarily to retrieve your "tool". Finding what you needed, a thick strap-on, you began to undress yourself whilst making eye contact with him once more. "I want you on the bed, ass up." You said. Rising to his feet, Elvis followed your command, crawling onto the mattress and settling on his hands and knees, pushing his ass in the air. "God, you're bossy." He chuckled lightly. "What was that?" You hissed, narrowing your e/c eyes at him. "Behave, Presley. You do as I say tonight." "Yes Ma'am. Forgive me." He then soon apologised, even giving a soft bat of his thick eyelashes. Once you had managed to get on your "tool", you made your way over to the bed, though not before grabbing a bottle of lubrication from the bedside drawer.

Rubbing your hands over the sides of his thighs, you moved one of your hands to his groin, brushing your fingers over his shaft. His breath hitched in his throat, and he already pressed against your hand, seeking attention. "Y/n-" You silenced him with a slap to his ass, causing him to grunt. "No. You know what to call me." "Forgive me, Ma'am... But... Please..." "Please, what?" You echoed. "Please touch me, Ma'am..."

With a hum of acceptance, you finally wrapped your hand around his length, catching the pre-cum leaking from his Reddened tip, beginning your pumping motions. "Ah..." He breathed out in pleasure, closing his eyes. "You like that?" You queried, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. He nodded, swallowing hard. "Yes, Ma'am... I-I do..." He responded, humming softly as his hips began to stutter. "Good Boy." You cooed, moving your hand just that little bit faster. Though you didn't allow him that pleasure for long, removing your hand to open the bottle of lube. Elvis whimpered at the lack of stimulation, sticking his lip out in a dramatic pout, but he soon stopped when he realised what was coming next. Deciding to just lubricate only the dildo, simply to speed things up faster since you had been waiting for so long to do this, you ensured every inch of the toy was coated before spreading his tanned cheeks, positioning yourself behind him on your knees.

You sunk the toy into him, slowly and steadily, the pressure pushing back against your pelvis. "Holy hell-!" He squeaked out in surprise, his Blue eyes flying wide open. This was a new experience for him, definitely for sure. But he wouldn't lie and say it didn't feel a little good...

Waiting a few minutes for Elvis to get used to the feeling of something being inside of him, you then began to rock your hips, back and forth, back and forth. It was a slow pace at first, and it certainly made him squirm a little despite how he tried to hide it. Soon, the speed began to pick up, and so did the sounds of his grunts and moans. "Fuck... Oh, God..." He moaned out, clutching the fabric of the bedsheet, his blunt nails digging in. "Good Boy. Take it, Elvis." You growled slightly, gripping his hips tightly as you continued to peg him, your speed increasing over time.

It wasn't long before he began to whine louder and louder, begging for more. "Yes...! F-Fuck! Harder!" He begged like a slut, drooling all over the sheet. "Oh? You want it harder?" You asked, pulling it out almost all the way before slamming it back in, causing him to cry out in pleasure. "Ohh! Y-Y-Yes! Goddamnit, that feels so good! A-Again!" You couldn't help but to moan a little at his begging, slamming back into him again and again. "I-I'm gonna cum...! Fuck...! Fuck! Ah-!" With one final cry of pleasure, Elvis came, ropes of thick, hot seed spilling out on the sheet, leaving him panting.