#elvis x reader

hiii!! i love thiss. yes this would be so cute, an idea popped in my head straight away when i read this. anyways i hope you like it! x

𝑆𝑊𝐸𝐸𝑇 𝑆𝑀𝑂𝐾𝐸

❀ summary-you’ve always watched Elvis with his cigar—tonight, at Graceland, you finally decide to try it yourself.

❀ pairing- elvis presley x fem reader

Graceland always had a way of feeling alive at night.

Even when it was quiet—when the phones finally stopped ringing, when the laughter from the living room faded, when the house settled into its familiar creaks and sighs—it still felt like it was breathing. Like it was watching.

You loved nights like this.

You were curled up on the couch in the den, legs tucked beneath you, wearing one of Elvis’s shirts—an oversized, soft thing that smelled faintly like his cologne and something warmer. Something unmistakably him. The television was on but muted, some late-night show flickering uselessly as background noise.

Elvis sat in his favorite chair, legs stretched out, one arm draped lazily over the side. He looked… comfortable. Relaxed in a way he didn’t always allow himself to be.

And he was smoking a cigar.

That was what had your attention.

Not the TV. Not the soft hum of the house. Not even the way his dark hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck.

The cigar.

It was thick, held between his fingers with casual confidence, the end glowing softly every time he took a slow drag. He didn’t rush it. Never did. Elvis treated cigars like a ritual—slow inhales, gentle exhales, smoke curling lazily around his face.

You watched, fascinated, as he exhaled a perfect ring.

It floated in the air for a moment before dissolving.

You blinked.

“…Okay,” you murmured.

Elvis glanced over, eyebrow lifting slightly. “Okay what, baby?”

You shifted on the couch, biting your lip, eyes still locked on the cigar. “I think I wanna try that.”

The room went very still.

Elvis lowered the cigar slightly, turning his head fully to look at you now. His expression was… unreadable. Somewhere between amused, surprised, and suspicious.

“You wanna try a cigar?” he asked slowly, like he wanted to make sure he’d heard you right.

You nodded, a little sheepish but determined. “Yeah. Just once.”

He stared at you for a second longer, hesitation clear in his eyes. He tapped the cigar lightly on the ashtray, then ran a hand through his hair. “I dunno, baby… They’re kinda strong. I don’t want you coughing your head off.”

You smiled softly. “I’ll be careful. I just… wanna try it with you.”

He studied you, his blue eyes warming, and then let out a long, low chuckle. “Well… alright. But don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

You grinned. “I won’t.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, shaking his head. “Didn’t take you for the cigar type.”

“I didn’t take me for the cigar type either,” you shot back. “But you make it look… nice.”

That earned you a look.

One of those looks.

His lips curved slightly as he leaned back in the chair. “That so?”

You shrugged, trying to look casual while absolutely failing. “You look all… relaxed. Mysterious. Like some kind of movie star.”

He laughed properly this time. “Baby, I am a movie star.”

You rolled your eyes. “You know what I mean.”

Elvis studied you for a moment, his gaze softening. There was affection there—deep and warm—but also something protective. He took another slow drag, then tapped the cigar gently against the ashtray.

“Y’know these ain’t exactly candy,” he said. “They’re strong.”

“I’m not asking to smoke the whole thing,” you said quickly. “Just… a puff.”

He hummed thoughtfully, eyes flicking back to the cigar, then to you again. “You ever smoked anything before?”

“Nope.”

“Not even a cigarette?”

You shook your head. “Uh-uh.”

He laughed again, disbelief clear in his voice. “Lord have mercy. Twenty-four years old and still pure as the driven snow.”

“Hey!” you protested. “That is not true.”

He smirked. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You grabbed a throw pillow and lobbed it at him. He caught it easily, still grinning.

“Alright, alright,” he said. “Don’t get feisty.”

You scooted closer on the couch, eyes hopeful. “So… will you let me try?”

Elvis sighed dramatically, like he was being asked to hand over a state secret. He stood up slowly, crossing the room toward you. Up close, the smell of the cigar was richer—earthy, smoky, oddly comforting.

He stopped in front of you, looking down with a fond shake of his head. “You’re gonna cough,” he said, teasing. “And you’re gonna look all cute while you do it.”

“Probably,” you said, grinning.

“You’re gonna make a face.”

“Definitely.”

“And then you’re gonna tell me it’s gross.”

“Maybe.”

He chuckled. “Still wanna try?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He leaned down, bringing himself to your level, and held the cigar out carefully. “Alright. But listen to me, sweetheart.”

You met his eyes, suddenly very aware of how close he was. His gaze was intense, but there was a sparkle of mischief there too.

“Don’t inhale—well, just a little, alright?” he said gently. “Just don’t overdo it.”

“Okay,” you said, smiling nervously.

“And don’t rush it.”

“Okay.”

He paused, his eyes scanning your face. “And if you hate it, you don’t gotta pretend you like it just ‘cause I do.”

Your heart softened. “I know.”

He smiled at that—really smiled—then positioned the cigar properly between your fingers.

It felt strange. Heavier than you expected.

“Like this?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Just like that.”

You brought it to your lips, glancing at him nervously. “You’re watching me like I’m about to defuse a bomb.”

“Feels about right,” he teased, giving your hip a playful nudge.

You took a small pull—and inhaled.

Immediately, your eyes widened and a coughing fit hit you. Smoke burned your lungs, but there was also a strange thrill to it. You gasped, waving your hand in front of your face.

“Oh—wow—okay—oh gosh!” you laughed between coughs, tears prickling your eyes. “That is—oh my god—that is strong.”

Elvis burst out laughing, stepping closer and rubbing your back. “Easy, baby, easy! You did it! Look at you.”

“It tastes like—like wood and fire and regret,” you managed between laughs.

He laughed so hard he had to turn away for a second. “Regret, huh?”

You nodded emphatically. “Immediate regret.”

He took the cigar from you, still smiling, and set it down safely before pulling you gently to his chest.

“You alright?” he asked, amused but concerned.

“Yeah,” you said, still giggling. “I don’t think I’m built for cigars.”

He wrapped an arm around you, pressing a kiss to your temple. “That’s okay. More for me.”

You leaned into him, grinning. “But I get why you like it.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said softly. “It suits you.”

He looked down at you, eyes warm and affectionate. “You suit me.”

You smiled, resting your head against his chest as the room settled around you again—quiet, comfortable, full of love.

And somewhere in the air, a faint trace of smoke lingered—sweet, warm, and just a little bit funny.

pairing: austin!elvis presley x wife!reader

summary:elvis's wife finds muse in marilyn monroe, admitting her husband and the late actress are her biggest inspirations.

word count: 2.2k (2280 words)

warnings: media harassment, paparrazzi, power imbalance, “daddy” dynamic in the marriage, public scrutiny of marriage, references to marilyn monroe’s life (failed marriages and speculated suicide), emotional distress

author's note: i don't like to use "daddy" for couples but for this lyrics and fanfic match it works so i will go against it this time. this fic takes place in late 60s, so it fits the general beliefs of people.

The Cadillac door swings open and the rigourous flashing of cameras, clicks before you, raising the white wall of light. They first greet your husband, all six feet of him and his black suit pressed on him perfectly. The collar of it is spread open, having women gasp at just the sight. He looks to you, extending his hand, like he is about to grab his most prized possession, which technically you are.

“Come on, baby.” When your heels hit the sidewalk, his hand firmly covers the small of your back. The world tilts at your presence, the crowd is now in ecstasy. The high squeal of a woman in the back, overlapping the shouts, her yelling Elll-vis! As if it’ll earn her an autograph.

The immense power you two have is getting into your head, but it settles in nicely, like it is home, where it is supposed to be. The reporters push forward, eagerly throwing themselves.

“Mrs. Presley! Over here!” “Who made your dress?” “Is it true you’ve been in talks for a film?”

They all wanted a piece of you. They’ve wanted it since you married him two years ago, but lately it’s been worse. You have not only become known as Elvis Presley’s wife, even if it was your main claim to fame. A brand has been created around you, your look and fashion. The sort that makes women tear your photo from Photoplay and pin it to their vanities.

You smile at them, as you have learned to do. Not with a heavy grin, but a tiny gesturing lift of your lips.

Then, one reporter calls out. “Who inspires you most?”

The question stops you mid-step. This one you wouldn’t mind answering. Especially since you have recently decided to work on that brand of yours. Create a statement, as it seemed fit to do. Even Elvis’s management approved of it. Your husband glances down at you, expecting you to either ignore it or toss out something, maybe a designer’s name or your mother’s. A safe answer.

But your lips curve illicitly, you turn towards the reporter, locking eyes with him in a way the man might think you are daring him to a staring contest. The blinding fleshes reduce.

“Elvis is my daddy,” you say, each word dripping out of you like honey. “Marilyn’s my mother. They’re the only two people I’ll ever look up to.”

The man’s eyebrows jump so high they nearly reach his hairline. The crowd of reporters erupts like a cherry bomb has just been dropped in the middle of them.

“What do you mean by that?” “Did you know Marilyn?” “Do you—”

You just shrug at them, hand sliding into the crook of Elvis’s arm. Once you are inside, the noise outside turns to a muffled hum. You can finally have a proper breath taken, however in here, the heavy scent of perfumes mix, the thickness of it giving little place to breathe in. Elvis takes your coat off you and hands it to the usher, his palm lingering over your bare shoulders.

“You know,” a low turn of his vocals graze your skin, “you’re giving those boys somethin’ to write about for the rest of the month.”

“That’s the point, Daddy.” You tilt your head up, charmed by him, as are all the girls. Expect you were rewarded with his ring and last name.

His jaw tightens, but he acts like it’s nothing. He leads you towards your seats, in the front row, reserved specially for Mr and Mrs Presley. Elvis’s leg brushes against yours as the house lights dim. He leans in once the movie starts playing, casting names of the stars starring in it.

“Marilyn, huh?” You nod, pointing out the obvious.

“She’s dead, baby.”

“No harm in honoring her. She was unbelievably beautiful and smart. I want it to be cherished.” He hums, resting his open hand on your thigh, seemingly in approval. The type you were always chasing to have from him.

The picture starts, but you’re not really watching. Your mind is clouded with the flashes. And reporters. You wonder how long before that sentence you uttered makes it to print. You practically put yourself next to the most famous woman in Hollywood. Soon some editor is going to put your face next to Marilyn’s in a spread titled The Old and New Marilyn. Despite the flattering image it presented, it somehow felt wrong. You didn’t want to replace her. She has been an inspiration, a guide to follow. Even your stylist has been trying to recreate a couple of her looks on you.

By the time the credits roll, you’ve sat through an hour and half of flickering light and music without really remembering much of the plot. You’ve been too aware of the weight of Elvis’s hand, the slow drag of his thumb along your thigh that nobody can see.

When the house lights rise, you smooth your skirt and stand, feeling the dozens of eyes on you. As you and Elvis make your way back to the car, the cameras wait like predators outside. More flashes, more shouts, but you keep your chin high and your smile easy.

Marilyn’s name was mentioned as you went. With a couple of questions you couldn’t fully register due to the quick steps you were taking to the car.

Inside the Cadillac, the door shuts and the noise outside dulls to a far-off buzz. Elvis doesn’t start the car right away. He just sits there, one arm draped over the wheel, the other resting on the back of your seat.

“You like stirrin’ ‘em up, baby. You know what they’ll say when that hits the papers?” He brushes a finger down your cheek with a little laugh. He tilts yout face towards him, studying what you will do next.

“That I’m devoted to my husband and idolize a movie star?” you offer sweetly, batting your eyelashes dollishly.

“Wouldn’t that just be nice?” His thumb runs along your bottom lip, deliberately. The car pulls away from the curb, the streetlights sliding across his profile. You watch him from the corner of your eye, taking in the set of his jaw, the way his hands look on the wheel. He doesn’t say much on the drive back, but every so often, his gaze flicks over to you, as if making sure you are still on your best behaviour.

When you get home, the house is quiet, the air cool. Elvis shrugs off his jacket, tossing it over a chair. Then his eyes find you again, lingering on the way your satin dress clings, the way your hair still holds the perfect curls.

He steps toward you, measuring, until his shadow swallows your figure. “You look perfect,” he says finally, voice low enough that it makes your skin prickle. “But don’t forget,” his hand slides around your waist, pulling you close, “…I’m the only one you’re tryin’ to please.”

You tilt your head, lips parting just slightly. “Always, Daddy.”

His mouth brushes your ear when he answers, approving. “Good girl.”

Two days later, the papers went off the lane. Every headline has your name in bold type, strung next to his and Marilyn’s face printed just above yours. ELVIS’ WIFE CALLS HIM ‘DADDY,’ CLAIMS MARILYN IS HER MUSE. Some of them called it “provocative,” others “troubling.” You’ve read every word.

Now, you’re shopping with one of Elvis’s men looking after you. The sort of big, quiet type who doesn’t talk much, just makes sure you don’t get swallowed by crowds. Elvis insist on them.

The store is airy with a chill creeping on you. The racks of dresses in creams and silks and blush pinks hang all around the place, peaking your interested. You let your fingers drift over them, selecting a few that echo Marilyn’s most famous looks, the halter necklines, the cinched waists, the hourglass shapes that were practically a signature. Might as well own up to the claim.

“You about ready, ma’am?” the man asks, seriously.

You nod, tucking the last box into a bag and stepping toward the glass doors. Outside, you can already see the gathering, a cluster of photographers, ready to storm at you, hunt down as much as they can get.

The moment the doors open, they surge forward.

“Mrs. Presley, over here! Are you buying things to look more like Marilyn Monroe?” “Do you think you’ll be the next Marilyn?” “Is Elvis alright with you dressing like her?”

The flashes blind your path, you keep your chin high, the perfect neutral smile painted on. But they keep coming.

“Do you think your marriage will end like hers?” “Will you take your own life the way she did?”

That one lands like a slap. Your steps falter, breath catching in your throat. You blink against the sting in your eyes, willing it away.

The man with you steps in, pushing a path toward the waiting car. “Enough,” he growls, but the questions still echo over the crowd.

“Do you see yourself as a tragic figure?” “Are you worried Elvis will leave you?”

You don’t answer. Your hands are trembling now, the bags rustling against your legs. You can feel the eyes on you, the lenses catching every flicker of your face, undoubtedly not missing your misery. More so fighting to catch it.

By the time you reach the car, your throat is tight and your smile has vanished. The door shuts behind you, the sound mercifully muting the chaos outside. You don’t even try to hide it then. The first tear slips down your cheek, followed by another, faster. You press your palm to your mouth to keep the sound in, shoulders shaking.

The man slides into the driver’s seat, glancing back at you through the rearview. “You want me to call the boss?”

You shake your head quickly, wiping at your face. “No.”

You lean back against the seat, closing your eyes. But you can still hear them. The way they said her name. The way they said it was a prophecy that will follow you.

It’s past eight when you hear the front door shut, footsteps heavy down the hall. You’re curled on your side in the bedroom, the curtains drawn tight, only the faintest strip of evening light slipping in under the edge. Your dress is in a heap on the floor. You’ve stripped down to your slip, swallowed by the weight of the blankets, your face pressed into a damp pillow.

You hear him before you see him. “Baby? Where you at?” His voice carries down the hallway, searching for you. Then the door opens, and he’s there, filling the doorway in his work clothes, hair mussed from the day.

The moment his eyes find you, he’s moving fast. “Aw, baby…” He crosses the room in a few strides, dropping to his knees beside the bed. His hands are on you right away, smoothing over your back, finding your face under the blankets. “What’s wrong, huh? What happened?”

You shake your head, unable to get the words out at first. He keeps murmuring to you, “Talk to me, baby. It’s alright. I’m here.” His palm cups your cheek, thumb brushing at the leaking tears.

“They—” Your voice catches, and you have to start again. “The press. They… they asked me if I thought I’d end up like Marilyn. If I’d… if I’d kill myself. They asked if our marriage would end like hers have.”

Elvis exhales hard, but he doesn’t let go of you. He pulls himself up onto the bed, sliding in behind you so you’re tucked against his chest. His arm wraps around you, holding you there while he presses his mouth to your temple.

“Baby girl…” His voice is low and careful. “I’m sorry they said that to you. I’m sorry they made you cry.”

You swallow, still clinging to the blankets. “I didn’t mean to cause anything. I just wanted to… I wanted to praise you. And honour her.”

“I know, baby. I know you did.” He rocks you gently, the motion slow and soothing. “It ain’t your fault they’re like that. They’ll twist anything they can to sell a headline. That’s the world we live in now.”

His hand strokes over your hair, careful not to pull at the curls. “But you gotta watch what you give ‘em. Every little thing you say, they can spin it against you. Against us. And I can’t let ‘em do that, you hear me?”

You nod into his chest, your voice small, broken down by the sobs you indured. “I just… I didn’t think...”

“That’s why I’m here.” He tips your chin up so you look at him. His eyes are soft, but his voice carries that note of certainty you’ve always listened to. “People are gonna try to separate us, baby. They’re gonna ask about divorce, try to make up stories, pit us against each other. But we don’t give ‘em the ammo. Not ever.”

You bite your lip, feeling another wave of tears rise. “I don’t want to lose you.”

His arm tightens around you. “Ain’t gonna happen. Not now, not ever. You’re mine, and I’m yours. Long as we remember that, they can’t touch us.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering there. “Now, you’re gonna let me take care of you. We’ll let ‘em talk, and we’ll just keep on livin’ the way we do. Alright?”

request: dad!Elvis coming back from a long tour, just wanting to be back in his wife’s arms in Graceland and she isn’t there to greet him like usual. He’s looking for her and she’s sat with little Lisa Marie in the jungle room playing a guitar and singing Elvis’ songs (link)

A hand pushed him into the car, the screams faintly fading in the background. Elvis' breaths were uneven, rushed.

"C'mon E, deep breaths, man.", Elvis' ears muffled all the noise for a moment, his fingers reaching to pinch the bridge of his nose. Jerry grabbed a water bottle and handed it to him — there was no concern masked over his face, this was normal. Elvis was on the verge of passing out — that was normal.

The singer's eyes were shut as he blindly reached for his drink.

"—hell of a show, EP."

"Yeah, absolutely incredible."

Elvis nodded with a hum, his jaw set and his head leaned against the window. The chattering continued, his friends talking about the show and people who had attended. Eventually someone passed him his glasses and he instantly felt a little better, maybe it was a psychological thing, but that was a ritual. Something that settled him into reality.

Then he'd go to the hotel, take his pills and drowsily call you, asking for his little darling. But he wasn't going to do that today, no.

"Make a turn to the left."

The chattering stopped immediately. All eyes settled on Elvis, whether it was through the rearview mirror or even a glance over their shoulder.

"The hotel is—"

"I ain't spending another night by myself. Take me back to Graceland."

There was no please and thank you, those were orders and they were to be followed blindly. Elvis was no uncaring man — he was kind, generous and good-hearted. But people took advantage. His drowsy mumbles to his daughter on the phone were nothing in contrast to the laughter at the bar on the first floor.

It was finally time to get a hold of his life. And he was going to do that. 

The gates of Graceland opened unexpectedly. The maids and cooks looked out of the window and exchanged confused glances. Should they start on a late dinner? Should they prepare a snack or drink ready to go? No one acted until orders were given.

"C'mon darling.", you wrestled your daughter, but she squealed, not tired at all. "You know your daddy is gonna call— And if he finds out you ain't in bed, you're gonna be in trouble."

"No!", her giggles filled the room as she dodged you with speed. "I wanna call daddy!"

You groaned and shook your head. "Daddy is the one that calls us, darling. We can't call an empty room, can we?"

The little girl ignored your words and grabbed the door handle, pushing it open.

"C'mon baby!", you called and winced as your voice echoed in the hallway. But your little girl was off, and you already knew where she was headed. She was much like her daddy, calling for music when she needed comfort. There was a fine thread that connected your baby, Elvis and music — a thread that was so fragile when being pulled, yet so strong when being tested.

Elvis didn't expect you to go on tour with him, especially since your little terror-baby had been born, but those were the times he needed you both the most. When everything was flashy and loud, he needed his two girls. His best girls. Only you were able to make him feel like Elvis, the human, and Elvis, the entertainer could finally take a breather.

You weren't surprised to find your daughter in the Jungle Room. A faint smile found your lips as you leaned against the doorframe, staring at your kid fiddling with her daddy's guitar.

"Mama?", she mumbled, her voice a low hum. "Can you play?"

You pulled yourself off the door and approached her. "Of course. What song would you like to hear?"

"I'm good, thanks Mary.", Elvis smiled at his cook, brushing his hand on her arm. "I'm just gonna go lay down with my girls."

Mary chuckled, pointing to the hallway. "Little Miss Presley wouldn't go to sleep. I'm pretty sure she's found her way to sneak in your music room. That kid."

Elvis shook his head, but his ever growing grin couldn't be held back. That definitely sounded like his daughter.

"I'll go see what they're up to. Good night, Mary.", he didn't need to guess where his two girls were, for the sound of music led him straight to them. Soft guitar strings being tickled and pulled, two singing voices melting in one, creating the most angelic sound he had ever heard.

"—your kisses lift me higher, like the sweet song of a choir.", you sang. "You light my mornin' sky with—"

"Burning love!", your daughter squealed with the biggest smile on her face. You kept singing, your lips twitching into a half smile at her reaction.

Elvis smiled at the sight, his lips pressed together to withhold him from singing.

Your daughter was patiently watching you play and sing, eventually singing her own version of the song, when her blue eyes raised and widened in a split second.

"Daddy!"

Your fingers stopped playing as an exhausted sigh fell from your lips.

"Darling. Your daddy is—", You slowly turned around to reprimand her, but your words were suddenly caught in your throat.

"Elvis?", you barely made out, the sight of him holding your daughter in his arms enough to take your breath away. "I thought— I thought you were in..."

You couldn't even finish your sentence, the guitar long ditched, unable to tear your gaze away from your husband.

"Good god, are you real?", you slowly approached the grinning man, raising your hands to his cheeks. Your daughter found it all amusing, hiding her chuckles in Elvis' neck.

"I'm real, baby, feel me.", the easy grin turned into a cheeky smirk as he pressed himself closer to you. "Whenever, honey, take your time."

That drawl, that lip curl... God, it really was him.

"Oh my god.", you threw your hands around his neck, breathing in his familiar scent as your eyes shut. "I missed you. So much."

Elvis tightened his grip on your little girl, his other arm extending to hold you as well. He breathed in and out, feeling his jaw unclench and shoulders fall loose.

That was all he had ever needed.

A/N: thank you for reading! hope you enjoyed 💋⚡️

tag list: @pearlescentswirls @wifetomanyfictionalmen

credits for the gifs to @hooked-on-elvis ! they were too cute and the inspo for this little one shot. 🤍

✦︎ summary: domestic boredom turns into headline gold when you and elvis spy a paparazzo in the bushes of your hillcrest home and decide to put on a little show.

✦︎ word count: 2,3k

✦︎ warnings: au, not historically accurate—that's it.

✦︎ authors note: i missed writing about el so much and this popped in my head when watching the fan footage from the hillcrest residence... so there ya go. please do not copy, translate and/or use for ai purposes u lil weirdo !!!

Could you maybe do something where one of the Memphis mafia guys girlfriend or something is mean to little reader when they’re alone, but is nice when others are around. Reader doesn’t say anything because she doesn’t want to get anyone in trouble because she’s so sweet but one day it gets too much and she tells Elvis and he gets protective.

Sorry it’s so long I hope you have a nice day! 🎀💝

eeeeek! i'm back after a lil while away and thank you for requesting

my masterlist of all my elvis writing request an elvis fic here, i'm always lookin' for inspo

wc - 2.9k

warnings - ddlg dynamic, if u don't like that i would advise not reading

You knock softly at Elvis' office door, waiting patiently until Elvis calls you in.

You're Elvis' long term girlfriend and you're just the sweetest little thing. You're so polite and you're as quiet as a mouse, even with Elvis still, you're just naturally very timid.

But Elvis loves you all the more for it. He likes having someone to control, to protect, to use. It's the innocent and timid nature that he adores the most, that he wants to preserve at all costs.

It wasn't too long ago that he'd introduced you to the Little lifestyle, now, you were certainly apprehensive about it, you were just a little bundle of nerves, weren't you? Elvis made sure to take it slowly, but Elvis kept you at Graceland, living under his rules so it was easy for him to help you succumb to the lifestyle when he made the whole environment push you further and further into a smaller headspace.

There were things he put in place that would help you slip.

He would give you warm milk before bed every night.

He bought you toys that would help clear your head and allow you to be Little, such as coloring books, or the most beautiful dolls house that you'd ever seen that you just couldn't resist playing with it as the Memphis Mafia would stand above you and watch as they sipped their beer with Elvis and you played with your toys on the floor.

He instructed anyone that looked after you to treat you as if you were only a little thing, whether it was the cook, one of the Memphis Mafia, their girlfriends or the gardener.

But not everyone had always been that nice to you, including Ramona, Red's girlfriend. She was a relatively new girlfriend, and unbeknownst to you, she was simply dating Red to try to get to Elvis, so she utterly despised you.

She, like all the other girlfriends, had been told about the way in which you were to be treated -- gently and softly, not to treat you like an adult whether you liked it or not.

But she used this to her advantage and would constantly make your life miserable. She'd pinched you, pulled your hair when brushing it, called you all sorts of horrible names, broken a few of your toys and ripped up some of your drawings that you'd made. She didn't try to hide it from you, she knew you wouldn't say anything, she knew you were too timid and shy and that whatever warped lifestyle Elvis had submitted you to, had too much of a hold over you to tell anyone what she was doing.

You were scared of Ramona, and you'd watch from your play area as she'd make Elvis laugh during parties, and you'd chew your lip nervously, realising that you couldn't say anything.

But she was coming over yet again, for a cook-out in the yard with all of the Memphis Mafia and their girlfriends and wives and you could feel the nerves growing in your tummy as you walked into Elvis' office.

Elvis looked up from the paperwork he was working on and offered you a smile, you were just so precious.

"Hey honey, y'okay baby?" Elvis said cooly, getting up from his desk and walking over to you as you stood nervously at the entrance of the office, looking around at his desk, noticing all the work.

"Did I disturb you?" You asked softly, picking at your fingers.

Elvis chuckled softly, "No honey, just finishing up some work s'all. What's on your mind Little One?" Elvis cooed gently, rubbing your shoulders and upper arms.

"Um, um," You say softly and quietly, avoiding the gaze of Elvis. "The party is nearly starting, um..." You say gently, not really being all that sure what you're even trying to say, which Elvis understands.

Elvis nods, he can tell that you're feeling smaller but resisting it. But that's what he's there for, to help you.

"And don't you look pretty huh baby?" Elvis smirks, taking in the pretty pink babydoll dress you have on and the ribbon in your hair that he had laid out for you earlier that the maid, Miriam, had put in for you. You can't help but blush at the comment and begin to chew on your lip. Despite being with Elvis for a couple of years, you're still such a reserved little baby. "How's about you go pick some of them flowers in the garden for the party huh? Y'know the ones you grew with Miriam's help and you were such a good girl, takin' such good care of 'em?" Elvis suggested, referring to your flower bed in the garden.

You'd become such a little green thumb recently, you loved flowers, you thought they were just so pretty, and you loved wildlife and nature. You'd always potter around the garden with the little tools that Elvis had bought you with your little sun hat on, showing Elvis all the pretty flowers you'd carefully planted.

You nod softly. "Flowers..." You repeat softly with a nod, processing the request.

"That sound good, Little One?" Elvis said, gauging your headspace, he can tell you're slipping.

You nod again, quietly listening and responding as the big man that you call Daddy kisses the top of your head. "Good girl, go get some pretty flowers f'me, 'kay?" Elvis said and you nod and set off to the lavish garden to your flower bed.

You love all your flowers so dearly, you're proud of every single one like the good little baby that you are, you make sure you water all of them at the right time, and you giggle softly every time Elvis compliments your hard work when he looks at them with you.

You have lots of flowers and it's a little overwhelming for you to decide which ones might be best to pick, but you're worried that you might pick the wrong ones. You always want to do a good job for your Daddy, he works so hard and he takes such good care of you that you just want to do a good job in return at whatever he asks for you. You absolutely hate the idea of ever being a bother to him.

You chew on your lip nervously as you sit on the grass and look at all your flowers, it's only when a shadow appears above you that you turn around and see Ramona.

You instantly become a little shelf of yourself, quiet as anything and a little fidgety, looking away from her stare and trying to concentrate on your flowers.

"Elvis said you were here pickin' flowers you've grown..." Ramona said, her tone less than friendly which made you feel tense, but you tried as hard as you possibly could to ignore that feeling.

All you can manage is a gentle nod, you're so shy around Ramona, you can't help it, she terrifies you.

"You grew these?" She asked, smoking her cigarette as she stood above you.

All you do is nod yet again but you can't help but think that maybe she likes them, maybe she's impressed and she finally likes something you've done.

"Let me help you pick some then huh?" She says sharply before pulling at all the flowers in the flowerbed, tearing them harshly and breaking their stems, pulling out so many so quickly that you don't know what to do.

"N-No, no, my flowers-" You say, trying to be loud but failing miserably, you just sound so timid and soft and little, but distraught nevertheless.

"Honey, m'just helpin' ya get the weeds out." She laughed, ruining your entire flowerbed before your eyes, the flowerbed you worked so hard on for so long. "Looks much better, dontcha think, Y/N?" She scoffed, trying her cigarette on one of the crushed peonies before walking away.

You can't help but feel tears coming to your eyes, you crawl to the flowerbed, practically getting in it to try and salvage some of the flowers and plants you'd so lovingly grown.

You don't know why she's so mean to you, why she would do this to your pretty flowers, everything from the roses to the tulips completely ruined and muddied.

Tears begin to trickle down your cheeks as you desperately try to fix what Ramona had done, your knees, legs, dress, hands, everything getting muddy and your hands getting cut from thorns as you tearfully try to make all the flowers better but to no avail.

"Oh no? Did the baby fall in her flowerbed huh?" Ramona feigns concern looking at you, getting Reds attention who immediately hollers at Elvis to come outside.

"Baby, hey baby, hey, hey, it's okay..." Red hushes as he reaches you first, crouching down on the grass next to you.

You immediately look to your lap as you sit in the flowerbed, ashamed and embarrassed that you look all tearful and muddy at the big garden party. "Daddy..." You say ever so quietly but enough for Red to hear it.

"Oh honey, Daddy's comin', here is, see? He's coming darlin', easy now, don't want you to get hurt on them thorns anymore baby." Red says gently, as you continue to avoid eye contact.

"What the hell happened?" You can hear your Daddy's voice say to Red as he observes the scene of his little baby girl, surrounded by destroyed flowers and covered in dirt.

"Ramona said she fell in her flowerbed, EP." Red says and you don't dare to correct him, you're far too shy of a baby for that.

Elvis can't really believe what he's seeing, even when you're in a Little headspace, you're never this clumsy - and you're so careful with your flowers all the time, he knows just how much you love them.

"Red, give us some damn space." Elvis muttered, gesturing for Red to return back to the house before Elvis crouched by you. "Baby, what's happened here, princess?" Elvis asked calmly.

"My flowers..." You sniffled, tears falling from your cheeks and hitting your pink dress.

"Did yer take a tumble huh?" Elvis asked gently.

You sniffle but you don't move or say anything and that's instantly a signal to Elvis that something has gone on, but it's clear you're not saying anything now and you're still sat in the flowerbed.

"Okay baby, m'gon getchu outta this flowerbed, 'kay? Just let Daddy take control 'kay? Don't want you makin' no sudden movements or nothin' and getting scratched again baby." Elvis said calmly, before grabbing you from under your arms and easily lifting you out of the flower bed and onto his hip.

You've always been smaller than him, easily pliable and manhandled. You continue to cry weepily, instantly resting your head on his shoulder and cuddling into him closely.

"There we go, that's it baby, s'okay, Daddy's gotchu." Elvis soothed, rocking you in his arms and hushing you. "Let's go put you in the tub and get y'all clean again baby, how's about that?" Elvis said softly kissing your forehead before taking you inside.

The pair of you walk past everyone and you instantly bury your face in Elvis' shoulder, determined not to be seen by anybody and Elvis can't help but find it just damn adorable. But you particularly don't want to see Ramona, you're too shy and too embarrassed to face anyone but your Daddy and even that's a challenge.

Elvis praises every small thing you do once you both reach the master bathroom alone, from letting him take off your dress, to accepting the pacifier that Elvis offered you to help you calm down and soothe you whilst you were in the tub.

"Good girl, you look so sweet with that pacifier, ain't that right honey?" Elvis chuckled, wiping the dirt away from your naked body as he lets you soak in all the bubbles. "Y'know y'being such a good little girl for Daddy huh? Lettin' Daddy wash you and clean you up."

"I messed my dress Daddy." You say softly around your pacifier, feeling bad for ruining the pretty pink dress had arranged for you to wear today.

Elvis clicked his tongue, tsking at you. "Uh-uh baby, it's just a dress sweetheart. Y'not in trouble baby." Elvis assures you, knowing there's something you're not telling him, he can read you like a book, he knows every cue, every emotion every expression of yours.

Once you were all clean, Elvis took you out of the tub and dried you, being careful not to be too harsh on the little cuts and scrapes you had acquired. He let you snuggle in the big kingsize bed that the two of you shared in your fluffy baby dressing gown as he picked out some clothes for you to wear for the rest of the day, settling on a soft cotton cream long sleeve top, a pretty pink tulle skirt and white tights.

You were just the softest and sweetest little baby he could ever dream for. Always so polite, kind and gentle.

"Ready to go back to our guests pretty girl?" Elvis asked gently, gauging your reaction.

"Please, um, please, um," You stumbled on your words, still feeling overwhelmed and nervous, but Elvis never rushes you - never. He always lets you take your time when you're overwhelmed, he knows you'll get there, you just take a little longer than most people. "Please, um, wanna, um, stay with you only Daddy." You said gently. "If that's okay..." You say quietly.

Elvis' expression softens at your vulnerable requests. "Oh darlin', you ain't gon' leave my side, baby." Elvis says gently, picking you up again to take you downstairs.

You're well into your smaller headspace now, and you instinctively pop your fingers into your mouth to chew on anxiously as you rested your head on Elvis' shoulder.

You stayed nestled by Elvis' side throughout the rest of the day, barely speaking, avoiding looking at anyone and becoming noticeably clingier than usual, something Elvis took note of.

Once everyone had finally departed, you were exhausted, you just wanted to sleep and Elvis knew you should've had a nap, you're too little to be up at this time, but he was too concerned about what had happened earlier, it was too out of character.

"Someone's sleepy, huh?" Elvis softly said, stroking your hair as you nestled into his side, your face resting on his chest.

You nodded sweetly, blinking heavily as the weariness took you over, which Elvis knew was his cue to push your limits and take advantage of your sleepy state.

"Baby, you gotta tell me somethin' before you start havin' your sweet dreams, huh Little One?" Elvis said gently, tracing circles into your shoulder as he wrapped his arm around you.

All you could manage was a soft hum. "Okay, I need'ta know what happened with all your lil flowers, baby girl. Daddy knows you ain't that clumsy Dolly, you're such a careful little girl, I know somethin' else happened, and when you tell me, you know you gotta be honest, you know Daddy ain't gon' tolerate any lyin'." Elvis said sternly and you wearily pushed yourself up from resting on your Daddy's body to sit up straight on the couch.

You began to chew on your lip again, puffing it up and rubbed your eyes.

"I'll get in trouble Daddy..." You said softly, looking down at your lap.

Elvis frowned, concerned at what you'd just said. He couldn't imagine a scenario where you'd be in trouble, you're too obedient for that.

"You ain't gettin' in no trouble baby, as long as y'tell Daddy the truth."

There's a long pause, Elvis letting the thick tension add pressure to you before you weakly say, "It's Ramona."

"Ramona? Red's Ramona?" Elvis said with confusion in his tone.

All you do is nod, leading Elvis to probe further. "What about Ramona, huh kid?" Elvis says tenderly.

"She, she, um, she-" You falter but Elvis just listens intently. "She ruined all the flowers, she ripped them Daddy and hurt them... she hurts me Daddy." You confessed, your nerves sky high, your eyes trained firmly on your lap.

Elvis immediately feels anger boil up inside of him. You're the most honest little girl he's ever known, he knows that you wouldn't lie - you can't lie in fact. To hear that someone has been hurting you, well, that just sets something off inside the big, bad man.

You end up telling your Daddy everything as he cradles you like his little baby, reassuring you that you're being such a good little girl for telling him. Reassuring you that Ramona ain't ever going to be near you ever again. Reassuring you that your beloved flowerbed is going to be alright.

"Darlin', you been such a good girl, tellin' Daddy what's been goin' on. You know that baby?" Elvis says, holding your chin so he can look at you and you nod softly. "You gon' tell Daddy if anyone ever hurts my little girl ever again, straight away, y'hear me baby?" Elvis says firmly and you nod, swallowing the lump in your throat.

"Good." Elvis said before kissing your forehead. "Let's get this sleepy baby to her bed, hm? Gon' get your pacifier and your teddy and get y'all soft and sleepy ain't we?" Elvis hushed.