sadness, angst. fluff, cute, sfw. smuttttt, nsfw, normal? I guess, little space

𝗕𝗹𝘂𝗲 𝗠𝗼𝗼𝗻 : 50!elvis x Black!OC

Emotions : 1968s!ElvisXAngela!Black!OC

One last dance: 1977s!ElvisXBlack!OC

Sharp Shooter: 70s!Elvis x Woman!OC

Honey, Honey: 70s!ElvisXBlack!OC

A night in Tupelo: 1950s!ElvisXBlack!OC

Ebb and flow: 70s!ElvisXBlack!OC

Wrapping gifts : 70!ElvisXBlack!OC

Happy birthday, Daddy! : 1977s!ElvisXBlack!OC

Be mine, always: 1977s!elvisxblack!reader

Sweet Little Love: 18yr!Elvisxblack!young!reader

tea party: 69s!ElvisXBlack!OC

REQUESTS

The One in the Polka-Dot Dress (50s!elvis)

Bridge Over Troubled Water (60s!Elvis)

Series:

Velvet chains Elvis Presley wasn’t just a man; he was a force—magnetic, unpredictable, and dangerous. Camille felt it the moment his piercing blue eyes landed on her, burning through the smoky room like a warning. His charm was intoxicating, but beneath it lay something darker: jealousy, obsession, and a temper fueled by the pills that kept him going. She knew she should walk away, but Elvis wasn’t the kind of man who let go of what he wanted. And he wanted her.

Finished

The Mystery in Memphis: 50s!elvis Elvis stumbles upon a hidden journal in a pawn shop. The journal contains cryptic entries from someone warning about an event that could change history. As he deciphers the clues, Elvis becomes embroiled in a web of secrets, danger, and a conspiracy threatening the people he loves.

Ultraviolence 70s Elvis

COMING SOON!

From Memphis to the Caribbean: In 1975, Elvis Presley meets Lena Rosario, a strong-willed Dominican woman, during his world tour. As they connect over music and their differences, an unexpected romance begins to blossom in the heart of Santo Domingo.

Chapter 3

Summary: Velvet Chains follows the intense and dangerous relationship between Camille, a confident and independent woman, and Elvis Presley, a charismatic yet troubled star of the 70s. When Camille enters Elvis’s world, she quickly becomes the object of his obsession. Despite his fame and charm, Elvis’s personality is darkened by mood swings and jealousy, fueled by his reliance on pills. As the two grow closer, Camille finds herself caught in the grip of his possessiveness, torn between her desire for freedom and the undeniable pull of Elvis’s passion.

Pairing: 70s!ElvisXBlack!Oc

Trigger Warnings Substance Abuse (pills, drugs), Jealousy/Obsessiveness, Emotional Abuse, Manipulative Behavior, Possessiveness, Mood Swings/Anger Issues, Toxic Relationships, Psychological Abuse, Dangerous Obsession, cursing, Elvis being an asshole sometimes, gun.

Monday, July 14, 1975

The upstairs bedroom at Graceland was dimly lit, a single lamp casting long shadows against the walls. Cigarette smoke curled in the air, thick and stagnant, mixing with the low hum of the TV playing in the background. The volume was down, just the glow of the screen flickering across Elvis’s face as he sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, fingers tapping against his temple.

He barely blinked.

The girl—Camille—wasn’t just in his mind anymore. She was under his skin.

Elvis had spent the whole damn day thinking about her, churning over the fact that she had ignored him like he was just another man on the street. That wasn’t how things worked. Women didn’t walk past him like he was invisible. They stared, they giggled, they blushed. But Camille? She hadn’t even looked twice.

That did something to him. Something dark.

“E,” Joe Esposito’s voice broke through his thoughts, drawing him back to the room.

Elvis looked up, his eyes sharp and unreadable. The Memphis Mafia stood around, lounging in chairs or leaning against the furniture, waiting for orders. Red West sat near the doorway, arms crossed. Sonny West was on the couch, stretching out, his boots on the coffee table. Joe Esposito leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching Elvis closely. Lamar Fike, Marty Lacker, and Billy Smith were nearby, looking between each other, sensing the tension thickening in the room.

The mood was off. They all felt it.

“Elvis,” Joe started again, a little hesitant. “We found out a little more about her.”

Elvis straightened. “Yeah?” His voice was low, calm, but the way his jaw tightened told them how badly he wanted to know.

Joe glanced at Marty before continuing. “Her name’s Camille Hayes. Twenty-one. Born in Mississippi but grew up in Memphis. Works at some bookstore over on Main Street. Lives in a small apartment near Beale.”

Elvis let out a short breath, nodding, absorbing the information like it was the most important thing in the world.

“She got a man?” His voice was edged with something dangerous.

Joe shook his head. “Doesn’t seem like it.”

Elvis smirked a little. Good.

“She got family?”

“Just a grandma. Parents passed a while back. No siblings.”

Elvis stared at the floor, his fingers drumming against his knee, restless.

She was alone. No father, no brothers, no man. Nobody to stop him.

“She ain’t just some girl, E,” Red spoke up, his voice firm. “She’s a regular girl, not in this world. She don’t know you, don’t care to know you.”

Elvis lifted his head slowly, his expression blank, unreadable. But his eyes? Cold.

Red was pushing, and they all knew pushing Elvis never ended well.

“She will,” Elvis said, voice smooth, almost amused. “She will, Red.”

Sonny sat forward, sighing. “What’s the plan, boss?”

Elvis smirked, leaning back. “I wanna know more. Everything. What time she gets up, what she eats, who she talks to. I want to know when she’s alone.”

There was a pause. Nobody moved.

“Elvis…” Marty spoke carefully. “Ain’t this a little much?”

Elvis’s expression flickered, and for a second, his mood shifted violently.

His smirk disappeared. His nostrils flared. His hands clenched into fists.

“Did I ask for your damn opinion?”

The room tensed.

Marty shook his head quickly. “No, man. Just—”

Elvis cut him off with a sharp look.

“Then do what I said.” His voice was low and lethal.

Silence.

Joe exhaled through his nose and nodded. “Alright. We’ll keep an eye on her.”

Elvis’s mood flipped again, as fast as a light switch. He smiled like nothing had happened, reaching for a cigarette.

“Good,” he said smoothly, lighting up. He took a long drag, exhaling slow. “She don’t know it yet, but she’s mine.”

The men exchanged glances, but no one said a word.

The tension in the room sat thick and unmoving, the only sound was the soft crackle of Elvis’s cigarette as he took another slow drag. His mood had shifted back to something smooth, something easy, like the storm that had just flashed in his eyes had never been there at all.

But they all knew better.

“Tomorrow,” he said, exhaling smoke. “I wanna know everything. Where she goes. What time she leaves work. If she talks to any men.”

Joe and Sonny exchanged a look, silently agreeing not to push back. When Elvis got like this, there was no reasoning with him.

Elvis leaned forward suddenly, his eyes flickering with something sharp. “And I mean everything. If she so much as stops to tie her goddamn shoe, I wanna hear about it.”

The weight of his words settled in the air.

Red cleared his throat. “You want us to talk to her?”

Elvis paused, rolling his cigarette between his fingers.

“No,” he finally said, his voice soft but firm. “She ain’t ready for that yet.”

Yet.

That word sent a shiver through the men.

Elvis flicked ash into the tray beside him, stretching his legs. His mood had settled into something dangerously calm. “Go on, get outta here,” he muttered, waving them off.

One by one, they left, but Joe lingered.

“Elvis…” he started carefully, hands on his hips. “You sure about all this, man?”

Elvis’s eyes snapped to him. Dark. Unreadable.

Joe didn’t flinch, but he knew that look. It was the same look Elvis got when he had an idea stuck in his head, something twisted up deep inside him.

“She ain’t like the other girls,” Elvis muttered. His voice was quieter now, but no less intense. “She don’t see me.” His lip curled slightly. “And I don’t like that.”

Joe sighed. “Maybe she just don’t care.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

Elvis moved so fast, Joe barely had time to react. Before he could take a breath, Elvis had reached into the nightstand, pulling out one of his pistols.

In one fluid motion, he cocked the gun and aimed it right at Joe’s chest.

The air went dead.

Joe’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t move. This wasn’t the first time.

Elvis’s hand was steady, his breathing even. His eyes burned with something wild, something untouchable.

“Say that again.”

Joe held his gaze, his pulse slow and measured. He knew Elvis wouldn’t shoot—but he also knew that in this state, Elvis wanted him to believe he would.

After a long silence, Elvis smirked. He lowered the gun, tossing it onto the bed beside him like it was nothing.

Joe exhaled through his nose.

Elvis just chuckled. “She cares. She just don’t know it yet.”

Joe didn’t argue. He just gave a slow nod.

“Alright, boss. I’ll keep an eye on her.”

Elvis smiled, picking up his cigarette again. “Good man.”

Joe left, shaking his head.

And Elvis sat there in the dim room, thinking about Camille.

She’d be his.

One way or another.

Summary: Velvet Chains follows the intense and dangerous relationship between Camille, a confident and independent woman, and Elvis Presley, a charismatic yet troubled star of the 70s. When Camille enters Elvis’s world, she quickly becomes the object of his obsession. Despite his fame and charm, Elvis’s personality is darkened by mood swings and jealousy, fueled by his reliance on pills. As the two grow closer, Camille finds herself caught in the grip of his possessiveness, torn between her desire for freedom and the undeniable pull of Elvis’s passion.

Pairing: 70s!ElvisXBlack!Oc

Trigger Warnings Substance Abuse (pills, drugs), Jealousy/Obsessiveness, Emotional Abuse, Manipulative Behavior, Possessiveness, Mood Swings/Anger Issues, Toxic Relationships, Psychological Abuse, Dangerous Obsession

Prologue

The club was buzzing, bodies swaying under dim, hazy lights, but Elvis Presley wasn’t interested in the music tonight. He sat in the corner booth, shadows pooling around him, his dark blue shirt unbuttoned at the top. A cigarette burned lazily between his fingers, but it was forgotten. His attention was elsewhere.

Her.

He didn’t know her name yet, but he didn’t need to. The way she moved through the crowd, gliding with a quiet confidence that made heads turn, told him all he needed to know—she wasn’t just beautiful. She was dangerous.

Her skin glowed under the lights, a rich, deep shade that seemed to catch every flicker of gold in the room. Her hair was pulled back, leaving her neck exposed, and Elvis’s fingers twitched at the thought of running his thumb along the curve of her jaw.

But it wasn’t just her beauty that got to him—it was the way she looked right through people. Like she wasn’t impressed by the glitz, the glamour, the desperation in the room. And when her eyes landed on him, briefly but deliberately, his breath caught.

She didn’t smile. She didn’t blush. She just looked at him, held his gaze for a beat longer than necessary, and then turned back to her drink.

Elvis leaned forward, crushing the cigarette into the ashtray. His knee bounced under the table, and his jaw tightened.

“Who is she?” he muttered.

Charlie, sitting beside him, followed his gaze. “Don’t know. She ain’t from around here, that’s for sure. You want me to find out?”

Elvis didn’t answer. His eyes were locked on her again, watching as she leaned in to say something to the bartender. The man laughed, and Elvis’s grip on the edge of the table tightened.

He hated this feeling—this heat crawling under his skin, twisting in his gut. Jealousy. He wasn’t the jealous type, not usually. Women threw themselves at him all the time, and he never gave them a second thought.

But she was different.

He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. Charlie gave him a cautious look.

“Elvis, maybe you oughta cool down—”

“I’m fine,” he snapped, his voice low but sharp.

He wasn’t fine. And he wouldn’t be until he got her attention.

Across the room, Camille felt his eyes on her again. She’d noticed him the second she walked in—how could she not? He had a presence that filled the entire room, even when he wasn’t saying a word.

But there was something about the way he looked at her that made her skin prickle. Like he wanted her, but also like he wanted to own her. It wasn’t the first time she’d dealt with men like that, but it was the first time one of them was him.

“Elvis Presley,” the bartender whispered, following her gaze. “Man’s a legend. You know him?”

Camille lifted her glass, her lips curving into a small, private smile. “Not yet.”

——————————————

Elvis crossed the room with slow, deliberate strides, the low hum of conversation fading into the background. His eyes never left her, not even for a second. People moved aside instinctively, parting for him like he was some untouchable force.

Camille pretended not to notice. She sipped her drink, her expression calm, though her pulse quickened as he approached.

“Mind tellin’ me your name, darlin’?” His voice was low, a velvet drawl, but there was an edge to it—like a warning wrapped in charm.

She turned slowly, meeting his gaze head-on. “Camille,” she said simply, her voice steady.

He tilted his head, studying her like she was a puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out. “Camille,” he repeated, letting the name roll off his tongue. “Pretty name for a pretty woman. You here with someone?”

“No,” she replied, setting her glass down. “Just myself.”

A flicker of something passed through his eyes—relief, maybe, or satisfaction. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by something darker.

“Well now,” he said, leaning closer, “you’ve got all these fellas here fightin’ for your attention, but you’re sittin’ here all alone?”

“I’m not interested in them.”

His lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. “That so?”

Before she could answer, one of the musicians who had been lingering nearby approached. “Hey, Camille, we were just talkin’ about—”

Elvis turned his head sharply, his smile vanishing. “She’s busy.”

The man froze, glancing between them. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I said she’s busy,” Elvis repeated, his tone cold. His eyes flashed, and for a moment, Camille thought the other man might argue. But then he backed off, muttering an apology before disappearing into the crowd.

Elvis turned back to her, his expression softening, though there was still a fire in his eyes. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he said, his voice low. “Walk in here, lookin’ like that, makin’ a man forget how to breathe.”

Camille raised an eyebrow. “You’re laying it on a little thick, don’t you think?”

His smile widened, but there was no humor in it. “Maybe. Or maybe I just don’t like sharin’ what’s mine.”

“Yours?” she echoed, her tone sharp.

Elvis’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, she thought she’d gone too far. But then he laughed softly, though it sounded more like a growl. “Not yet,” he said, his eyes dark and possessive. “But you will be.”

Camille held his gaze, refusing to back down. She didn’t know whether to be scared or intrigued by the intensity in his eyes. Either way, she knew one thing for sure: Elvis Presley was trouble.

No way out

Summary: Velvet Chains follows the intense and dangerous relationship between Camille, a confident and independent woman, and Elvis Presley, a charismatic yet troubled star of the 70s. When Camille enters Elvis’s world, she quickly becomes the object of his obsession. Despite his fame and charm, Elvis’s personality is darkened by mood swings and jealousy, fueled by his reliance on pills. As the two grow closer, Camille finds herself caught in the grip of his possessiveness, torn between her desire for freedom and the undeniable pull of Elvis’s passion.

Pairing: 70s!ElvisXBlack!Oc

Trigger Warnings Substance Abuse (pills, drugs), Jealousy/Obsessiveness, Emotional Abuse, Manipulative Behavior, Possessiveness, Mood Swings/Anger Issues, Toxic Relationships, Psychological Abuse, Dangerous Obsession, cursing, Elvis being an asshole sometimes

Elvis’s smirk lingered as his fingers toyed with the heavy buckle of his belt, watching Camille like she was a wild creature he had finally managed to trap. The dim light in the bedroom cast sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the wicked amusement in his blue eyes.

Camille refused to look away. She didn’t want to give him that satisfaction.

“You’re high as hell, aren’t you?” she said  flatly, eyeing the way his pupils were blown wide.

Elvis chuckled, unbothered. “What’s it to ya, darlin’?”

She rolled her eyes. “You act like you’re in control, but you can barely stand up straight.”

That got a reaction.

His smirk disappeared, and for a second, just a second, something dangerous flashed across his face. Then, just as quickly, he tilted his head, smiling again, but this time it was slower, darker. He leaned forward, bracing a hand against the headboard, boxing her in without even touching her.

“I walk just fine, baby,” he murmured. “Carried you all the way up here, didn’t I?”

Camille scoffed, shifting just slightly, enough to create distance. “You don’t scare me, Presley.”

“That so?”

His fingers suddenly brushed her knee, trailing upward just slightly. It wasn’t enough to be anything more than a tease, but it was enough to make her breath catch in her throat.

She slapped his hand away, and he laughed, the sound deep and amused.

“I like that fire, honey,” he drawled, his voice thick, syrupy. “But you’ll learn.”

She lifted her chin. “I’ll learn what?”

He leaned in, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath. “That fightin’ only makes me wanna keep you closer.”

Her stomach twisted, a mix of anger and something else she didn’t want to name.

“Go to hell,” she snapped.

Elvis just smiled. “We already there, baby.”

Before she could react, a sharp knock at the door interrupted the moment.

Elvis exhaled sharply, pushing himself back with an irritated sigh. His mood shifted so fast it nearly gave her whiplash. One second, he was teasing, the next, his expression darkened, frustration clear in the tense set of his jaw.

“What?” he barked.

The door creaked open, and Jerry’s voice hesitated on the other side. “Uh, E… Sonny’s got somethin’ you might wanna hear.”

Elvis closed his eyes, exhaling slowly through his nose, trying to rein in his irritation. Then, he glanced down at Camille, that smirk returning as if nothing had happened.

“Don’t go nowhere, sugar,” he murmured before turning toward the door.

Camille sat still, watching him closely, her heart hammering against her ribs.

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.

Thursday, July 17, 1975 – Early Morning

The room was too quiet. Too still.

Camille sat at the edge of the bed, her arms crossed tight, her nails digging into her skin. The dim glow of a bedside lamp barely lit the space, but she could see Elvis perfectly—standing by the dresser, head down, fingers working a small amber bottle.

Pills.

He tipped a few into his palm and swallowed them dry. His jaw clenched as he tilted his head back, the muscles in his throat flexing. Camille forced herself to look away.

He’d barely spoken since last night. Not since those last words—Baby, you first—had sent something sharp and dangerous down her spine.

But the silence didn’t mean she was free.

No, Elvis was still here. Still watching.

She could feel it—the weight of his gaze, burning into her like a mark she’d never get rid of.

“I ain’t lettin’ you go,” he finally muttered, voice thick with something she didn’t want to name.

She rolled her eyes. “Shocking.”

Elvis exhaled through his nose, shaking his head like she was testing him. Maybe she was.

He turned to face her then, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—God, his eyes—held something unhinged beneath the blue.

“Camille.”

She didn’t answer.

In a blur, he was in front of her, yanking her chin up to force her to meet his stare. The pressure wasn’t bruising, but it wasn’t soft either.

His lips curled. “You always this mean, sugar?”

She scoffed, batting his hand away. “You always this psycho?”

Elvis chuckled—low, dangerous, amused.

But there was no real humor in it.

He stared at her, his eyes half-lidded, his pupils slightly blown from whatever pills he’d just swallowed. His thumb dragged over his lower lip as he studied her, like he was debating something in that chaotic mind of his.

Camille clenched her fists. “What?”

He smirked. “You’re feisty this mornin’, baby.”

“I was feisty last night too.”

Elvis grinned wider. “Mm, that you were.” He stepped closer, tilting his head. “Guess that’s why I like ya so much.”

She tensed. Like wasn’t the word for what this was. This wasn’t some schoolyard crush. This was obsession, possession—control.

Elvis Presley didn’t just like things.

He owned them.

Camille felt the weight of that realization settle in her bones.

He was still watching her, smirking like he knew every thought running through her mind. Maybe he did. Maybe he was waiting for her to finally accept it—to give in.

She wouldn’t.

“I’m not something you can keep, Presley,” she said, her voice sharp, but her pulse betrayed her—pounding, wild, frantic.

Elvis’s smirk didn’t falter. “That so?”

In a slow, deliberate move, he reached for his belt buckle, flicking it open with a metallic clink.

Camille stiffened.

He chuckled, catching the flash of panic in her eyes. “Relax, baby.” He slid the belt from its loops, letting the leather drag between his fingers. “Ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

But the way he said it—the way his voice dropped, all honey and steel—made her shiver.

“Let me go.”

Elvis hummed like he was considering it. “Nah.”

Her breath hitched. “You can’t keep me here forever.”

He leaned in, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath against her lips.

“Watch me.”

Her stomach twisted, anger flaring. “You’re insane.”

He grinned like she’d just paid him the highest compliment. “And you’re mine.”

She shoved at his chest, but he barely moved.

Elvis let out a slow exhale, tilting his head. The amusement in his eyes dimmed, something darker seeping in. His grip on the belt tightened, the leather creaking.

Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and strode toward the dresser.

Camille watched him warily as he yanked open the top drawer, rummaging through it with a sense of purpose. A second later, he pulled out a set of keys.

She didn’t like that.

Didn’t like the way his expression shifted, something dangerous curling at the edges of his smirk.

“Elvis—”

Too late.

He was already at the bedroom door, locking it with a sharp click.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

He turned back to her, twirling the keys around his finger.

“Now,” he drawled, voice thick with satisfaction. “Let’s see how long it takes ya to realize there ain’t no way out, darlin’.”

Chapter 5

Summary: Velvet Chains follows the intense and dangerous relationship between Camille, a confident and independent woman, and Elvis Presley, a charismatic yet troubled star of the 70s. When Camille enters Elvis’s world, she quickly becomes the object of his obsession. Despite his fame and charm, Elvis’s personality is darkened by mood swings and jealousy, fueled by his reliance on pills. As the two grow closer, Camille finds herself caught in the grip of his possessiveness, torn between her desire for freedom and the undeniable pull of Elvis’s passion.

Pairing: 70s!ElvisXBlack!Oc

Trigger Warnings Substance Abuse (pills, drugs), Jealousy/Obsessiveness, Emotional Abuse, Manipulative Behavior, Possessiveness, Mood Swings/Anger Issues, Toxic Relationships, Psychological Abuse, Dangerous Obsession, cursing, Elvis being an asshole sometimes

Wednesday, July 16, 1975 – Late Night

The moon hung low over Memphis, the streets quieting as the weight of the night settled in. Camille walked alone, her heels clicking against the pavement, the sound swallowed by the thick summer air.

She wasn’t in a rush. She never was.

The café had started to bore her, the same people, the same conversations. Men trying to catch her eye. She didn’t entertain them. She didn’t have time for foolishness.

She didn’t notice the car trailing her.

Didn’t see the way it slowed when she turned a corner, how the headlights dimmed as it pulled up just behind her.

A second too late, she felt it—the shift.

That eerie, skin-prickling sense that she wasn’t alone.

Before she could react, before she could turn, a strong arm wrapped around her waist, lifting her clean off the ground.

A hand clamped over her mouth.

She kicked, fought, her muffled scream swallowed by the thick scent of leather and cologne. The grip was iron-tight, unrelenting, dragging her backward into the dark interior of the Cadillac.

The door slammed shut.

She twisted, struggled, but there were hands on her, holding her down.

Then—his voice.

“Settle down, darlin’.”

Low. Smooth. Dangerous.

Camille froze. Elvis.

Her breath heaved, her chest rising and falling fast, but she stilled.

He was sitting in the darkened seat across from her, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, watching her with those sharp, ice-blue eyes.

Like a wolf watching its prey.

She jerked against the grip on her arms. “Let me go.”

Elvis smiled, slow and lazy, but there was nothing soft in it.

“Nah, honey,” he murmured. “I don’t think I will.”

Her eyes flicked to the front seat—Jerry, Sonny, Red. All of them there. All of them silent.

She turned her glare back on him. “You lost your damn mind?”

He just chuckled, tilting his head as he studied her.

“That’s real funny, comin’ from a girl who walked right past me like I ain’t even exist.” His smile dropped, just like that, his mood shifting so fast it made the air in the car turn thick.

Camille refused to flinch. “So, what? You do this to every woman who ain’t impressed by you?”

Something dark flickered across his face.

Then he moved.

Fast.

Before she could react, he grabbed her wrist and yanked her forward, into his lap, his arm locking around her waist so tight she could barely breathe.

“I don’t like bein’ ignored,” he murmured, voice brushing against her ear like a blade.

Her pulse pounded, but she didn’t look away. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Elvis smirked at her resistance, but his grip didn’t loosen.

He reached up, tracing a slow, deliberate finger along her jaw.

“You’re somethin’ else, baby,” he muttered. “Think you can just walk past me? Like I ain’t Elvis Presley?”

Camille clenched her jaw. “I don’t give a damn who you are.”

His fingers tightened on her chin.

Silence.

Then—a laugh.

Low, amused, but simmering beneath it was something dangerous.

“Elvis.” Jerry’s voice came from the front seat, careful. Hesitant.

Elvis didn’t look away from her. Didn’t move. Just held her there, trapped in his lap, held firm in his arms.

Then, his lips brushed her ear.

“You’re mine now, Camille.”

She went still.

A chill crawled down her spine.

Elvis leaned back, still smirking. “And you best get used to it.”

———————————-

The car was moving now, rolling through the dim-lit streets of Memphis, but Camille wasn’t focused on that. She was focused on him.

Elvis still had her in his lap, his grip possessive, his fingers resting against her waist like a reminder that she wasn’t going anywhere.

Her heart hammered.

She wasn’t scared. Not exactly.

But she sure as hell wasn’t comfortable either.

“Elvis,” Jerry tried again from the front seat.

“Shut up,” Elvis muttered, not taking his eyes off her.

His mood had shifted again—something unreadable in his face, his grip loose but still firm, like he was daring her to try and run.

Camille rolled her eyes.

“Real cute,” she muttered. “Kidnap me just ‘cause your ego got hurt?”

His jaw twitched, but that damn smirk stayed put.

“Nah, baby,” he murmured, voice syrupy smooth. “Took you ‘cause you keep runnin’.”

Her lips parted, and for the first time, she hesitated.

Elvis saw it.

He saw that flicker of doubt in her face, that quick little moment of uncertainty, and it made something dark and satisfied settle in his chest.

“See, I don’t like playin’ games,” he went on, voice almost soft, almost sweet. “But you? You like runnin’. You like actin’ like I don’t exist.”

His fingers flexed against her hip.

“That ain’t gonna fly no more, sugar.”

Camille narrowed her eyes. “And what? You think this’ll make me like you?”

Elvis chuckled. “Don’t gotta like me, honey. Just gotta understand one thing.”

She stayed silent.

His grip tightened.

“You belong to me now.”

Something snapped.

Camille jerked forward, pressing both hands against his chest, shoving him back with everything she had.

The movement was so sudden that Jerry flinched in the front seat, Sonny’s head snapping around.

But Elvis?

Elvis just laughed.

Low. Dark. Amused.

The air in the car felt suffocating, thick with something tense, something dangerous.

“You got fight in you,” he murmured, his eyes gleaming with something wild.

Camille curled her lip. “And you’re crazy.”

He only grinned wider.

Then, before she could move, he had her pinned.

Fast. Sudden. Like a predator catching its prey.

Her back hit the leather seat, Elvis hovering over her, caging her in with his arms.

Her breath caught.

The amusement in his eyes flickered, something darker taking its place.

“You think I’m crazy?” His voice was low now, dangerous.

She swallowed.

“Baby,” he murmured, his lips just inches from hers, “you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

The car came to a stop.

“Elvis,” Red spoke this time, quieter. “We’re here.”

Graceland.

The door opened, and Camille barely had time to react before Elvis scooped her up in his arms.

“Put me down, you jackass!” she snarled, thrashing.

He just laughed, striding up the steps like she weighed nothing.

Camille glared up at him. He was enjoying this.

The worst part?

So was she.

————————————-

The heavy front doors of Graceland swung shut with a deep, resounding thud.

Camille felt it in her chest.

Elvis still had her in his arms, holding her like he had every damn right to. She thrashed again, her hands pressing against his shoulders, but he wasn’t letting go.

“Put me down.”

He didn’t.

Instead, he kept walking, past the front foyer, past the staircase, down the hallway like he had a damn purpose. The air inside was cool, a stark contrast to the thick heat of the Memphis night outside.

She hated how good he smelled.

“Where are you taking me, psycho?” she snapped.

Elvis chuckled, low and amused, his grip tightening on her thighs. “Home, baby.”

She shoved at his chest. “I already have a home.”

“You do?” His lips twitched. “Then why you always runnin’ from it?”

Her stomach twisted, but she refused to let him see it.

A door creaked open.

He stepped inside a dimly lit bedroom, kicking the door shut behind them.

Camille fought again, harder, twisting in his hold until he finally—finally—dropped her onto the bed.

She scrambled up fast, but Elvis was already there, looming over her.

He wasn’t touching her anymore.

He didn’t have to.

The air was thick with something electric.

Something dangerous.

His eyes dragged over her—slow, possessive, like he was committing her to memory.

Like he already owned her.

Camille’s pulse thundered in her ears, but she crossed her arms, meeting his stare with a fierce glare.

“You expect me to just stay here?”

Elvis smirked. “Ain’t expectin’ nothin’, sugar.” He tilted his head. “But you will.”

She let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You really think that?”

He stepped closer.

She didn’t back down.

He reached out—so slow, so deliberate— and brushed the back of his knuckles along her jaw.

Her breath hitched.

She hated that he noticed.

Elvis leaned in, his voice nothing but a whisper now.

“You’re already mine, Camille.”

The way he said her name—like he was savoring it—made something hot coil in her stomach.

She clenched her jaw. “Go to hell, Presley.”

His smirk widened.

“Baby,” he drawled, reaching for his belt buckle, “you first.”