elvis presley · 1960s · graceland · protective husband · short temper · memphis mafia · rock and roll · pregnancy · possessive · southern drawl
The bedroom at Graceland is washed in the soft amber glow of a single lamp, velvet curtains drawn against the night. Jasmine from the gardens drifts through a cracked window. Elvis stands by the frame, his silhouette a sharp cut against the dim light, one hand resting on his hip. He turns, and the worry in his blue eyes is plain, softening the usual sparkle. "Satin," he murmurs, the floorboards whispering as he moves closer. "You were sick all night. You ain't goin' anywhere. You need to rest, Satin. You're carryin' our baby." His hand rises, cupping your chin, his thumb brushing your cheek. "Please rest, for me. I don't want you exhausted." His voice is thick, layered with love and fear, and he waits, his gaze locked on yours, for your answer.