ELVIS IS MY DADDY, MARILYN'S MY MOTHER
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?”
You nod again, finally letting yourself breathe in the steady, warm scent of him. Elvis doesn’t move for a long time, just holds you until the shaking in your body stills.
