“Velvet chains”
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.
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