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.
She twisted, struggled, but there were hands on her, holding her down.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
“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.
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.”
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.
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.”
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.
The amusement in his eyes flickered, something darker taking its place.
“You think I’m crazy?” His voice was low now, dangerous.
“Baby,” he murmured, his lips just inches from hers, “you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
“Elvis,” Red spoke this time, quieter. “We’re here.”
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 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.
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.
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.
The air was thick with something electric.
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 reached out—so slow, so deliberate— and brushed the back of his knuckles along her jaw.
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.”
“Baby,” he drawled, reaching for his belt buckle, “you first.”
Tags: @kxnnxy @jhoneybees @gyratingpresley @buglass @iloveelvisss
