#chosen of faith: the fan fic
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Just Adv-02 Standom Things
You know what I hate most about this situation right now?
How the person who stole my {Meiko} gif in question is now weaponizing the "old days" of FDD {Fictional Digidestined} as a means of ignoring the current situation in which they're blatantly lying about using my Meiko gif for a hatepost they made on 0801.
WHILE I WAS TRYING TO ACTUALLY CELEBRATE 0801 TOO.
And how they're a ~fellow Adventure{s} fan~ from ~the old days~---
Before "D.N.I."s ever existed on this Site, we used banners like these.
ALL OF US HAD THEM. ALMOST EVERY SINGLE ONE OF US.
BECAUSE PEOPLE KEPT STEALING OUR SHIT FOR THEIR OWN WEB SHRINES AND NEVER OWNED UP TO IT WHEN CAUGHT.
I literally had one of the first 02 O.C. shrines on the web. If people like that visited my site, they were confronted with this banner on the very first page. It looked similar to the page of the Neo-cities revival I've been working on for over a month now.
This is what I have to emphasize now.
People still will blatantly ignore it, talk over you, try to convince you in their own damn terms "actually, this is the IMAGE STEALING website, so of COURSE I'm allowed to steal your images, creations, fan things and every single one of your O.C.s with their exact palettes too, you didn't create this O.C. you only ~re-colored~ it and those pixels {by hand}!!1!!!!" and "you should be grateful, it means free publicity!!!" and
"YOU DONT OWN *COPY-RIGHT* TO OTHERS *ORIGINAL I.P.s*""
They'll wax poetic about the "old O.C. days" on D.A., when I was on D.A. too, I STILL HAVE AN ACCOUNT THERE, and I would have confronted them their about stealing my shit too, and I *might* have gotten a slightly better response from D.A. back then.
They'll post about their O.C.s while blatantly ignoring me DEMANDING them multiple times to remove my gif.
They'll talk about the "~old Adventure fan base~" "~before all these CRINGE AUTISTS ruined it~" all without knowing I WAS AN ~AUTIST~ EVEN BACK THEN, AND I HID THIS FACT BECAUSE OF PEOPLE LIKE THIS.
They'll claim they have ~nostalgia~.
Nostalgia{/c goggles} in DigiAdvs standom shouldn't be a term used to refer to an Adventure fan, or an 02 fan, or a TAICHI FAN OR FAN OF THE ADVENTURE CHOSEN who is showing appreciation towards that and those characters too, until people trash them, people like this making positive works for the Chosen, leave anti-semitic hate comments on their work once they know about your family and the holidays you're trying to recognize.....
They should be used to refer to people like THIS, like these "02 stans" or "Adventure-02-Kizuna" only stans {all while trashing on Meiko and Tri in the meantime} who will blatantly steal your work and reproduce it for their ~anti Tri~ HATE POSTS and mock you and call you "cringe" for confronting them.
But oh it's not just the 02 standom who's been pulling this shit.
It's Adventure stans. It's TAMERS STANS. It's even Frontier stans, even Savers stans, even Xros Wars & Young Hunters stans, even SURVIVE STANS, even stans of all the other entries in the series who have pulled the same kind of shit. FREQUENTLY.
This person actually DID the right thing and removed it, even when I confronted them, even when they BLATANTLY may have even pretended to not even KNOW WHO THE HELL MEIKO WAS
(when she's mentioned right there IN THE POST.)
You (general) people who never even fully finished Tri don't know who Meiko is, and yet you'll rb a post bashing a girl called Meiko and not put two and two together...
If this person could remove the gif, the person who stole it can remove it too.
Instead of waxing poetic about ~nostalgia~ for ~the good old days of O.C.s on D.A.~ where they probably believe with their whole chest ~no one would confront you over stealing their things without Permission~ (when WE ALL DID THAT THERE.)
BECAUSE YOU SHOULDN'T STEAL PEOPLE'S WORKS WITHOUT PERMISSION FOR HATE-POSTS EVEN IF WE'RE ON A DIFFERENT SITE.
And then everyone constantly complains about how
"Adventure{s}/02 fan base is dYING" and how they're SO SAD ABOUT IT
all while repeatedly pulling the kind of shit above.
It's sickening. It's sickening, it's gross, this kind of attitude in 02 standom NEEDS TO DIE.
PEOPLE LIKE THAT NEVER RESPECTED OUR WORKS AND FAN CREATIONS TO BEGIN WITH.
#fdd#fictional digidestined#digifake#digifakes#anti tri#anti tris#anti meiko#chosen of faith: the fan fic#child of faith: the fan fic#digimon fdd#02 fan history#bnm spoiler#fictional digidestined and digimon#digimon fan season#digimon fanseries#(Using the tags they just used too for Yet More Emphasis)#(in the gif I used but it's only 1 image involving Meiko)#(YEAH I'M ANGRY AND I'M SAYING IT)#(Don't you people DARE weaponize FDD days against me when I WAS THERE)#in which i rant about 02 fdd days being one of the only 02 fdd sites still active on the web up until my whole site got purged#(deleting my ENTIRE FAN HISTORY ALONG WITH IT AND OVER HALF OF MY IMAGES AND EARLY FRONTIER A.M.V.s)#(AND NOW I HAVE TO DEAL WITH PEOPLE WHO STEAL MY SHIT AND THEN ACT LIKE I'M A CHILD WHO WASN'T THERE???)#(Like I don't have WHOLE ARCHIVES of my site on my CD???)#(LIKE I'M NOT STARING AT IT RIGHT NOW AS I MAKE THIS POST EXPRESSING MY FRUSTRATION WITH ASSHOLISH ADVENTURES STANS????)#(I'm tagging the anti tags for the emphasis of whats discussed in this post)#(I'd like to emphasize I am PRO MEIKO even IF I think Tri could have handled some things better)
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DRARRY FIC REC
Drarry x Fandom
I have made many fic rec lists, almost always at someone's request, although I don't often post them publicly. However, there are fic rec lists I compiled simply because I like a particular troupe. I often keep copies of these lists in the notes in my phone so that I can respond quickly to a request for fic recs. Long story short, the notes pile up and now I need to delete some before I can't find anything anymore. But I don't want to just let those rec lists disappear, so I decided to share them.
The list I want to share with you today is Drarry fics in which fandom plays an important role.
- Draco Potter and the Day the World Ended (G; 3,2k) by gracefully_slytherin
Draco Potter (nee Malfoy) was known for many things.
He was a Death Eater who was acquitted of all his war crimes; he was the first Mind Healer that St. Mungo's had hired; he was the Savior of the Wizarding World's husband; and he was the popular fanfiction author sassysnakeprince on Archive of Our Own.
And life was peaceful until his beloved fanfiction website stopped working overnight. The world, it seemed, had chosen to die that day.
I'm pretty sure this is a very relatable story to many of us 🤣
- Pass the Chocolate (T; 1,6k) by @romaine2424
Harry writes a fanfic for Draco, but it doesn’t quite work out the way he planned.
- Pass the Ogden's (T; 660) by @romaine2424
Harry has the blues about h/d fandom. He thinks they're getting old.
This story is a continuation of 'Pass the Chocolate'. Once again, Harry is having problems with fandom and Draco tries to help.
- The True Veela Story (PG; 700) by Faith Wood
Draco is a veela. He has to mate with Harry or die. Naturally, he chooses to die.
- Harry Discovers Slash (E; 907) by @astolat
The obligatory the-characters-learn-about-slash story. (Harry/Draco)
- Draco Malfoy: Fangirl ( M; 3,7k) by pir8fancier
Harry discovers that Draco is a fangirl.
- Fanboy series (?; 2k) by scudeliwu
Draco is caught coming back from a fan-convention.
- Draco Malfoy is a Stupid Wanker (M; 6,8k) by @emmagrant01
During the course of HBP, Romilda Vane's crush on Harry Potter evolves into a slashy obsession with Harry and Draco. (Harry/Draco, if only in Romilda's mind...)
I would love it if you can spare some time to check these fics out and leave kudos to the authors. Honestly, some of these are so underrated even though they are so good.
Anyway, have fun reading!
#drarry#drarry fic#drarry fic rec#drarry rec list#rec list#harry potter x draco malfoy#hpdm#hpdm fanfic#fandom#drarry x fandom#my rec list
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Arcane Year 2 Event Week!
From November 7th to the 13th
#ArcaneYear2 / #ArcaneYearTwo
Let's celebrate Arcane on its second anniversary! All fanworks are welcome! In this special week, you have a choice of two themes, each with unique prompts.
What Could Have Been
Nov 7 : Faction Swap / First Time
Nov 8 : Vander Lives / Broken
Nov 9 : Hugs / Family / Grief
Nov 10 : Food / Gift / Fix It
Nov 11 : AU / Soulmate / Adoption
Nov 12 : Nightmare / Kiss / Jealousy
Nov 13 : Free Day / Goodbyes
What Could Yet Be
Nov 7 : Hextech / Ghost / Blood
Nov 8 : Common Enemy / Warwick
Nov 9 : Begging / Shimmer / Art
Nov 10 : Chaos / Light / Promise
Nov 11 : Noxus / Secrets / Fear
Nov 12 : Machine Herald / Faith / Lies
Nov 13 : Voices / Legacy / Hope
How does this work?
The "What could have been" prompts were chosen to fit fics or art (or meta, playlists, etc) set before or during season 1.
This includes ideas like "Heimerdinger used to travel the world before founding Piltover" set before canon, as well as missing scenes like "Viktor creating his hextech arm" during the time skip, or "Vi waking up in Stillwater".
The "What could yet be" prompts were chosen for speculation about season 2 and beyond.
This includes ideas like "my favourite LoL character definitely rocks into Zaun" or "Jinx frees Warwick" or "How Viktor becomes the Machine Herald"
You can mix and match! You can do one theme for day 1, the other for day 2... And on day 3 you could use the 'family' prompt to write a season 2 AU! Ultimately these prompts are to provide inspiration and a framework. I will not police submissions, so long as you respect the rules. Please read them well!
Rules | AO3 collection | Twitter | FaQ
Participation Bingo for readers and fans
#arcaneyear2#arcaneyeartwo#fandom week#arcane#netflix arcane#arcane season 2#silco#vander#jinx#vi#mel medarda#arcane netflix#arcane vi#ekko#arcane viktor#machine herald#heimerdinger#jayce tallis#caitlyn kiramman#caitvi#vanco#jayvik#embessa medarda#powder#arcane powder#prompts#arcane prompts
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Top five Fuffy fics (written by authors other than yourself)
Well, I'm not sure the restriction's necessary: I don't think I'm being unduly modest in saying there are a lot more than five Fuffy fics out there that are much better than anything I've ever written (or even come close to writing, frankly).
Uh. Limiting myself to one per author and to completed works only, and not trying to sort the top five in any way, without thinking about it too hard my top five would be:
To Live In The World by IvorySteel92. There are lots of Season 6 Fuffy fics, lots of which are really, really good, but this is the only one that made me cry twice, so it must be the best. Faith comes to Sunnydale after Buffy dies to try to do the right thing and take over as the Slayer, but then Buffy comes back to life. Only this time, unlike in canon, Buffy really does come back wrong...
Je me souviens by zulu. A classic, from all the way back in 2005. Again, there are lots of Season 4 Fuffy fics -- including at least one more that I love and that almost made this list -- but I don't see how I could not include this one. Faith wakes up from her coma, not knowing where she is, struggling to remember the fading details of a dream in which somebody she can't remember is chasing her with a knife. To the extent there is a single Fuffy fic any fan of the ship should be familiar with, I think this must be it.
147 Days by TigerDragon. Another relatively older fic -- this time from 2012 -- but one which doesn't seem to have gotten quite as much recognition as I think it deserves. It's part nine of a fourteen part series (starting all the way back in Season 3 and carrying on well past canon), but you don't really need to know much more than that this is -- technically -- canon-compliant, and that it covers the time Faith spends in prison while Buffy is dead. I think it's amazing and that far more people should read it.
Flowers For A Ghost / The Girl From Away by aliceinwonderbra. I'm cheating a little bit here, as these are technically two separate stories, though you could read them in either order and both have the same starting premise. Buffy wakes up in hospital surrounded by her friends after jumping into Glory's inter-dimensional portal to save Dawn. Only, she isn't waking up surrounded by exactly who she thinks she is. While the main reason I got into Fuffy a few years ago was rewatching Buffy during lockdown and finally having the pieces click, I genuinely think this series runs it a close second. I don't think I would have started writing anything Buffy related myself if -- having finished that rewatch -- I hadn't thought "huh, I wonder if anybody has ever written Faith/Buffy fanfiction?" and eventually stumbled onto these stories.
Body Language by explosionshark. As a rule, and despite my many complaints about Season 7 itself, I think Chosen was pretty close to the perfect way to end the show, which makes me a little wary of post-canon fics. But this one is so good it makes a mockery of any reservations I had: I cannot imagine a happier, more faithful-to-the-characters continuation to Buffy and Faith's story. (Oh, and as the tags make clear -- and as I think Faith would insist my previous description already strongly implies -- Buffy and Faith have a lot of sex in this one.)
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Part 7: Directives and Clues
A Good Omens Fan Fic
As promised when Aziraphale took the position of Supreme Archangel, he was selecting angels that he wanted to work with, and this caused great confusion. Things were becoming different, and change did not come easily to the established order of heaven. Zedekiel was the first of seven angels selected to be brought to the penthouse to assist, yet planning for the second coming had still not begun. Aziraphale had requested to meet with the Metatron, thus far unsuccessfully. What he had been able to do was establish a close group of trusted angels to accomplish alternative goals. The first of these goals was establishing a suggestion box for each floor in heaven, emphasizing that the suggestions were not for the almighty but for the supreme archangel, as to avoid the appearance of anyone questioning the ineffable plan.
There was a noticeable shift in the top floor with the new additions, irritating the old tenants yet bringing some semblance of happiness to Aziraphale. His group, though not excluding the other archangels, did bring something which was previously lacking to the barren landscape. They brought love. Aziraphale was no longer alone.
“Why don’t we look at the issue of musical education first?” Several suggestions had come in from multiple levels requesting greater variety in what humans would understand as the orchestral music that some shops play and most customers either ignore or are annoyed by. They seemed to favor periods of live music, and Aziraphale believed the idea was brilliant.
Raziel, who had been chosen from one of the mid-level floors, agreed. Aziraphale and Raziel had worked together briefly on earth, and Aziraphale always thought highly of him. They had been reintroduced during the visits on the different levels, reinforcing Aziraphale’s initial inclinations.
They came up with ideas on how to best approach the musical education, and it was decided that Raziel would go to the floors of the formerly human residents to determine who had musical training. Perhaps by gathering with them a plan could be devised.
As Aziraphale and Raziel were debating music, Zedekiel approached, apologizing for the interruption.
“There is no need to apologize. You are all free to come to me at any time.”
Aziraphale had become beloved by most of the residents of the lower floors, who had never received visits from anyone in the penthouse suite before, and this new visitor was very good at listening and attempting to make and already perfect existence in heaven more enjoyable. Raziel was sure he could gather willing participants, and he excused himself to begin his work.
“What can I help you with Zedekiel?” Aziraphale and Zedekiel had formed a friendship, a trust, and he relied on her for most of his planning.
Zedekiel seemed cautious, and advised that the Metatron wanted to meet, and he wanted to meet now.
In the grand order of things, the Metatron was considered by most to be the voice of God. Some had their doubts, as God had never confirmed or denied this position, but most took the self-title on faith. Very few had actually spoken to the Metatron, and any meeting with him was considered of substantial importance.
Aziraphale was not looking forward to this.
“Very well.” Aziraphale thanked Zedekiel and asked that she remain at her desk in case any events or requests came in.
The Metatron appeared as a giant projected head while in heaven. Aziraphale found it disconcerting, and it rather reminded him of something he had seen in a human movie once before. That film presented the floating head as untrustworthy, which seemed to match what Aziraphale felt as the meeting began.
“Hello Aziraphale. I’ve heard that you’ve been making some changes to our old way of doing things. Is everything working well for you?” To some this would seem like pleasantries, but Aziraphale knew that everything said and all of his actions were being closely monitored.
Aziraphale smiled. “I hope I’m not making too many changes.”
“No, not at all.” The Metatron tried to comfort his new archangel. “Perhaps a few of your friends are uncomfortable, but everything was unchanging for so long and that is bound to happen.
“Oh good.” He paused, but the Metatron did not speak. After a moment of silence, he asked, “Is there anything I can help you with?”
“Yes Aziraphale. We are starting the preparations now. We need you to choose an angel to assist with some work that needs to be done in Earth.” The Metatron began to provide the assignment to Aziraphale, who continued smiling and asked only one question.
“May I ask where this will begin?”
“Right now we’re considering Ephesus. That is where his mother resided later in life, and it seems an appropriate location for his return.”
“So not Golgotha then? I guess that might be too obvious.” Aziraphale nervously tried to sound confident.
“We will meet soon with further instructions Aziraphale. This is only the first step.” The giant head disappeared, and Aziraphale went back to his office, replaying the instructions in his mind and wondering how the plan would play out.
He asked Zedekiel to find Barachiel, another of his recently appointed group. Barachiel had impressed Aziraphale with the love she had for the humans and the affection she held for human pairings and children.
On Barachiel’s arrival, Aziraphale smiled and greeted her, exchanging pleasantries they they had both learned during their time on Earth. It was oddly comforting.
“I have a request for you Barachiel. Would you be willing to take an assignment on Earth? It will be temporary, but very important.”
“Of course, Aziraphale. I will do anything you ask of me willingly.” Barachiel actually meant that, as Aziraphale made it clear that they were allowed to object to any assignment and request an in-depth discussion if needed to determine best approaches. Blind obedience was not something Aziraphale required.
“Very well then. I need you to go to a bookshop.” he started, and proceeded to outline his plan.
After many hours of waiting in the bandstand with no indication of anything, Crowley was certain that he’d missed his opportunity. “Where are you, whoever you are?” he asked no one in particular, and received no particular response. He had examined the book closely and attempted several miracles on it, but no secrets were revealed.
This was the third alternate rendezvous point. Once again he examined the details of his surroundings and still found no indication of a message of any sort.
“How could I be so stupid!” Crowley suddenly remembered that Aziraphale always confused the rendezvous points. He left the bandstand to check two other locations.
The British museum cafe had several tables populated with those appearing as businessmen, but only four of them actually were. Crowley sat down at an empty table after getting a coffee which he promptly set on the table and didn’t touch again. Taking in his surroundings, nothing seemed out of place. There were no obvious messages, nor any that weren’t so obvious.
Having become accustomed to talking to himself, Crowley continued his inner commentary while also voicing it. “Better check the bus then.”
The number nineteen bus had previously been used as a meeting place, somewhere that would be unlikely to draw any attention. Crowley boarded and went to the upper deck, which had been their typical meeting spot. There was nothing there. He checked the lower level, and still found nothing. Returning back to the upper deck, he sat down and looked through the book again, as if something would change. It didn’t. In desperation, he continued looking for any clue that would indicate why he’d received the note and what was going on with the mostly empty book. Still nothing.
“It’s too late.” Crowley feared that he had missed the opportunity for whatever was supposed to happen when the meeting was supposed to have occurred, whenever that was. He sat in contemplation until an announcement caught his attention.
“Next stop: Angel Station.”
“Well, why not?” Crowley thought, and disembarked when the bus arrived at the stop.
#good omens#crowley#aziraphale#ineffable husbands#ineffable spouses#good omens fanfiction#a clue#why are there all of these new angels#i have a plan
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Love Language
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IT’S LESBIAN VISIBILITY WEEK!!!! MUST POST YURI!!!!!!!!! /hj
Anywayyyyyyyy— this is another one of my old fics that I just have not had the brain space to actually post. I have a lot of these and most of them are too self-indulgent for me to upload without cringing but hey!!!! That’s what the internet is for!!!!!
Bubble anon!!! Your fic is up next I'm so sorry I'm almost done
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Lumine acts like a stereotypical heroine. Feat. Ayaka being an utter sap.
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Sfw tickle fic!!!!!!!! Ler! Ayaka, Lee! Lumine. Romantic Ayalumi. Cringefail lesbians and cringe author.
͙͘͡★ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. ♡ ⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆𐙚 ᯓ★
Lumine was not running away; Ayaka knew that. They were outnumbered, caught off guard, and already worn out. Lumine, chivalrous knight she was, had prioritized protecting her companion, and so she’d chosen the safer route of retreat rather than overexert themselves fighting the horde of Ruin Scouts. “A masterly retreat is in itself a victory,” after all. The traveler was as adroit as ever, and Ayaka had always admired her quick thinking.
The only problem was that sometimes Lumine thought too quickly, leading to embarrassing situations… like being carried to safety in Lumine’s arms.
Like the present, right now.
The fizzle of Electro around them was warm, and so was Lumine. Ayaka felt every drop and skip of her insides as she leaped and Ayaka thumped against her. Lumine’s heart was pounding with the effort, and her mouth was making a variety of cute noises.
Ayaka glanced up. Wow… she’d never seen her profile from this angle before. She had a… very traceable jaw. And oddly pinchable cheeks.
She buried her warming face in Lumine’s clothes.
Her Electro blasts propelling them step by step up the mountain, Lumine sprinted until her knees gave out with a winded puff. Ayaka rolled out of her arms and onto the grass, clutching at her chest. It was graceless, but at least she wasn’t Lumine, who leaned against a tree and wheezed out rough apologies.
“Close one—sorry—okay—yaka?” She collapsed beside the rescued princess with a dramatic sigh.
Even as she plucked a leaf out of her icy hair and the very bones of her face burned, Ayaka’s laugh was melodious. If not shamefully drunk.
“Aww, my savior, thank you for your selfless acts of service,” Ayaka said, a tease coloring her soothing voice. Lumine flushed to the edge of her scarf. The Shirasagi Himegimi was not someone to partake in banter often, but being with the Traveler was, well, freeing.
Recovering, Lumine coughed lightly. “Of course, milady,” she responded in kind, deepening her voice comically. “All in a day’s work.” She gave a wink at Ayaka that was more goofy than charming, but it warmed Ayaka’s heart all the same.
Languidly, Ayaka reclined against the grass. “You truly are a hero, and a very strong one at that.” Ayaka flicked open her fan and covered her face coyly, laughing at the dumbstruck, crimson expression that Lumine sported.
“W–Why thank you!” Lumine flexed her biceps like a superhero from some cliché (but lovable) manga. Ayaka burst into whole-hearted, entirely unbecoming giggles.
With Lumine still striking ridiculous poses, and her still riding on the high of mischief their little bit evoked, Ayaka spared no thought for hesitance when the need to touch caught her. Lumine was smirking ostentatiously, glancing away, arms still flexing above her head. Her defenses were wide open.
Ayaka snuck a finger under each of Lumine’s arms and stroked down.
Instantaneously, the Traveler screeched and squeezed into herself. Ayaka’s nails persisted, now with nowhere else to go. An ironic juxtaposition was Lumine’s high-pitched squeaking to her silly bass voice.
“AHAhAyahaKAHa!” Lumine wiggled like a caught fish. Her shiny, blushing cheeks curved tight against her crinkled eyelashes. “EheEE stahahahap ihihihit!”
Ayaka chuckled along, dazzled by her melon-shaped smile. “But Lumi! You’re so strong! I have faith that you can escape this.”
Lumine squealed as Ayaka hastened, falling to the ground and making an attempt to wriggle away. Her shoes scraped against the dirt. “AHAHA! But youhouHA—“ Her words were cut off by her own burbling. “Youhou’reHE strohOH- ohohong toohaEH!”
She devolved into rolling around on the grass in her desperation, forcing Ayaka, whose hands were still trapped, to chase after her. They ended up pretzeled, Lumine lying curled up on her side, her back to Ayaka’s knees. Snowdrift hands rested on her ribs while Lumine breathed heavily.
Her eyes quaked open. Liquid gold. “Where- Where did thahat come from?”
Pleased by the blush on the Traveler’s cheeks and even shoulders, Ayaka crooned, “Oh, Lumine-Lumine.” Lumine’s pink lips trembled, her blonde lashes quivering. “I was wondering how I could ever repay you for your deeds of goodwill. After much deliberation, I figured that sharing in a bit of fun would be most suitable.”
“Wahai— Wait,” Lumine gasped, wearing an apprehensive but beaming smile. “This is your way of saying thank you? Not that it’s bad, but— Ah! Ahayaka! Dohohon’t!”
Ayaka’s fingers ghosted over the exposed skin above Lumine’s ribcage. She cheeped and curled into a ball to hide her nose in her knees. Ayaka grinned at how she only pulled closer.
“But we’ve only just begun, dearest Lumi!” With a trill in her voice that made Lumine’s stomach squirm, Ayaka announced, “I will provide you with the full experience, if you wish.”
“Nonono!” Lumine squealed. Ayaka put more weight behind her touches, supplemented by the light skittering of her nails. Laughter glissandoed upward as Ayaka’s fingers traced her torso down to her hips. “EEHAhaha NOhohoahaHA!”
Lumine’s face was coated with pink that would put a sakura petal to shame. She curled her body around Ayaka’s knees and pressed her face into her legs, knuckles curling in the other’s skirt.
Ayaka squeezed the squirmy Traveler-shaped beam of starlight, pinched at her sides and hips, then scribbled over her stomach. Flailing, Lumine kicked like a toppled goat when Ayaka rubbed circles into her knees and thighs.
“HYAHAKEAHAHA!” Lumine yelled in a flustered mess of syllables. “AHAHAHEEAHA-AYAKAHA!! TAIHIHIHIOUHAHAOUT! TIHIHIHIHIMEAHA OUHOUTAHAHA!”
A gentle and benevolent noble amongst the people, Ayaka finally spared some mercy. She retracted her hands and rested them on Lumine’s head, beginning to comb through the short, fluffy locks. Lumine panted, giggly breaths still full of rapture. Her hands remained tangled in Ayaka’s skirts until she moved them to soothe the tingling in her skin.
“Sorry, Lumi,” Ayaka apologized sincerely, soft. “You’re too adorable to resist.”
Lumine giggled. “Stohohop. You’ll make me flustered again.”
Ayaka didn’t have a plan for what came after. Eyeing Lumine’s fingers, Ayaka anticipated her maybe seeking revenge, while an embarrassing heat swirled in her stomach. If not that, though, maybe they would continue to lie down and chat until the sun left the sky. Maybe they’d move on to the next quest once Lumine was fully rested up.
After a while, Ayaka noticed that Lumine’s heavy breaths had mellowed. Now they were steady and rhythmic. She looked down and found a blissfully sleeping Lumine, head pillowed in her arm.
Ayaka’s heart flipped. It has been a long day.
Tenderly, she arranged Lumine so she was sleeping comfortably on her lap. She brushed Lumine’s bangs out of her face idly. Her forehead exposed, Lumine appeared especially soft, even if her skin was scarred and baked with adventure.
The desire to touch was revived, but a softer touch this time. Ayaka moistened her lips, then shook her head. It felt like the natural progression for these events, but it was so bold…
Would Lumine approve? Did she want the same things as Ayaka? Did she long for intimate, corporeal affection the way she did?
But, she remembered Lumine’s easy, assuring smiles, her melting in Ayaka’s hands so casually, her resolve to visit the Kamisato Estate whenever she came to Inazuma without a care for who saw, and she decided not to heed her anxious thoughts. Leaning forward, Ayaka pressed a kiss to Lumine’s forehead, channeling all of her wishes and affection into the gesture. She smiled, feeling exceedingly cheesy, and couldn’t hold back her quiet giggle.
Lumine, Lumine… After everything the Traveler had been through, Ayaka only hoped she rested well.
͙͘͡★ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. ♡ ⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆𐙚 ᯓ★
Ayaka’s so stressed over a forehead kiss my goodness.
Kiss meeeeee kiss me with your eeeeeyess closedddddd
#i think ayaka likes saying lumine’s name#py is turning pink#tickle#genshin impact#genshin tickle#genshin impact tickle#ayalumi#kamisato ayaka#lumine#lee!lumine#ler!ayaka#lesbian#tagging that just cuz I like the colors :)))))#it’s literally the last day of lesbian visibility week ugh#I wish I could stop being late for things I have a serious problem#happy lesbian week regardless!!!!!!!
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Fractured [Part Two]
Fandom: Elvis Presley, American Musician
Pairing: Elvis Presley x Addison Goodwin, Elvis Presley x Priscilla Presley
Characters: Elvis Presley, Addison Goodwin, Gladys Presley, Vernon Presley, Colonel Tom Parker, Priscilla Presley, Jerry Schilling, Marci Cunningham, Mary Jenkins, Original Female Character
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 6840
Summary: Moving on and letting go are two different things.
Tags/Warnings: Heartache, Angst, Elvis and Priscilla Wedding, Anger, Crying, Jealousy, Love, Weddings, Kissing, Sex, Vaginal Sex, Germany, Army Elvis, Non-Canon Time Line, Engagement Rings, Grief, Grieving,
Notes: This took a while because it wasn't hitting right.But it means ya get two addie/elvis fics in one week and some elvis smut! Enjoy xx
PART ONE // ELVIS & ADDIE MASTERPOST
August 1958
The Bible was sitting on his nightstand, waiting for Elvis to reach out and grab it. Waiting for him to open it and find something, anything, that would bring him comfort and peace. And yet he didn’t, he couldn't, because at that moment the book resting on his nightstand wasn’t anything more than just a book. It didn’t bring him comfort, it didn’t bring him peace because nothing would, nothing could, not even his faith because at the moment he wasn’t sure he had any. And that was because he didn’t understand. All his life he had seen a plan; he had understood that God sometimes had to be unfair to make provisions for something ahead, but this didn’t make sense. No, his God wouldn’t be this unfair or this heartless.
It was one thing to take his mother cruelly early, but it was another to take away his only source of comfort, the only person he loved as much or more than her.
His mama. Addison. His mama. Addison. Addison. Addison.
Both of them had been swirling around in his brain making his heart feel as though it had been broken into fragments, their names etched on the pieces, taking turns to slice at his insides but now, alone here in the dark, it was just her.
Up here it was just Addison because he didn’t have to think of anything but her. For the past few days he hadn't had time to focus on her absence. He couldn't focus on how her being missing at a time hurt him because the grief of watching his mother fade from existence was more consuming. He had been by her side until the end and then after that, when all he wanted was to lay by her side and cry he had been forced to carry on. To comfort his father, his family, and even his fans at what they had lost as if he hadn't lost it himself. And now he was here, alone in his room looking for his own source of comfort and it wasn't there. She wasn't holding him as he wept or stroking his hair as he clung to her. No, all he had was the thought of her.
And the more he thought about her the more he failed to understand. He’d asked the Colonel of course, when he’d gotten a moment to breathe he’d asked for him to look into Addison just disappearing only to be told that he’d already asked around and no one knew where she had gone. He’d even questioned Jerry, cornering him at his mother’s wake and begging him to phone Marci so he could ask her what she knew, only to find out from the dejected teenager that she had unceremoniously dumped him stating that there wasn’t much point of them continuing given she was headed to college and he was still in Memphis. And even if he wanted to make the kid feel worse than he did, force him to pick at his own fresh wound, there wasn’t much point as Jerry informed him the last thing Marci had said about Addison was that she had stopped returning her phone calls.
And that if he was being honest was a tiny comfort. At least if she had chosen to run away it wasn’t just him she had left behind without so much as a see you later. Yet that was why it didn’t make sense, because Addison had lived that life, a life where she was left and forgotten about time after time and he couldn’t see her doing that to anyone she loved. And she did love him, despite everything he knew that.So why hadn’t she come back?
At first he had given her the benefit of the doubt because he could understand that given the way her life had panned out how she could think that two years apart was just too big of an obstacle to face, but once his mother died, once she had seen that he was alone he’d expected her to come back. To come home.
And yet she hadn’t.
Elvis reached for the bible, flicking it open to the page he had last been reading. It was a passage about grief, the words spread across the page bringing no comfort, and nestled in between them was a picture of Addison. Looking at it brought with it a pain in his chest, one that threatened to stop his heart cold, and yet he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop looking at her hazel eyes sparkling at him behind the camera, her soft brown locks curled around her face, her lips turned up in a smile at whatever he had been saying. And as he stared at the picture he couldn’t stop from wishing with all the pieces of his broken heart that she was there in front of him right now, watching him with that same smile.
But she wasn’t and for all he knew she was never going to be again, just like his mother.
And with that he got angry because his mother hadn’t chosen to leave him. She hadn’t wanted to go and yet she had been forced to but Addison had the choice and she was choosing wrong.
As anger flooded through him he threw the bible to the ground and he yanked the drawer of his nightstand open rummaging around inside for what he wanted. It didn’t take long for his hand to clasp around a rusty old tin box that he tipped the contents of back into the drawer before he placed it on the bed. Then he moved to the stack of books on his nightstand. He was frantic now, plucking each and every picture of them that were woven into the pages as bookmarks out and throwing them angrily into the box. Once they were tucked inside he moved back to the drawer digging for another reminder of her. He found it, his fingers brushing over the velvet until his hand was clasped around it tight enough so that he could pull it from the junk.
It was only then he slowed, opening the box until the ring was staring back at him, showing him his own heartbroken face in its glittering reflection. He pulled it out, inspecting it like he had the first minute he’d clapped eyes on it. The moment he had known he was going to ask her to marry him.
Yet they wouldn’t have that now. That promise was broken, ripped from him as his mother had been. Still, as he eyed the exquisite white gold ring in his hand he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it because to do that would be to admit it was never going to happen. To get rid of the ring, the pictures, the memory of her would be forcing it to just be a memory. And he couldn’t do that. So he did the only thing he could and threw it on the pile of pictures, closing the lid of the box over the top of them, until he had a reason to open it again.
September 1959
‘So that’s when Daddy got moved here, to the base I mean, meant I had to leave mid semester,’ she said her words lingering in the air as Elvis failed to respond. He hadn’t been listening but as she fell quiet his brain kicked into gear telling him that now might be the time to offer an answer.
‘Oh that’s too bad,’ Elvis said and though his words were non-committal they seemed to be enough to keep her happy as she carried on telling him about him about her first few weeks in Germany. He looked at her, staring just above her eyebrow in an effort to appear as though he was remotely paying attention. Yet no part of her conversation had caught his interest because it wasn’t the conversation he was here for.
He was here because just for a moment when she’d walked through the door, facing just slightly away from him as she’d taken off her snow-covered coat, he’d thought she was Addison. And in that moment he hadn’t had a thought. He didn’t wonder how it might come to be she’d be here, in Germany, at his rented house. He didn’t wonder how she’d be brazen enough to walk in with the rest of the joining party – unbothered and casual. He hadn’t thought about any of it and instead he’d leapt from his chair barrelling past his party guests until he was standing in front of her only to find it wasn’t Addison but someone else. Once he’d realised it wasn’t her he should’ve just left her alone and gone back to his seat to wallow but foolishly he’d hoped that being similar to her in looks would make him feel as though she was here with him like he needed her to be. And for a brief moment it had, well, until he’d invited her upstairs and they’d gotten to talking.
It wasn’t that she was unlikable, in fact, she was actually quite sweet from the bits he’d bothered to listen to, it was just that she was well lacking. Their conversation was pleasant but there was nothing biting, nothing edgy to it. She didn’t keep him on his toes. She didn’t cut him with a razor-sharp wit that left his ego wounded and that fire in his belly stoked. She couldn’t even handle him being suggestive without a flush of deep crimson christening her cheeks and neck. No, he’d been a fool to think he’d find a comparison to her.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked yanking him out of his thoughts once more. She was looking at him, familiar hazel eyes boring into his face.
‘Uh yeah fine,’ he lied standing up off the bed as he mumbled, ‘I was just thinking maybe we should get back to the party.’
‘Oh do we have to?’ she asked forlornly and for a second he was going to come up with some excuse about how it wasn’t really fair to leave his guests in the lurch though that was a lie. Everyone in attendance knew that there was a chance they’d come and not see him at all as he holed himself away in his room with whatever pretty face he’d chosen for the night. Chosen to make him feel something. But then she scrambled towards him and slipped her hand into his which forced him to look at her.
Except it didn’t feel like her hand. Her pouty lips and disappointed gaze didn't look like hers, it looked like Addison’s and whatever excuse he had thought of flew out of his brain. He didn’t respond, instead, he moved in to kiss her roughly hoping that would feel like Addison too. She squealed as he did so making him smirk. She might have not had the wit and charm of his ex-love but the way she could have the wind knocked out of her by Elvis’ advances was uncanny. He could picture her now, pretend that she’d just said something that would make him run his tongue along his teeth, unable to think of any comeback other than to kiss the shit-eating grin off of her face.
‘Elvis,’ she murmured as his lips migrated down her neck eliciting a whimper.
‘I’mma make you feel good baby,’ he said hoping she’d stop talking. He didn’t want her voice. He didn’t want to be pulled back to reality.
He pushed her back towards the dresser, his hands moving up under her dress until he got enough purchase to hoist her up onto the dark wood his hand moving between her legs until he was touching her covered sex, his fingers brushing against the material and earning another moan. If she’d been less accommodating he would probably have taken his time and used his well-honed skills to make her come undone before he got to what he needed but she was pliant and eager to please and so he didn’t hold back. He barely bothered to get his pants down, the fabric gathering around his thighs, before he was tugging his dick to attention his fingers teasing along her folds.
‘Oh God,’ she whimpered as he pushed two inside of her, his thumb rubbing against her clit earning another moan. He had to admit she looked pretty like this, her chest heaving as she panted because of his touch, yet watching her brought him back to reality. It made him remember that she wasn’t who he wanted and that was something he needed to change.
‘That feel good baby? Want me to make ya feel real good?’ he asked earning a strangled yes in reply. She was giving him the green light and that was all he needed. In one fell swoop he replaced his fingers with his cock burying himself in her to the hilt and though she gasped at the fullness of him he didn’t slow down because he couldn’t. He didn’t slow down because now he had an excuse to bury himself in her neck, pretending that the way her fingers knotted in his hair was Addison’s touch. Now he wasn’t watching her he found he could let go. Every moan, every whimper, every touch became Addison’s.
He could feel himself hitting a good rhythm, his climax coming like a freight train speeding down a track, and it was spurred on as her whimpers became more frequent her own fingers moving to do the work he should have done. He could see her in his mind, splayed beneath him her pouty lips open to allow her whimpers to slip out, her eyes closed as she rode through the bliss. Whether the idea of fucking her on top of a dresser was a memory or a fantasy he didn’t know at this point but it was enough to get him to the edge and as he teetered over it, not thinking about pulling out, he found he was calling her name, his words falling out of his mouth without him allowing them too.
He stayed still for a moment, reality crashing down on him as he felt her stiffen beneath him and when he pulled out she was looking at him, her hazel gaze less welcoming than it had been five minutes ago. She didn’t say anything to address it but Elvis felt as though his skin was on fire from the way she was looking at him alone, and in that moment he became angry. Irrationally angry as if it was her fault that she’d had the audacity not to be the woman he longed to be with and rather the woman he’d just fucked.
‘Elvis,’ she said hesitantly, placing a hand on his still-clothed bicep though he shook it off. He moved away, refusing to look at her as he tucked his softening cock back into his pants, zipping them up and ignoring how tight they felt against his tender skin.
‘You should go back downstairs,’ he said. She was still on the dresser, her legs splayed open and panties pushed to the side doing nothing to stop his expenditure from seeping onto the mahogany beneath but he refused to look at her. He refused to look at her because it would only make him angry once more. Except this time he wouldn’t be angry at just her. He’d be angry at himself for thinking she would make him feel any less empty than he did.
‘Elvis,’ she whispered.
‘Are you deaf?’ he grunted, finally staring at her with annoyance. At that, she seemed to realise that the situation was beyond repair and so she quickly scrambled from the dresser, smoothing her dress out before she dashed from the room, closing the door behind her rather harshly.
As the door slammed shut Elvis sighed and sunk down on the bed a wave of sadness engulfing him. He flopped onto his back, trying to ignore the way tears had gathered in his eyes, slipping down his face and getting lost in his hair. He was a fool. Not only because he had managed to make himself look like a prize asshole in front of a girl who had been nothing but nice to him but because he’d done it by convincing himself he could change reality. He had allowed himself to believe that he could make himself feel she was there with him. That it was her he was holding, loving, in all the ways he yearned to do. He should’ve known that wouldn’t happen. He’d never been able to make it happen with any of the girls he’d met so far and yet he’d been stupid enough to hope. He’d been stupid enough to think that because someone looked a bit like her it’d be like she was there. When how could that be true? He’d never met a soul like her. He’d never met a soul that matched him so well in all his life. No, she was a rarity, one he’d no doubt never find again.
As that thought struck him he sat up. The question was, did he want to find that again? Of course they’d been well-matched but there were things about her that he couldn’t stand. Her stubbornness, her pride, her refusal to let him help at any turn. They were qualities he hated, qualities that riled him up. Hell, those qualities were probably the reason he was sitting here alone. So why was he looking for them in other? Maybe he needed something different from that. Maybe he needed someone a little easier to love, someone who wouldn’t run away at the first sign of trouble. It would sure as hell be easier.
For the past year he’d been trying to replace the memory of her and failing. Maybe it was time to forget all that. Maybe it was time to think about moving on, to someone who wouldn’t leave him, to someone that would love him and care for him. Surely he could find someone like that around here somewhere. After all, it wasn’t as though he was lacking suitors. When he finally felt well enough to head downstairs he thought about it. In fact he was so lost in his thoughts he didn’t even notice he’d walked straight into someone, a party of people arriving late.
The girl he’d walked into whipped around, awestruck blue eyes finding his. She was pretty in a cute sort of way. Her blue eyes shone against her pale skin, enhanced by the white and blue striped dress she was wearing. Her hair was up and she was wearing a thin layer of makeup though Elvis suspected that was to make her look older than she was.
‘Well, what have we here?’ Elvis asked waiting for her to speak. She didn’t though but her blue eyes never left his as Currie said, ‘Elvis this is Priscilla Beaulieu. The girl I told you about.’
‘Hi, I’m Elvis Presley,’ he said offering a hand out to Priscilla who still seemed hesitant but shook it anyway. He only vaguely remembered what Currie had told him, some young girl on the base stuck here because of her father’s job. It was nothing new but what had intrigued him was the fact she’d only just landed from the States a couple of months ago which meant that he’d finally have an ear to the ground about what was happening back home, more to the point if he’d been forgotten.
‘So,’ Elvis said hoping she’d loosen up enough to talk to him, ‘do you go to school?’
‘Yes,’ she replied.
‘What are you, about a junior or senior in high school?’ he asked making a flush dance across her face even her makeup couldn’t hide. When she didn’t respond he felt the irritation from before creeping back in and so he pressed, ‘Well?’
‘Ninth.’
‘Ninth what?’ he asked confused.
‘Grade,’ she said in a voice so quiet Elvis wouldn’t have known she'd even responded if he hadn't seen her lips move. Again his thoughts flew to Addison. He thought of the first time he had seen her at the fair, how even knowing who he was hadn’t stopped her from rolling out that smart mouth of hers.
‘Ninth grade,’ he said. He had thought she’d been young but he hadn’t guessed she’d be that young. It made him chuckle; no wonder she was nervous she was just a little girl. A thought he made immediately clear as he said, ‘Why you’re just a baby.’
‘Thanks,’ she said curtly. So curt in fact it stopped him in his tracks. He hadn’t expected it, such tartness to come from a face so young and innocent and yet it made his heart flutter for the first time in over a year.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘seems the little girl’s got spunk.’
At that she faltered, her reply of ‘seems so’ falling flat on its face as he gave her his dazzling smile. They talked for a bit longer and once again Elvis found that he wasn’t paying attention to the conversation yet it wasn’t because he was bored. It was because he was thinking of her.
She was sweet, flirtatious even once she relaxed a little around him and once again he felt that flutter in his heart accompanied this time by a warmth in his lower belly. Though as she talked to him about meeting Currie he found his mind wandering to Addison again. He could see similarities between them and yet there was something more to Priscilla. Something different. As he shifted on the couch, his arm going behind her she stiffened and that’s when he clicked what it was. Innocence. She was like Addison in the way they were both beyond their years and yet she had this innocence to her, something Addison had been forced to lose prematurely, and though he knew it shouldn’t that idea excited him.
She had the basics of what he liked and yet she was unfinished. Like she’d been waiting for someone to mould her into who she should be and the thought of being the person to do that excited him. Maybe he didn’t have to search for what he wanted. Maybe he could create it himself.
March 1965
As Elvis stepped out of the car he breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a long day at the studio but at least he was home now, his feet touching down on familiar soil as he made his way through to the kitchen. Mary was standing by the counter, wiping it down with a cloth, but she turned when she heard movement at the door, a kind smile on her face as she said, ‘hey.’
‘Hey,’ Elvis greeted.
‘Good day?’ she smiled and though it had been anything but Elvis didn’t have the heart to knock his kind faced cook down and so he shrugged and said, ‘had worse.’
‘Well how about I fix ya sumthin’ to eat?’ she asked earning the first genuine smile from him he’d had all day. It never failed to amaze him how food could turn his mood from foul to elated at its mere mention. Then again considering he’d no doubt be living on a regime of rabbit food and diet pills once he headed out to California to film it didn’t surprise him the prospect of good food was appealing even if it was only for the next couple of weeks.
‘Thanks,’ he said though he paused as he reached the stairs, turning to look at her as he said, ‘actually can ya leave it like a half hour? Let me get showered and changed?’
‘Sure thing honey,’ Mary smiled turning away from him and allowing him to leave.
He headed up the stairs excited to get under the scalding hot water and wash the remnants of today off. It was his own fault he supposed. When the Colonel had told him about his upcoming flicks he had hoped beyond hope that they’d be good. Yet as he’d poured over the scripts his heart had sank. They weren’t good, they weren’t even decent. Once again he found the plots lacking, the production cheap and the soundtracks well they were painful in their own way. He tried to like them and even though they weren’t the kind of music he wanted to record that hadn’t meant he’d put less effort in them and yet they still sounded stale. His voice was perfect, his delivery of the lyrics well timed and artistic and yet it did nothing to improve them. He wished the Colonel would see what it was doing to him. How the recycled plots of Elvis being a lovable rogue torn between too lovers was getting old but he didn’t. No, the Colonel never saw anything but dollar signs and so long as Elvis kept the money rolling in, which no matter the quality of the film he seemed to, he would never steer away from a tried and trusted thing.
It was just a shame it made him so goddamn miserable.
He was almost at his bedroom door, the prospect of wiping all traces of the day away so close he could almost feel it, but as he pushed the door open he stopped noticing Priscilla was already inside, sitting on his bed. She didn’t notice him in the doorway and for a moment he smiled, thinking about the laugh that would pour out of him when he made her jump out of her skin, her bright blue eyes going wide before she chastised him for scaring her. Yet as he looked at her properly he realised there was a reason she hadn’t noticed him. She hadn’t noticed him because her eyes were transfixed on the ring she was holding between her delicate fingers. Addison’s ring.
And strewn around her was every letter, picture and memory of the girl he’d once loved.
It made the blood in his veins turn to ice and before he could even contemplate what he was going to say he found the words falling out his mouth automatically, his voice gravelly and serious as he asked, ‘'What are you doing?'
As he spoke Priscilla’s head snapped up, her blue eyes going wide the way he had anticipated but instead of falling to amusement as he’d planned they stayed wide and embarrassed. Elvis felt embarrassment inside him, the idea of her seeing the outpourings of pathetic longing making him want the ground to swallow him up. Yet just a quick as the feelings of embarrassment had come they were gone replaced only by anger. Anger at her for snooping. Anger at himself for being so thoughtless as to keep the stupid thing lying around. And anger at Addison for making him unable to let it go in the first place. It had been years since she’d left him and yet he’d never managed to part with the damn thing, always clinging to the hope of one day.
'I was just looking for something,' she said meekly, 'I didn't mean to-'
'What snoop?' he said moving forward in three quick paces.
'It was caught at the back of the drawer,' she said in an attempt to explain but he wasn’t listening. He wasn’t listening because he couldn’t focus on anything else but getting every scrap of Addison back into the box. If she was in the box he wouldn’t have to think about her. If she was in the box he could pretend that pain in his chest wasn’t there. Which is why he snatched the ring from her hand and tossed it back into the box followed in quick succession by the stacks of letters strewn around her. She watched every moment, concern in her blue eyes that he pretended not to see.
'Yeah well you should've put it back where you found it,' he snapped tossing the box into the drawer and kicking it close. He could breathe now. Now that she was out of the way, banished from view he could pretend his heart wasn’t hurting and yet as he looked at Priscilla, watching him with sympathy in her eyes he felt his heart hurt all the same.
'Elvis,' she said but he didn’t let her finish. He didn’t let her come out with whatever pity or understanding she was going to because to do that was even worse. And so he clung to the anger that had been brewing in him from the moment he had walked through the door.
'Get your kicks huh? Snooping through shit that ain't yours?' he spat looking at her with fury in his eyes.
'I just...you've never mentioned her before. Addison,’ she said. Her words were quiet, as if she was prodding enough so that he’d feel comfortable enough to explain himself, but he didn’t want to talk to her about this, about her, because talking about her hurt just as much now as it did years ago. And to talk about her would mean he’d have to explain how she’d hurt him.
'Don't,' he said venomously, 'don't you dare say her name.'
'But-'
'Get out,' he said cutting her off.
'Elvis,' she protested.
'What are you fuckin' stupid as well as nosy?' he asked prying her off the bed with a grip so tight he could've sworn bruises were already forming the moment he let her go pushing her towards the door, 'get the fuck out of my room.'
Priscilla scrambled towards the exit turning back to look at him as he took a seat on the bed his fists clenched where they rested on his knees making the skin of his knuckles turn white. The anger was bubbling inside him though it was accompanied by an ounce of guilt caused by the way she was watching him now, stunned by his behaviour, and too scared to ask anything. Not that he’d tell her he was feeling guilty because that might risk her wanting to talk about it. At least this way she’d been too scared to. Even so when he elected to say her name he uttered it softly so that she knew she wasn’t in trouble.
'Cilla?' he said. He knew she was still in the room, hesitating by the door, though he refused to lift his head from where it hung, his gaze transfixed on his shoes for fear he’d start crying. She’d already seen his pathetic ramblings on tearstained army stationary she didn’t need to see him cry over a girl he’d lost more than half a decade ago. She didn’t say anything, no doubt close to tears over herself over the way he’d manhandled her, but she didn’t flee, instead she waited for whatever he was going to say. And he found the only words coming a plea rather than a command as he said, 'don't you ever bring her up again.'
He didn’t look up as she left, slipping from the room and closing the door behind her gently, no, he was too busy trying to force the tears that were blurring his vision back in his eyes. Though as the anger continued to rage on through him he found it was easier to do so. As he felt his gut churn with bile, his insides rotting at the fact she could have him so churned up nearly a decade later he found it was easy not to get upset. In fact it was easier to do than it ever had been before. He didn’t need Addison now. He didn’t need to cling to the heartache and pain of her memory. He couldn’t let her rule his life, no, if he was going to move on he needed to push her out of his mind, the way he had asked Cilla to, and so he moved from the bed to the drawer pulling the old, battered tin from where it had been thrown.
He was going to throw it in the trash can, finally putting the memory of her where he needed it to be, and yet as he stood next to it, the tin feeling like an anchor in his hand he couldn’t find the strength to. He couldn’t let it fall into wicker basket below. Instead he found himself walking through to the next bedroom until he was stood in front of a wardrobe. It was jammed with stuff, clothes he hadn’t even worn yet, but there was still a spot up top that the box nestled in perfectly. As the door swung shut and obscured it from view he sighed. He might not have been able to get rid of her completely but he could tuck her away, force the love he still felt for her to lie dormant instead of tearing at him like it did every day. He could move on.
May 1967
‘I can’t do it,’ Elvis said as he fixated his gaze on the vast expanse of desert outside the window, not daring to look back at the Colonel whose eyes he could now feel boring into the back of his head.
‘My boy,’ the Colonel sighed, moving towards where Elvis was standing. Elvis didn’t dare turn. He didn’t want to look back because it had taken him all his courage to get the words he’d been longing to say out of his mouth and he knew that with some cajoling the Colonel would be able to talk him around after all it’d been him that had talked the happy couple into having it in Vegas rather than at home. It’d had been him who’d convinced Elvis a slimmed down wedding party would probably be better, though he wasn’t sure entirely what that meant, though he assumed it was a way of not inviting most of his family or ‘hangers on’ as the Colonel called them. It’d been him that had informed him that after being shrouded in marital bliss he and his new bride were expected to sit in front of the cameras and answer every stupid question each reporter offered up. If anything that revelation had been the start of Elvis’ nerves.
‘I cant do it Colonel,’ Elvis said again flatly hoping he’d hear the plea in his voice.
‘Everyone feels like that on their wedding day,’ the Colonel said, his words finally making Elvis glance at the man who offered him a smile, ‘everyone has cold feet. It’s nothing new.’
‘What if it’s a mistake?’ Elvis asked.
‘It’s just the nerves talking,’ the Colonel said as Elvis finally turned to look at him. Yet when their eyes met Elvis didn’t feel any reassurance because he could see in them that the Colonel wasn’t here for that. This wasn’t going to be a fatherly chat, no reassurances were going to be offered, no worries listened to. No, the Colonel was here to seal the deal, this was business, not their lives. And so he played the game, as the Colonel had taught him to, and reasoned, ‘I thought you said I needed to be available.’
‘In your twenties sure,’ the Colonel said moving away from him, ‘but your fans, like you, are growing up. They’re no longer the screaming teenagers they once were and they won’t want you to be the same. They’ll want to see you as a husband, a father, a family man. It’s a good avenue to explore.’
‘With Cilla?’ Elvis challenged, the knot in his stomach tightening.
‘She’s a nice enough girl,’ the Colonel said as he made himself a whiskey, ‘though I won’t deny that there hasn’t been a few issues what with her being, well you know, but we’ve done well keeping her out of the papers. This is a good thing my boy. Running around with models and starlets is all very well until you’re being slandered across the newspapers-’
‘Like with Ann you mean?’ Elvis challenged. At that the Colonel looked at him, taking a swig of whiskey as he got his thoughts into order. It was a good comeback. If it was about publicity why not have him pick Ann to be his bride? If it was about love why not let him and Priscilla do it their way? The way he’d been thinking about when he’d proposed to her.
‘Pretty girls like her might be alright for a night but how many times could you take being second billed before the cracks began to show?’ the Colonel asked raising an eyebrow. Elvis’ jaw tightened. The Colonel had a point. He loved Ann but their lives didn’t align enough both of them knew that. But Priscilla’s did. Hell, to her Elvis was her life. He’d moulded her into his perfect woman, to be what he needed at every turn. So why was this so hard?
‘C’mon,’ the Colonel said when he didn’t reply, ‘you love her don’t you.’
‘Of course I do,’ Elvis answered and when his words came out he didn’t find any ounce of a lie in them. He loved Priscilla of course he did. He’d loved her from those first little rendezvous’ in Germany, when she’d been the only thing that made him feel less broken, he’d just hadn’t wanted to let her in until he was sure he could trust her, until he was sure that she could be what she needed him to be. And she had been what he needed. She was a good girlfriend and the Colonel had a point, even without all the showmanship, she would make a great wife and that was probably something he could do with. It was just that now he was here, with the prospect of sealing their fate with something as substantial as paper and ink, it felt all too much.
‘And it’s not as though you’ve not thought about marriage before,’ the Colonel said casually which made Elvis head snap up taking the older man by surprise though he didn’t hesitate to explain, ‘Miss Paget? Miss Juanico? You’ve even commented about Miss Beaulieu before now am I wrong?’
‘Right,’ Elvis said though that hadn’t been what had gotten his attention. No, what had gotten his attention was the flash of a pretty face behind his eyes. Addison.
He hadn’t thought about her in a least a couple of years but now she was front a centre in his brain. Of course he had talked about marriage before whenever he’d fallen head over heels in love in a matter of weeks which had happened to him more times than he had cared to count. But all of it had been just that, talk. It’d had been muttered dreams and whispered promises as they’d gone through their ultimately fizzling romance. None of them he had planned to marry. None of them he had gone out a bought a ring for except her.
Well, not until Priscilla. That had to mean something, right?
‘Well then,’ the Colonel said, failing to notice how his mind was swimming with the memory of her.
‘What if we’re not meant to be?’ Elvis said, his worries spilling out without him allowing them to. He couldn’t help it because rationalising everything about Priscilla didn’t mean anything if he didn’t feel the same way about her that he did Addison right? Yes he’d bought them both a ring but it hadn’t been the same. With her he’d seen it and bought it without question. With her he’d wanted to ask her to marry him after three weeks, he’d probably even known he’d wanted to marry her the moment she’d walked back into his life. It was like a rope, pulling them together, which is why he’d never doubted it. If he felt like that with her how could he possibly marry someone else. Unfortunately for him the Colonel’s answer seemed to make sense.
‘Fate can only get you so far my boy,’ he said coming to place a pudgy hand on Elvis’ shoulder, ‘it was luck that got you in the recording studio at the same time as Sam Phillips it was talent that took your career where it ought to have been. Same goes for marriage, people meet they fall in love and the next fifty years are work. It doesn’t have to be kismet or fate.’
Elvis hesitated. He could understand what he meant besides what was the point in clinging on to a ghost? He’d always resigned himself to the thought of one day and yet the last time he had even seen Addison had been a decade ago. No, he needed to focus on here and now. He loved Priscilla and she loved him, that was what he needed to focus on.
‘So,’ the Colonel said snapping him from his thoughts once again, ‘are you ready?’
‘Yeah,’ Elvis said, ‘let’s do this.’
ELVIS TAGS
@girlblogger2002
@sania562
@caitlin1996
@literally-just-elvis-fics
@notstefaniepresley
@artlesson8892
@18lkpeters
@velvetelvis
@jaqueline19997
@elvispresleyxoxo
@amydarcimarie
@presleyenterprise
@everythingelvispresley
@elvispresleywife
@lillypink
@richardslady121
@lettersfromvenus
@louisejoy86
@ccab
#my writing#fractured#elvis#elvis presley#elvis presley x Addison goodwin#elvis x addison#elvis and addison#elvis presley fic#elvis fic#elvis smut
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I'm back with a bang. Project Fiction - an Irumatsu and Irujnko fic will be finally published in its entirety! First arc is up, at about 50k words and 7 chapters. Read more to see if it's your cup of tea.
Do you hate some things about DR canon? Do you wish the talent system in Hope's Peak was more explored? Then read no further! I'll copy some bullet points from PF's description on AO3 and explain them in more details.
This work has:
- Heavy OOC for Iruma and Kaede
PF!Iruma is not lewd, but she's a hothead, a reserve course student, and she also likes basketball. Weird, right? She also has nothing to do with inventions, her true talent is more of an abstract concept in line with your usual 'hope' and 'despair' gimmicks. It allows me to create a story with no killing games, but filled with tension similar to how Death Note is considered a 'shounen' even though it's a detective mystery.
As for Kaede, be warned that she only appears in chapter 8 for the first time. Remember her pre!game line in v3? "I don't have faith in humanity". What if I based her entire character on that and pitted against this Iruma? You can't imagine how heated it gets.
- In-depth exploration of how Hope's Peak works, what's a 'talent' and how it impacts the chosen students
Do you know how talents are assigned? How scouts do their work? How exactly Kamukura Izuru was made and what studying on the reserve course is like? I know, and I'll show you in great detail.
- Nods to the canon, while turning the plot of DR1 upside-down.
Junko's game plan stays the same: kill the council, rebel the reserve course, fill the world with despair. With Iruma, however... not all goes as planned. It's not a story about people stuck together until almost all of them die. We go from Hope's Peak to an open world, and you'll see famously neon Tokyo in all its glory.
- Heated gay arguments, a weird online game, absurd talents beyond your average human standards.
While the story goes beyond ships and their dynamics, it has that in spades. I also present to you a certain game by Team DANGAN, and it's not about a pun-making bear torturing students. Imagine Genshin Impact's combat but more tactical, focused on PvP. That -- and much more.
- An abundance of author notes. This one has a lot to say.
I'll be straight with you, I put a shit ton of details into my works. Chekhov's Armoury is a trope I came up with before I realized it existed. I'll give you fanarts, songs, memes. Basically I've never had a lot of readers so I had to get used to creating fan content by myself.
- Typos
I am translating this work into English, and while I'm pretty confident in my abilities, I am not perfect. It's kinda hard to know how real people talk when you're not exposed to the language on a daily basis. If anyone wants to be my beta, I'll be honored.
Translating this thing is ungodly hard. Writing it took me 4 years and was even harder. This story means a lot to me, I put my heart and soul into it, and I truly hope someone will enjoy it as much as I do. I also hope someone makes a TV Tropes page for it one day :D This is my only dream as a creator.
Give it a shot -- you won't regret it.
I hope.
#danganronpa#New Danganronpa V3#fanfiction#miu iruma#kaede akamatsu#ndrv3#junko enoshima#Project Fiction#irumatsu
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Asoiaf Sapphic September Mini Rec List
Sapphic September - mini rec list!
Rec list!
I wanted to do a quick rec round because it's Sapphic September! I have a lot of love for the femslash fics in Ossuarium. So going to focus on those!
General background - Ossuarium by eldritcher is a set of stories focusing on Targs in HoTD and Robert's Rebellion eras. They focus on character studies but also have plot. They are incredibly beautiful, soulful prose and storytelling. This series has my absolute favorite fics in this fandom but also not that well known so wanted to do my share in spreading the love.
Rating - M.
So 10 femslash fics for different moods!
Angst
Rhaenyra/Alicent
Angst, bitterness, friends to enemies, tragic ending. The Rhaenyra/Alicent cycle of Ossuarium is essentially an Alicent character study. Sharp, uncompromising, complex look at how sometimes buying into a social system imprisons you for life.
Soon the maiden's thirds - Young Alicent has a lot of hope but she's starting to find out more about their society. She is more observant than Rhaenyra and starts noticing their different attitudes.
Soon the vestal bride - Alicent is married to Viserys and really wanting to protect Rhaenyra from a loveless marriage like hers.
Soon the fallow embrace - Alicent really wants to help Rhaenyra but she's super angry about what she feels is Rhaenyra's lack of duty. At the same time she's also getting more worried about her kids and their future.
Soon the hippocras - Alicent has chosen her side and she's selfmedicating with faith/religion to repress her worries/feelings about how this is going to end.
Tantalus - Rhaenyra is dead but Alicent is still seeing her in the faces of the survivors.
Sweet
Rhaenyra/Laena
This one is for the book fans! Sweet, happy feelings of two people who support each other a lot and want the best for each other.
Two Hearts That Beat as One - This is the beginning of their relationship. Laena is really in love with Rhaenyra her. Super sweet.
Melancholy
Visenya/Rhaenys
Rhaenys is a force of nature here. Absolutely lovable. Definitely see why Aegon and Visenya loved her. But Visenya's characterization is the more gripping one here honestly. The vibes of body dysphoria and gender dysphoria she experiences are haunting, especially because she is extra determined to get over these to give their family a second heir.
Soon the pollard - really intense and really melancholic.
Bittersweet
Rhaenys/Visenya (past), Rhaena/Visenya vibes.
This fic is narrated by the dragon Dreamfyre and touches the bittersweet moments in her life. Emotional and heartbreaking but also has sweet moments because Dreamfyre is the best dragon and has a lot of love for her riders, Rhaena and Helaena.
The Maids that Bloom in Spring
Dragonqueer
Rhaena/Nettles
Special category :D
Lust - Netty gets into a relationship with Rhaena (daughter of Daemon) and starts learning more about the connection between dragons and their riders. Sweet and hot. Also really Targaryen like the tapestries in Alicent's bedroom in the HoTD show.
Fluff
Rhaenys/Tyene
Because some of these fics are on the sadder side also wanted to include a really fluffy Happily Ever After AU fic. What if Rhaenys (daughter of Elia and Rhaegar) survived?
Anodyne - Rhaenys wants a wife and she starts her selection process early. Writes poetry, gives flowers, the whole deal. Fluffy fic with Rhaenys/Tyene Sand endgame.
#asoiaf#asoiaf rec lists#sapphic september rec lists#squashrecs#recs#sapphic september#femslash rec lists#asoiaf femslash#hotd femslash#rhaenicent#rhaenicent recs#laenyra#fics for different moods#fic recs
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Lady Whistledown Returns: Chapter 8
Penelope fucked around. Colin finds out.
Need to catch up? Find previous chapters and works on AO3.
CONTENT WARNINGS: Violence, some gore, some blood, torture.
Please be sure to take care of you, and if you need or want to skip over this chapter, we will happily see you again next time. Your well-being is always more important than a fic!
Charlotte was sitting at her breakfast table picking at an orange and trying to ignore the ever-so-slight tension in Brimsley’s posture when a footman carrying a silver tray piled high with correspondence and papers. His arrival was notably later in the morning than she preferred, and the man was red-faced and puffing, as though he had been running.
And he likely has been, thought Charlotte. She was finding holding Colin Bridgerton far more irritating than she had anticipated. At first, she had found Bridgerton’s antics thoroughly entertaining. He could not escape and was clearly too smart to try vaingloriously to fail. That he had chosen to make himself king of nuisances was a choice she had nothing but respect for. And like his older brothers, he had more than a fair measure of charm and good looks. She had expected to remain entertained until his wife gave her a reason to carry out her threats. She had not anticipated the dark side of the Bridgerton personality.
The man was something of an evil genius for not only eating her out of house and home but also ensuring that as many of her servants as possible were running errands to cross-purposes at all hours of the day and night. Her bathwater had been cold, she was forced to wait far longer than she preferred for servants to appear, and her meals had been late, cold, or both as a result of his machinations. He had flooded his room, set the bed on fire after carelessly knocking over a candle, and upon requesting a dart board to keep himself entertained, had managed to put countless holes in the wall. Repairing the damage was going to cost a small fortune.
She had wondered, briefly, at three o’clock in the morning when she was evacuated from her rooms as her guards and servants worked to put out the small fire Bridgerton had started, if it might not be simpler to let him go and find another way to silence Lady Whistledown. Yet, she had been infuriatingly unable to win this war. And she did not dare lose this battle.
Ministers, lords, and foreign dignitaries were increasingly going to Georgie first, as Prince Regent, and neglecting to offer her the proper respect and deference. That resonated in her own court, and she was losing her authority. Georgie was a good boy, and would have to be king eventually, but he had not found his way toward the same personal responsibility and force of will that she had, and until he did, it was best that she was in charge. Furthermore—and more importantly—if she did not run the court and the kingdom, then she could not protect George. His happiness, his safety, those had to be first in her mind, and to ensure that she could look after him, she had to be in control.
If Lady Whistledown stripped people’s faith in her away, her power went with it, and George would be at the mercy of Parliament, the ton, and the world. If there was one thing that Charlotte would never, could never, condone, it was any harm or hardship visited upon her husband.
The breathless footman bowed, extending the tray to Charlotte. The letters and papers were fanned out so that she could see part of the directions of the letters, the printer’s marks on the papers and pamphlets, and choose what she wanted to review first. Today, however, her eyes missed the handwriting of several of her nieces and nephews, her favorite paper, and a few pamphlets that she enjoyed, because right at the top of the fan was a folded pamphlet with an all-to-familiar cameo and the banner headline Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers.
Charlotte seized the paper, and opened it, looking for a printer’s mark. She would have the head of this printer. There was no printer’s mark. She sniffed angrily; that was a problem that could be dealt with later. Irritatingly, Charlotte had to admit to being surprised by the appearance of the publication. She had harbored no doubts that Penelope would publish—the chit seemed incapable of restraining her pen—but that she had found a printer willing to flout the law so soon after she had had that first printer transported was an unwelcome surprise. Her power was slipping more than she had imagined.
And would slip further, she realized. Without more time to trump up a plausible reason for why she had a Bridgerton guest, she was well and truly caught out in an action that the fools of the ton would see as unreasonable. She had become arrogant, and she had assumed she would have time to plan further. The wretched girl had forced her into an even weaker position. Well then. If she was to slide into a war of attrition, then she would begin by keeping her promise.
Reading over the latest issue of Whistledown, Charlotte’s rage rose. Violently shoving her chair back, Charlotte snapped at Brimsley, “Have Bridgerton brought to the dungeons.”
“Ma’am, if I may,” he began.
“You may not.” Charlotte would not be told that the quality of mercy is not strained. She would not be told what was the politically and socially wisest course. Her back was to the wall, and she would do whatever she had to in order to silence the single largest threat to her power that she could take action against. Turning back the clock to cut the chit off at the knees when Whistledown had first appeared was not an option. Neither was taking the title of Regent from Georgie. If she had no choice but to slip out of power, she would not go silently, and she would take Lady Whistledown with her.
Charlotte swept from the room, a pale-faced Brimsley behind her.
Being a hostage was immensely boring. Colin was granted any books, food, or papers he asked for—and he had been amusing himself by sending a legion of palace servants running back and forth on as many ridiculous errands as he could think of—but he was rapidly becoming tired of staring at the same four walls, and it had only been a few days. He told himself it would take time for Anthony and Pen to come up with a way to get him out of here, that he just had to be patient. He was tiring of patience.
The door to the little room burst open, admitting two agents of the queen–neither was Worth. Their faces were schooled to a careful neutrality, but the footman with the boxer’s build smiled nastily when the agents gestured for them to bring Colin. He and the other big footman who had been stationed at the window grabbed Colin’s arms far more roughly than necessary, pinning them behind his back.
“This is where you pay for every high-instepped slight, rich man,” he snarled into Colin’s ear, twisting the arm he held viciously up.
Colin wrenched his arm back, although he had little leverage with which to do so. He didn’t bother responding to his captor, nor did he try to ask the agents what was happening. He had learned when they kidnapped him that the queen’s agents were chosen at least partly for their lack of instinct to chatter. He could ask a thousand questions and not one would be answered. All he could do was school his own face to neutral pleasantry and wait.
Holding a neutral face grew increasingly challenging as he was dragged down several flights of successively narrower staircases with progressively fewer windows. Cheerful wood and plaster gave way to dark, stained, ominous stone, likely from when the building had originally been a fortress. His heart beat faster the deeper into the building they went.
Something had to have happened. He had done nothing to go suddenly from untouchable to being hidden away in a cellar somewhere, at the mercy of his minders’ fists. If he was lucky, this heralded Pen’s arrival in England, and her collaboration with Anthony to free him. Surely the two were in the palace now, with a petition against his unlawful and wholly insupportable kidnapping. This was surely little more than a piece of political theatre to reinforce the fact that the queen was in charge.
His stomach roiled as the party proceeded down a close, dark hallway with a single, dark wooden door at the end of it. None of the stories his traveling companions had told that included being swept unceremoniously down into a dark room ended well. Neither did any of the tales told around campfires, or the novels Pen would read. The hair on the back of his neck was standing straight out, and Colin imagined that if they could, each hair would detach itself and run. He was not fighting his captors, precisely, but he was certainly reluctant to proceed. Without his input, hefound himself leaning back and away, feet just barely avoiding scrabbling on the floor to arrest their progress. As the party stopped at the door for one of the agents to fish out a key, Colin carefully took a deep breath. Faith in Pen and Anthony; they would come through for him. And until they did, he was a Bridgerton. He would do the family proud, and he would not panic unnecessarily. He told his shoulders to stop crowding his ears; they listened, a little.
The door looked like it should creak and squeal on its hinges as it opened, but in actual fact, it swung open almost noiselessly. The bruisers holding Colin’s arms had to awkwardly souffle their little party through the door sideways; there was barely room for one man to enter at a time, nevermind three abreast. Once he had a clear view of the room, however, Colin threw himself back. This was no cellar.
The windowless room was far bigger than he had expected it to be, round with dark stone walls and floors that still somehow managed to show stains. There were soot stains above and around the hearth, at which a small metal holder sat, supporting a number of irons with their tips in the flames. Their handles were lovingly polished wood, with clear use grooves worn in from countless grasping fingers.
To one side of the hearth was a long work table and a mounted rack of all sorts of tools that Colin had little doubt were not for wood or metal work. They had similarly well-loved handles, and some of them looked like they would fit perfectly around fingers, toes, limbs, and other tender parts. Some of them had alarmingly sharp-looking edges or spikes inside curves. The tools themselves were not stained or glowing with heat, but the table below them held soot stains and other dark stains that Colin did not try too hard to identify.
The other side of the hearth was bare floor, but the wall held shackles of various diameters on chains of differing lengths that went from several inches above the floor to a mere six inches below the eight-foot ceiling. The wall behind the chains was patchily stained, with some of them looking distinctly splattered. He thought he could see rust and other matter clinging to some of the shackles, particularly the ones near the floor and ceiling.
Centered in the room was a wooden chair that Colin would have described as overbuilt. It was oversized, blocky, bolted to the floor, and covered in an assortment of leather straps, chains, and shackles. The wood was so dark as to be practically black, something for which Colin was unabashedly grateful. He had no desire to see whatever individual stains might have marred the wood.
Colin’s escort did not appreciate his involuntary resistance on seeing the room. They threw him bodily toward the clear floor space, and he stumbled, just barely managing to keep his feet. Had his arms been restrained, he would have tumbled to the floor. He was desperate not to touch the chains or shackles. Turning to face the door, Colin saw the four footmen ranged across from him, shoulder to shoulder. They were all looking nastily expectant, but for the moment seemed disinclined to come at him. One agent had taken up a position beside the door inside the room; presumably the other was watching the other side of the door. Despite the healthy fire behind him, Colin was cold in little more than trousers and a shirt. He refused to think too hard about what might have caused the stains covering the stone floor his bare feet rested on.
Colin had seen his fair share of fights at school, and barroom brawls during the London season. Everything about the posture and body language of the men before him said that they were spoiling for a fight, and yet they did not attack. What on earth were they waiting for?
The door swung open again, disgorging the wide-panniered skirts and expansively wigged Queen Charlotte. Colin’s gaze did not leave the faces of his would-be assailants, but his sense of the queen’s presence was one of erupted rage. She practically loomed, making the dimly lit room seem even darker. The bruiser who had threatened Colin had begun to practically vibrate in anticipation.
“Why are you doing this? What have I done to deserve this?” Colin did not take his eyes off his would-be assailants, but his tone left no doubt as to whom precisely he was addressing.
“Did you not listen when I told you that your dear Lady Whistledown would publish again?” Charlotte asked.
“What has Pen to do with this barbarity?” Colin’s gesture took in the room at large, as well as the four men before him. The queen rolled her eyes, disapproving.
“Do not play dumb with me, Mr. Bridgerton. I explicitly told Worth to explain the stakes of your captivity to you.”
“Well he bloody well didn’t. Explain yourself.” Colin was past caring that Charlotte was his queen and that speaking so to her risked landing his entire family in hot water.
“You were surety against your wife publishing again. If she did, you would pay the price,” Charlotte bit out, clearly irritated. “I told you she would, but you ignored me, and now here we are.”
“Pen would never—”
“Do not take my word for it. Here.”
A somewhat crumped pamphlet was thrust into Colin’s hands. The Lady Whistledown symbol centered at the top of the page was unmistakable, and Colin read the pamphlet, his wife’s voice ringing in his head as his stomach dropped through the floor.
Dearest Gentle Readers,
As a phoenix rises from the ashes, so your favorite author returns. Where the phoenix has the power to immolate its enemies alone, however, this author is armed with ink, not fire. And while the pen is said to be mightier than the sword, in practice the sword most often destroys the pen without so much as dulling its edge. It is, however, when the sword strikes a hand adjacent to the one holding the pen that we must rise and reject the tyranny of the sword.
Long time readers will know that Colin Bridgerton has frequently been subject to the rigors of this author’s pen. Today, however, Mr. Bridgerton is subject to the unlawful, unsupportable, and unjust whims of Her Majesty the Queen. Secretly abducted from Villa Diodati by the queen’s agents while on a second honeymoon with Mrs. Bridgerton, Mr. Bridgerton is being held indefinitely without reason, without charge, and without trial for the express purpose of silencing this author’s pen.
As you can see, I shall not be silenced.
But, my dear readers, my voice alone is insufficient today. The members of the ton cannot allow the queen to unjustly threaten family—children, wives, loved ones—to force society into a shape she prefers. If she can offer so great an insult to a family as well-liked, well-connected, and well-off as the Bridgertons, who may she not offend? Shall the House of Lords thus be subjugated into a crown instrument? Or must we hope that the members of that esteemed body simply place duty above filial loyalty? I shudder to imagine such a reality.
The ton must unite and call as one for Mr. Bridgerton’s release. Anything less than immediate acquiescence sets a dangerous—nay, tyrannical—precedent, an ink stain on a white frock that we dare not allow to set. We can, should, and must expect better from our queen, and refuse to let family be held hostage to her personal agenda.
— Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers, 20 July 1817
Colin reeled, physically staggering at the flood of emotion in his chest. Only a hand on the ominously smooth wood of the threatening chair kept him on his feet. He knew Pen’s writing, could hear her desperation in every word. But he could also see a deep rage that he had somehow missed before—or perhaps it had not been present in other works.
“I do not dislike you personally, Mr. Bridgerton,” said Charlotte, voice offensively kind. “But I hope now you see your wife as she is. She knew what the consequences of publishing were, and she has done so anyway.”
“No…no this must be some sort of hoax.” Colin could hear the futile plea in his voice. This was Pen’s writing; he would know her voice anywhere. It was the implications of the pamphlet he was holding that he could not believe.
She had to have known the stakes. The plea behind the anger in the Whistledown and the extension of the threat to other innocent members of ton families not only served to instill the fear that this could happen to them, but it spoke of a clear understanding of what would happen to him specifically. And Pen had still made the choice to publish.
Pen, why? he thought. On the ship to the first stop on their second honeymoon, Colin had sat Pen down in their cabin for a serious conversation. He was an experienced traveler, he had told her, and part of traveling safely was having a plan for what to do if they were separated or if the worst should happen to him. She had sworn up, down, and sideways that if anything happened, she would make her way directly back to England, to Anthony and Bridgerton House. Then she would be safe and supported, and further plans could be made. Instead…well, instead it rather felt as though she had moved in to kiss him and then suddenly pushed him into the street before a speeding carriage.
“Well, get on with it,” said the queen.
Colin was still reeling too hard to register that the queen was no longer speaking to him, which meant that he was caught flat-footed when he was jumped from four directions nearly before she had finished speaking. He took the first two blows squarely on his jaw, and just barely managed to dodge a sweeping leg to his knee designed to drop him helplessly to the floor. They might very well kill him if he landed on the floor and couldn’t regain his feet. Unbidden, a thought crossed his mind: Do I care if they kill me? Do I want to walk out of this room?
Distracted by those three opening blows, Colin failed to block the punch to his midsection, which landed far, far more firmly that any blow in a friendly boxing bout. The blow threw him sideways, buying him a few steps of space from three of the men. The fourth stayed with him, trying to sling an arm around Colin’s neck to drag him down to the floor. Colin stepped into the attempted grapple, thwarting the man and throwing him off balance with two clean—is somewhat half-hearted—punches to the belly. Unfortunately, stepping in allowed the man to catch the slit in the front of Colin’s shirt. Their momentum and the assailant’s firm grip tore the shirt nearly in twain down the front. All that saved them from landing hard on the floor was the chain and shackle-festooned wall.
As he clung to chains to keep himself something resembling vertical, Colin fought to understand what had possessed Pen to provoke the queen. He would never have done so, had it been her safety on the line. You did not do that to someone you loved. Despite the flurry of blows raining down on his back and shoulders. Colin was perversely grateful for the chains to cling to as that thought sent his world crashing off its axis.
He thought he had known down to his bones and beyond that Pen loved him. That had been the touchstone of his world, the thing that made sense when nothing else did, the thing that gave him the strength to hold his head up in the world–his raison d’etre. If that emotional landmark was not where he thought it was…what else was not true? What had he to fight for, to survive for, if Pen was not the center of the world he would emerge from this room to?
Thinking only to buy himself some space, Colin kicked out backwards, and hit something alarmingly soft. The high-pitched screech, thud of a body hitting the floor, and loud moaning told Colin that he was down to three assailants as he somewhat mechanically got both feet back under him. A hand landed on his shoulder, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise as it whipped Colin around to face the remaining three assailants.
Unmoving, Colin watched the telegraphed lean back that heralded the headbutt that, had it actually connected cleanly with his temple, might have knocked him out. Unfortunately, the brawler’s aim was just slightly off. Stars exploded behind his eyes and the room spun around him; Colin thought the other man shook his head but couldn’t be sure. More from a combination of muscle memory and an animal instinct to survive than a true desire to fight back, Colin jerked free and swung wildly—if somewhat slowly—at his opponent.
Unfortunately, Colin’s aim was poor, and the rule that his boxing instructor at school had repeated until every boy could repeat it in their sleep proved true: When pitting finger bones against jaw bones, the jaw bone wins more often than not. Colin landed a square blow on the other man’s jaw and all four of his fingers popped. Colin grunted, sure he had broken at least one finger, handily removing that fist from the fight. And in his moment of disorientation, Colin had not managed to hit the man hard enough to drop him—just hard enough to anger him further.
“Think you can take out a city-trained wrestler, rich boy?” The question was followed by a second blow to the head and the sound of the other man spitting on the floor. “That was barely a love tap. Let me show you how we do it in Southwark.” The man rushed him, grappling a dizzy and nauseous Colin to the ground.
Even without a concussion and with sufficient motivation, regaining his feet against a wrestler would have been a challenge. And Colin was feeling too off-kilter, too betrayed, and too sick to have any motivation to fight his way back up. He wasn’t the Viscount, and he had two other brothers and however many nephews he was up to now, so the title and family would only miss him, not lack leadership. He did not want to fight, not if Pen had forsaken him. He missed her so much his heart cracked, and he allowed his body to go limp. He did not attempt to fight the takedown, the many blows to his chest and belly, or the other two men’s kicks to his legs. He no longer cared about the pain. He barely cared when the other man’s arm snaked around his throat and began to squeeze.
“Your Majesty, ought we to intervene?” Worth’s voice seemed very far away to Colin as the edges of his vision darkened.
“No,” came the extremely bored voice of the queen. “If he doesn’t care enough to fight, then why should I care enough to intervene? Besides, maybe his death is what it will take to silence Lady Whistledown.”
Worth’s voice sounded again, but Colin wasn’t listening. He was too busy seeing red—the shining, fiery red of Pen’s hair as it caught and reflected the dying rays of the Greek sunset. The coiled and pinned curls that bounced in time with the rapid passage of her quill across a blank sheet of paper. The rosy blush of her cheeks as he made a sly joke, or as they bantered back and forth. The deeper red of her lips as he bent to kiss her. The joie de vivre of the woman he loved when she was allowed to be herself out loud.
That woman loved him, would never hurt him, and would never have left him to the tender mercies of the queen if there had been any other choice. The pounding in his head was not helping him work out her logic, but if he trusted that she loved him and he loved her, then he had to trust that she had a reason. And when it came right down to it, Colin trusted his wife. Even on the brink of losing consciousness in a royal dungeon, he trusted Penelope. She was also not to blame for the queen’s actions—he spared a second to be shame-faced that he had, however briefly, thought so little of her as to blame her for the actions of another. He could not die here; not while Pen was out in the world. She would need his support, because the queen was right about one thing: Penelope would never be silent. And he did not want her to be.
He would not let them kill him; he had to live for Pen. Would do what he had to and survive for her.
The dark band at the edge of his vision was expanding; Colin had less than a second to escape the chokehold or he was doomed. With a silent prayer, Colin threw an elbow—a dirty move, but Colin was entirely unconcerned with good form at this point—that connected with the wrestler’s rib with an audible crack. The hold loosened immediately, and Colin slithered around in the man’s arms, where he somehow got a knee up between them, shoving the other man back. Colin used the brief respite—and the other men’s surprise—to get on his feet.
Colin’s head was swimming and his stomach was warning him that he might lose everything in it as he carefully moved to put all three assailants before him, in sight. Being caught unawares from behind was always dangerous in a fight, but it would be the end of Colin in this one. Unfortunately, to put all three men before him, Colin had put his own back to the wall and he did not have time to move to a more advantageous position before the men regrouped and attacked him again.
Ducking under and stepping into another swing at his head, Colin hooked one leg behind an assailant’s knee while throwing his weight down and back on the shorter man’s shoulders. The man dropped to the floor, catching his head on the edge of the chair on the way down. He grunted, tried to rise, and sank back to the floor, unconscious. Another elbow sent the second man back several steps, clutching his face as blood from his nose spilled between his fingers. The straight arm Colin attempted to throw into the wrestler’s throat did not land; the man backed off a few steps.
Still between Colin and the door, the two men still standing circled Colin slowly. Because they moved together, Colin circled with them, briefly thinking that if they kept moving, he would have a clear shot to bolt for the door. It only took a moment for wrestler to realize that his comrade was no tactician. The wrestler scowled at his companion and punched him lightly on the shoulder, gesturing in the opposite direction. The other man did a double-take before nodding and moving to flank Colin. His visible apprehension did not make him look terribly threatening, and Colin wondered if he might be able to take the man out of the fight and further even up the odds. However, the last thing Colin wanted was to turn his back to the wrestler, who would undoubtedly take advantage of the opening. Such an opening might be the thing that kept him from getting back to Pen, and that was not worth the risk.
As he circled and backed away as the two men moved on either side of him, Colin realized far too late that he hadn’t heard the moans of the man he’d hit in the fork of the legs early in the fight for long moments until that man’s arms wrapped around his neck and shoulders. The two men Colin had been focused on rushed in and threw blow after clenched-fisted blow at his ribs and stomach. Feeling at least one, maybe two ribs crack, Colin roared and flung his head back, connecting with the face of the man holding him. The man’s grip loosened enough for Colin to clutch his arms—ignoring the white-hot agony of broken fingers—and throw the man forward over his head, into the other two men. The wrestler somehow managed to get out of the way, but the other man was thrown into the wall in a cacophony of clanking chains and cries.
Rather than wait for the wrestler to square up to him, Colin kicked out at his knee. The other man rolled with the blow and caught Colin’s ankle. A powerful twist wrenched Colin’s knee, but he refused to fall backwards, Pen’s face flashing through his mind. Instead, he fell forward over the leg the wrestler held, hip flexors and hamstrings screaming, and forced the wrestler to either release his leg or risk Colin’s clawed fingers taking out an eye.
The wrestler let go and threw up a forearm that Colin’s fingernails took vicious gouges out of before the man was smart enough to roll to one side, allowing Colin to fall the rest of the way to floor. Trying to save his already broken fingers, Colin caught himself on his forearms. That let his definitely broken ribs slap the stone floor, driving the breath out of Colin and throwing pain stars into his vision again. He was slow, too slow, to roll over, and when he blinked into the air above him, he saw the wrestler standing above him, raising a knife from the table above his head. The wickedly sharp blade reflected the flickering firelight, dazzling Colin’s eyes and giving it a demonic, unworldly sense.
“Stop,” Queen Charlotte snapped, and Colin whipped around—nearly passing out as he did so from the pain in his ribs and his head. The queen’s words stopped the wrestler with the blade nearly a foot above Colin, although he snarled at being thwarted.
“If your Majesty pleases,” said the wrestler, “I can continue.”
“No. I tire of this amateur brawling. Mr. Beerbohm-Tree, a professional, shall take over.”
A threateningly skinny man a few inches taller than the queen but several inches shorter than her wig stepped into the direct firelight. He wore the dark accoutrements that Colin tended to associate with doctors, but his dark eyes sparkled alarmingly as his thin-to-the-point-of-being-bladelike nose crinkled. His hands were encased in gloves that had originally been white, but a maid somewhere along the line had clearly had too heavy a hand with the bluing on laundry day, because they were an incongruously bright shade of blue. One assistant’s collar was the same startling color, as was the other assistant’s neckcloth. The assistants took Colin’s arms and hauled him up from the floor and toward the behemoth of a wooden chair as Beerbohm-Tree minced ominously towards the wrestler and plucked the knife from his fingers.
“I shall thank you not to nick or dull my knives, sir,” Beerbohm-Tree said. His voice was thready but deep, an unnerving combination. “They are Damascus steel blades that I obtained from a colleague in the Orient at great expense. No English steel compares, and for my work, I require nothing less than the best.
“And do stop fighting my assistants,” he called without looking over his shoulder.
Colin had indeed been fighting the assistants. When brute strength had failed to wrench him from their grasp, he had dropped to dead weight, startling them and dragging one to the floor with him. The other kept his feet and a death grip—certain to leave bruises—on Colin’s arm. Colin had rolled atop the fallen assistant to keep him down and kicked at the standing assistant’s legs. The standing man was not bright enough to move out of the way, but he was light enough on his feet to dodge, especially since Colin’s limbs were beginning to feel weighted with lead and he could not stop the room from spinning in his vision. He was also expending some of his extremely limited energy and focus on keeping his stomach from rebelling. However, if he was to get out of here and get back to Pen—and he was going to—getting strapped into that chair could not happen.
Charlotte sighed, exasperated, and turned to the wrestler. “Help them,” she snapped.
“I need him conscious,” Beerbohm-Tree added quickly, correctly guessing that the wrestler had intended to strike Colin’s head or jaw.
Chastised and irritated at having been denied his fun, the wrestler stalked to Colin’s side and pinned his wrenched knee to the ground with one foot. Colin tried kicking out with the other leg, but the judicious application of body weight from the wrestler ripped a yell from Colin, which sufficiently distracted him long enough for the assistants to regain control and drag Colin to the chair.
Leather and metal tightened against his flesh as the assistants strapped Colin into the chair. He fought to put the pain and nausea out of his mind, focusing on Pen. Pen, who would undoubtedly feel awful about having to make the choice to publish. She would need him to tell her it was all right, that he understood. His plan had been to get out, if he could, and the feel of restraints against his skin—holding him, crushing him, oh god, he needed to get out of that chair—
No, he thought, firmly, swallowing the panic of being unable to move. Focus on Pen. How are you getting back to her now? Escape was not an option, so he was down to simple survival. He was a traveler, he had faced bandits, inclement weather, and dangerous terrain. He knew something about survival. He could do this, he just had to focus, somehow.
Someone was droning on in his ears, a distraction Colin didn’t want and couldn’t afford. He squeezed his eyes more tightly shut, thinking of how beautiful and happy Pen had looked when she had met baby Edmund for the first time, cuddling the tiny bundle to her bosom. Colin had spent a long moment imaging how she might look holding their child someday. The open-handed slap that landed across Colin’s face tore him out of the memory and back into the dimly lit nightmare of a dungeon, with the wrestler and Beerbohm-Tree’s faces above and too close to his. The wrestler looked absurdly smug about being allowed to deliver the slap. Had Colin cared a whit about the man, he might have been irked by his expression.
“Welcome back, Mr. Bridgerton,” said an extremely miffed-looking Mr. Beerbohm-Tree. “Now, attend,” he said, sounding like every tutor and instructor Colin had ever had. He flourished a handful of slender, off-white sticks about the diameter of Violet Bridgerton’s finest knitting needles in his hand into an artful fan. “Lovely, aren’t they? Carved ivory, with the finest scrimshaw on the grip ends. I cannot take credit for the scrimshaw, unfortunately, but I harvested the ivory myself on a hunting trip in Africa.”
Pen’s voice blossomed in Colin’s head, something he had heard her say of a rather insipid young man who had not lasted long among the ton before retreating to his family’s country estates on a permanent basis: “I should hate to think of for what such a weedy fellow is compensating if he must kill the largest gentle creature he can find to prove his manhood. Surely that façade can be the only manhood he possesses.” Colin nearly smiled at the memory, and it seemed that her voice in his head relieved the pain, just a little.
Beerbohm-Tree plucked one stick from the fan, revealing a wickedly sharp point and grooves so narrow that only the rust-colored stain inside them made them visible. “I find that ivory is much gentler on my hands over the course of a long session than steel, even if steel is the standard of my industry. One must care for one’s joints, after all; we are only blessed with one set.”
Will the man never stop nattering on? wondered Colin.
Setting down the ivory needles, Beerbohm-Tree began gently feeling Colin’s elbows. “Ah, you have some exceedingly well-developed muscle tone here; somewhere between a boxer and a fencer, hmm?” He looked at Colin expectantly. Colin half thought to answer cuttingly, but Pen popped up in his head again, shaking her head. “Do not play his game, Colin,” she said. “You have nothing to win that way and he has everything.” He didn’t even bother to meet Beerbohm-Tree’s eyes.
Sighing and placing a fingertip on a particular spot on Colin’s elbow, Beerbohm-Tree reached behind him. “It’s really no fun for me if you don’t engage,” he said, sounding nothing so much like a whining Hyacinth. Then he viciously rammed one of the ivory needles into the joint.
Colin yelled in surprise and pain, instinctively trying to jerk away from the man but being too effectively strapped down to move more than a bare inch. After the initial yell, however, Colin found that he was having trouble inhaling; even the attempt seemed to increase the pain.
“I should be careful if I were you,” tutted Beerbohm-Tree. “That needle is in the joint space, and it’s a bit brittle. I should hate to have to dig shards of it out of you if you move too much too suddenly.” He stepped back, taking in his handiwork and its effects on Colin, much as Benedict would step back to take in the whole of a painting before continuing to work on it. “Uneven,” was his short assessment as he reached for Colin’s other arm.
In short order—although it felt like a small eternity to Colin—Beerbohm-Tree had thrust three needles into each of Colin’s elbows and one in each wrist, after the queen mentioned that he was a writer. “It’s a pity that heat will warp ivory,” said Beerbohm-Tree. “Putting a hot iron to steel needles is such a staple of the profession, and the resulting burns are fascinating to observe. But we must adapt and overcome, mustn’t we? Just give me a moment to prepare, Mr. Bridgerton.” He turned away from Colin and began rummaging in a large basket.
Despite sweat still rolling down his face and back, the pain of the ivory needles in his hands and elbows was slowly becoming familiar enough for Colin’s mind to reengage as his frantic breathing slowed. He recalled the feel of silky strands of Pen’s curls wrapped around his fingers and the softness of her skin under his hands, which quite naturally gave rise to the feeling of paper in his fingers and the smell of fresh ink from his nose. Those scents, as much as her favorite lily-of-the-valley perfume or rose oils, were part and parcel of Pen. He knew them from every time she had taken his face in her hands after a ferocious bout of writing to kiss him. He found he could breathe again. He could keep her in his mind, in his senses. Maybe even blot out reality with them, to help him survive this.
White stars in his vision from another slap to the face shocked Colin back to the room as the wrestler stepped back—still smugly enjoying dishing out violence—to give Beerbohm-Tree space to access Colin again.
“Now, this is very exciting, Mr. Bridgerton,” said Beerbohm-Tree, holding a series of phials and a delicate glass tube inches from Colin’s face. “Aren’t you going to ask me what they are?”
Colin stared blankly at the man, focusing instead on fixing Pen in his mind. The pain from the ivory needles might have normalized in his senses, but that did not mean it had diminished, as he was reminded each time a muscle twitched and nudged a needle. Beerbohm-Tree sighed as though Colin had told him that his favorite biscuits had run out at a party.
“Well, I shall tell you despite your extremely poor manners because the story really is quite interesting. I have several colleagues who regularly explore the uses of exotic venoms in our profession, and they are kind enough to keep me in samples. I am really very lucky, because they take care of all the messy business of weeding out those venoms that will most often kill men as opposed to those that simply cause exquisite agony. I am free to experiment to see what venoms affect which men most severely. That is another part of the reason I had these—” he tapped the needle in Colin’s left wrist firmly, eliciting a sharp, pained exhale— “made specially to be hollow.”
Beerbohm-Tree carefully reviewed the phials in his hands, and set all but one down on the table, also retaining the glass tube. “The ivory needles become a perfect vector for administering the venom of my choice.” He carefully uncorked the phial in his hand and set the glass tube inside it. “This is the venom from a species of African ant that my colleagues tell me is quite painful but requires consistent reapplication. I often have to move on from this one, but not always, and I am curious to see if your emotional state will make you more or less vulnerable to its bite. Your reaction to this one will dictate what we try next.” Placing a finger over the dry end of the glass tube, Beerbohm-Tree lined up the end of the glass tube—with a glistening drop of liquid clinging to it—with the ivory needle in Colin’s wrist and removed his finger, releasing the venom and allowing it to trickle down the hollow ivory needle into the joint space.
The immediate sensation was of uncomfortable fullness in the joint that worsened—but stopped short of true pain—as the liquid slowly drained into the space. Within moments, however, the wrist burned and stung, capturing all of Colin’s attention. His shoulders tensed as he tried not to move, and his breathing became sharp and shallow. Colin had been stung by a bee at school, and the pain was similar to that, if magnified. It was not, however, as severe as the insertion of the ivory needles had been and it receded to entirely manageable and perhaps even forgettable within a minute or two.
“I certainly hope this is not the best you have,” said Charlotte, flat tones promising danger.
“Of course not, ma’am,” said Beerbohm-Tree. “This particular venom is one that I most frequently use when ladies need persuasion. For strapping—” he interrupted himself with a brief giggle and a pointed glance at the straps holding Colin down— “young men such as Mr. Bridgerton, I tend to find that a combination of the venom of a particularly potent scorpion with that of fire ants is most effective.” He proceeded to mix the contents of two phials and use another glass tube to rapidly dose both wrists and elbows.
Colin’s vision went white. The pain began in his joints but rapidly traveled up his arms and into his chest. The world outside his skin disappeared completely, and Colin’s world shrunk to the dimensions of his body, every inch limed in something that felt like lightning. Quite without his input, his muscles clenched, and he writhed and strained against the straps on the chair. His breathing stuttered into gasps, then pained vocalizations slipped out with each exhale, until finally Colin screamed, and screamed again.
Pen was gone from his mind; he could not find her. Could not find the smile that was half love and half challenge, the soft warmth of her lips, what it was to hold her in his arms and be held by her. He couldn’t hear her voice, either spoken or in writing. He was alone, and he could not survive this alone. There was no room in or around the pain to focus, to think of or remember or experience anything else. He kept screaming until the world mercifully faded to black around him, dulling but not deadening the pain. The pain stayed with him in the blackness of the void, burning up everything that was not itself—including Pen.
#polin#bridgerton#the poiln fic#polin fic#polin fanfiction#polin fanfic#colin bridgerton and penelope feathertington#colin x penelope#colin bridgerton#penelope bridgerton#penelope featherington
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Requests August 2023 update
Hello my wonderful friends!
(TL;DR at the end)
(Request form at the end)
Thank you for being patient with me as the opening of the requests was delayed by a week, but here I am again!
Over the past months, I’ve written dozens of Chosen one-shots and I’ve enjoyed every single one of your requests. I am incredibly grateful for all of your overwhelming love and support. Every little comment and like means more than you’ll ever know. Writing for this show has connected me to so many wonderful people and it has greatly helped me in my walk of faith. I am still rounding off the April request-batch and going through them as fast as I can, so if you haven’t yet seen your request pass by, fear not, I am still working on it! I have a handful of requests to fulfil, which are to be found in the schedule (pinned post).
I’ve tried to keep a consistent schedule when it comes to uploading fics. About two or three, sometimes four releases a week. Owing to my lenient college hours, I’ve been able to keep up this speed, but I am saddened to inform you that the amount of uploads will drastically change soon.
Once summer is over, I’ll be starting my full-time job as a teacher. It is a major part of my graduation year of college and it will require a lot of me. This means that I’ll encounter a major drop in my time and energy when it comes to maintaining my current speed of writing. However, this also means that I’ll need to write some fanfics upfront, just so I can keep posting in the first weeks of my job, so that I don’t have to worry about that for a while. I really want to keep putting out Chosen content, but I cannot keep up with my current consistency.
Sure, I have summer break right now, but my personal life has also gotten busier in the most positive sense of the word. I have always told myself I wanted to let my personal life go before my online life, so that is something I want and need to hold onto.
So, the amount of uploads will change to about one post a week.
Oh, and some more news! I had not expected to have a significant male audience, so I want to start catering to them as well. In the August 2023 request form, you will find a new option to select whether you want the one-shot to be for a male or female reader. I will try my very best to represent a male reader to my best ability, because I have no experience in writing male readers.
Please be aware that I’ll be applying Biblical values to my one-shots when it comes to romance, so please request accordingly.
What does this mean for the coming weeks?
I will need to ration the amount of posts since I need to write some stuff upfront. (This does not include headcanons or ABC’s, these will be posted sporadically.)
August 22nd, the requests will close.
Throughout August, September, October and maybe November, there will be 1 one-shot a week. Perhaps that I can offer more, but time will have to tell, because it depends on how my writing-marathon goes. I don’t want to put the bar too high for myself.
Around December, I hope to open the requests again. This may be earlier, but no promises yet!
I really wish I could offer you more, but I can’t risk losing the joy I’m feeling whenever I write for this show, and I want to deliver quality rather than quantity.
Although I will not post as much, I will try to actively keep participating in my Chosen Fans Discord server. The community is small but sweet. It hosts several events, such as Bible Studies, Chosen Watch Parties and we’re planning on doing movie nights as well! I would love to keep in touch, so I hope to see you there!
TL;DR - Requests are open again. I’ll be sporadically posting about 1 chapter a week for the next few months so I can settle into my new job. Male reader-insert requests are now a thing as well, of course all within Biblical context.
AUGUST 2023 REQUEST FORM
Once again, thank you so much for following and supporting my Chosen fanfictions. God has blessed me greatly with all of you, I don’t deserve any of it and yet you are here. Thank you friends, I love you all! God bless you abundantly.
Lots and lots of love, Rose
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Faith/Buffy for the ship ask meme?
from this ask meme
Ship It
What made you ship it?
So I low key started shipping them when Faith floated the idea they should go to prom together, and then the next episode played with the 'going out with someone' and revealing Buffy was going on a Slayer patrol with Faith.
And then Bad Girls/Consequences just hit it out of the park and straight to shipping.
And this was all in the middle of my hard core shipping of Buffy and Angel.
What are your favorite things about the ship?
The thing that I really like about them is how, despite the initial friction Buffy and Faith were friends, and they did really like each other. Their natural inclination is to work together, they're mirrors of each other reflecting in different but ultimately similar ways.
But I love them especially in season 7 and you can see the glimmers of what they could be together especially this much more calmer Faith.
They're the Chosen Two, even with all the Slayers running around now, there is still something unique about them.
And also after everything now, Buffy and Faith just makes sense to me post-Sunnydale.
Is there an unpopular opinion you have on your ship?
I do love all the fix it fic for season 3 but also, I really do think the things that happen in season 3 are necessary. I'm always a fan of couples who grow together and apart.
They both had to grow in different ways away from each other, and now that's done they can grow together.
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The Sunnydale Herald Newsletter, Saturday, January 13th
Joyce's hospital room. Joyce has a hand mirror and is looking at her reflection. There's a large bandage on her head.
JOYCE: I don't know, Buffy. I think I'll look like I have a cat on my head.
We see Buffy holding a wig.
BUFFY: But a very well-groomed cat.
JOYCE: I think maybe I'll ... stick with a scarf.
BUFFY: Come on, wigs are fun. We can get you a whole bunch of different ones. You know, you can be, like, Sixties Mom, Action Mom... (wiggles her hips, suggestively) French Maid Mom...
JOYCE: (smiles) I must be getting better, 'cause you're making fun of me.
~~Into the Woods~~
[Drabbles & Short Fiction]
Weekly Drabbles #69 — Vengeance Ain’t Justice by veronyxk84 (Buffy/Spike, PG-13)
What if Glory had won? by FPBarbieri (Buffy & Glory, G)
scorch marks by CallMeVampy (Giles/Jenny, E)
A Hell of his Own by Pinkperson (Buffy/Angel, T)
You, Me by zombiesam (Buffy/Giles, T)
Take Me Home Tonight by all choseny (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)
[Chaptered Fiction]
The Poet At The Door (or: Not Writ In The Stars), Chapter 10 by Eyeballs_to_Entrails (Spike/Drusilla, M)
Flavor of the Week, Chapter 8 by Alittleauthor (Giles/Inara, multiple crossovers, G)
Closer Enemies, Chapter 8 (complete!) by fatalfae (Buffy/Angel, E)
Buffy the Tenno, Chapter 35 by DarkPhoenixLady (Buffy/OC, T)
Under the Water, Chapter 26 by dwinchester (Gage, M)
Ecstasy: A Sexy Buffy the Vampire Slayer Fan-fic Fantasy, Chapter 3 by TheUnbrokenSpell (Spike/Drusilla, Spike/Willow, M)
If I Died In Your Arms (Third Chances), Chapter 2 by Ruby_Red_Stained_Glass (Angel/Darla, not rated)
Sisters, the adventures of Sam and Buffy Carter - Year 1, Chapter 6 by FPBarbieri (Buffy, Stargate and Marvel crossover, G)
what I should have done, part two by Agent Lokitty on Tumblr (Giles/reader, not rated)
the family you need, part 11 by Agent Lokitty (Goles/reader, not rated)
the family you need, part 12 by Agent Lokitty (Giles/reader, not rated)
the family you need, part 13 by Agent Lokitty (Giles/reader, not rated)
A Waxy Gent Chuckled Over My Fab Jazzy Quips, Chapter 13 by violettathepiratequeen (Buffy/Spike, PG-13)
Three Little Words, Chapter 7 by Maxineeden (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)
Afterburn, Chapter 4 by Melme1325 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)
Something Lost Something Found, Chapter 5 by Safire (Buffy/Spike, R)
The Prodigal Boyfriend, Chapter 6 by myrabeth (Buffy/Spike, 18+)
An odd Couple of grumpy old Brits, Chapter 10 by Julikobold (Buffy/Spike, G)
Love Lives Here, Chapter 8 by Passion4Spike (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)
Pack My Box with Five Dozen Liquor Jugs, Chapter 13 by honeygirl51885 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)
Heaven Sent, Chapter 1 by sunalso (Buffy/Spike, Adult Only)
[Images, Audio & Video]
Manip: SuSuSunnydale, here's to the fools who love, Chapter 8: Pride and Prejudice by loveisntbrains_ (worksafe)
Banner: Tillow by NotASlayer (worksafe)
Icons: Buffy in S01E11 by slashericons
Gif: buffy summers first gif attempt😓 by bluestarsandclouds (worksafe)
Manip: "Miss You" by Sweetbox by oveliagirlhaditright (Buffy/Angel, worksafe)
Video: applying my gen z humor to buffy in s6 by incognitoduck11
Fanvid: Buffy The Vampire Slayer | Spike - You Don’t Know by T
Fanvid: buffy & spike | midnight rain x daylight by loveisntbrains
Fanvid: Spike & Buffy My Life Would Suck Without You by Moon Child
Fanvid: Buffy and Giles || Honey, It's Alright by Lucy Whiskers
Fanvid: Buffy + Lake - I am a person by Faith Victoria (Infinity Train crossover)
Video: Buffy the Vampire Slayer Revival Season 10 Episode 8: Saving Molly Walker by Buffy the Vampire Slayer Chosen
[Reviews & Recaps]
Mothman's Buffy Rewatch: Season 2, Episodes 12 and 13 "Bad Eggs" and "Surprise" by mothmans-wedding-photographer
Video: Let's Rewatch Buffy! Season 2, episode 2 by Jenny Trout
Video: School's Out! Buffy Season 3: Review/Discussion by Revisiting The Buffyverse
Podcast: Villains S6 E20 (Buffy and the Art of Story Podcast) by Lisa M. Lilly
[Fandom Discussions]
Challenge #7 Make a list of fannish and/or creative resources by sparrow2000
Dream: Buffy in Anime by madimpossibledreamer
fuffy really has everything by antlerslayer
thoughts on the Buffy season two premiere where we see her dealing with her trauma etc by moodyseal
It’s canon that Giles and Jenny use the same coffee mug by mycatismyfriend
one of the reasons I really wish Spike never got his soul back by the-crooked-library
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how I think each Buffy character feels about cilantro by tana-draws
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Buffy being kicked out of her house continued by multiple posters
Lilah Morgan in “Dead End” by Pumpkins217
Why is Connor, an innocent kid manipulated and used almost his entire life, considered the worst character in the series? by Angelfirenze
Giles should have been the primary face of the First by Ecstatic_Speaker7473
What's up with the potentials?? by Wasted_Truth
When was it established [Buffy and Spike] would have a relationship by katywell
What episode makes you laugh out loud and also cry? by rednax2009
if you could professor walsh-together 1 buffy season what would it be by katywell
This forced triangle [Xander/Buffy/Angel] is the worst by DreamersArchitect
3 Slayers by Rich-Industry339
Season 6? by happyman778
Normal Again theory by Rich-Industry339
Characters from different universes who would be besties by Sad_Abbreviations318
Season 7 spoilers: why didn't Buffy... by AutomaticService8468
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“Wild at Heart” by Pumpkins217
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are you on the square?
as i wrote in an earlier post, here is a shitpost about which ghost songs i’d assign to the hotd cast. i am a massive ghost fan outside of hotd and have written my fair share of fics. :)
all of these songs tend to have catholic references (as is the nature of ghost). but some of them fit really well with ghost especially since the faith of the seven is based off of christianity.
ser criston cole
from the pinnacle to the pit - meliora
in reference to criston soiling his white cloak, the man quite literally has a fall from grace. which i find aligns with the imagery present in this song since it involves an angel being cast out of heaven. but unlike the angel, criston has a savior to catch him.
“you are cast out from the heavens to the ground, blackened feathers falling down. you will wear your independence like a crown.”
daemon targaryen
darkness at the heart of my love - impera
daemon loves the people around him. but in a literal sense, his love is tainted. there’s something dangerous about his love (seen with rhaenyra). it’s only befitting to give him a song that mirrors the complexity of his love whether it’s love for his wife, for his brother, for his children.
“there’s a darkness at the heart of my love that runs cold, runs deep. the darkness at the heart of my love, so bold, so sweet. and all this time you knew that i would put you through the darkness at the heart of my love for you.”
rhaenyra targaryen
deus in absentia - meliora
deus in absentia is a song that questions the state of the world (and is part of the whole theme of meliora which interrogates a world without god). since rhaenyra has plunged westeros into war, it’s a song that fits with her worldview being challenged and for her to have to interrogate a world without her father.
“you’re so goddamn frail, failing for a change. you had just begun to explore the dark in the urban night. the world is on fire and you are here to stay and burn with me. a funeral pyre. and we are here to revel forevermore.”
alicent hightower
witch image - prequelle
alicent opened pandora’s box when she wore that green dress to rhaenyra’s wedding celebration. and arguably, she is responsible for the death of many people (even if done without her knowledge and whether or not she wanted it to happen). however the woman is willing to do anything to protect her children even at the cost of other lives.
“while you sleep in early delight, someone’s flesh is rotting tonight like no other to you. what you’ve done, you cannot undo. while you sleep in early delight, still your soul will suffer this plight. but like a mother would save her own child from digging a grave.”
aegon targaryen
absolution - meliora
as the oldest son, aegon has responsibilities. he has responsibilities of assuming the throne despite rhaenyra’s position as heir. he hates having these expectations and personally wishes that his sister would ascend faster. the meaning of the word absolution is a formal release from guilt, an obligation, or a punishment. and well, aegon wishes to be free from his obligation as prince.
“ever since you’ve been born, you’ve been dying. every day a little more you’ve been dying. dying to reach the setting sun. as a child with your mind on the horizon, over corpses to the eyes you kept your eyes on, trying to be the chosen one.”
aemond targaryen
spillways - impera
ever since losing his eye, aemond has felt anger and bitterness for most of his waking hours. it never goes away. and it all builds up over the years until it eventually begins to seep out and affect the people around him. it affected vhagar, it affected his mother. and he just lets his emotions continue to fuel his body and soul.
“all your faith, all your rage, all your pain, it ain’t over now and i ain’t talking about forgiveness! all your faith, all your rage, all your pain, it ain’t over now. it’s the cruel beast that you feed. it’s your burning, yearning, need to bleed through the spillways, through the spillways of your soul.”
helaena targaryen
ghuleh/zombie queen - infestissumam
queen helaena is a figure revered amongst the smallfolk. she is beloved by them. they see her as the rightful queen rather than rhaenyra. of course, her death becomes a morale boost for the greens and enhances aegon’s claim. she becomes a figure that lives in the smallfolk’s mind even after her death.
“the moon is full and shines. an evil blinding light. under a monolith, her likeness, marble white. zombie queen! zombie queen! black light guides you. ghuleh! ghuleh!”
jacaerys velaryon
hunter’s moon - impera
when he received news about the death of his younger brother, prince jacaerys swore vengeance on luke’s grave. he swore he would kill aemond. and the dance of the dragons is the perfect time for him to achieve that vengeance. he’s quite literally hunting for aemond.
“it’s been a long time coming, i’m coming back for you, my friend. to where we’d hide as children, i’m coming back for you, my friend. though my memories have faded they come back to haunt me once again! and though my mind is somewhat jaded now, it’s time for me to strike again. tonight, it’s a hunter’s moon!”
#this is not to be taken seriously#hotd#hotd shitpost#house of the dragon#aegon the usurper#rhaenyra targaryen#alicent hightower#daemon targaryen#aemond targaryen#helaena targaryen#jacaerys velaryon#ser criston
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Hii, Fuffy ? :)
What made you ship it?
Oh my gosh, I don't even know where to start with this! Umm, everything?? The queer subtext that's a little more text than sub, the whole shadow selves/foils thing, the fact that Buffy is so clearly bisexual and the writers seem determined not to let her have that which only makes me want it more.
What are your favorite things about the ship?
Just the sheer tragedy of them for one thing. They have so much potential and chemistry, and watching season 3 is like watching two ships passing in the night and always missing each other...and then one implodes and nearly takes the other ship out with her. That was a *terrible* metaphor haha I apologize! But there's something about watching them nearly manage to get it right but ultimately mess it up every time in season 3 that's like something I just can't seem to look away from?? Like whenever Faith is trying to connect at the beginning of the season but Buffy isn't emotionally available then but by the time Buffy starts reaching out, Faith has already decided to shut her out.
I'm also a huge fan of "these two people understand each other in a way no one else can" and who better to understand each other than the Chosen Two??? And to see them get there in season 7?? Even once all the other slayers are activated, they've got a sort of bond that can't be replaced I think.
Is there an unpopular opinion you have on your ship?
Not sure this is super unpopular cause I've seen it discussed a little before but I am happy they didn't get together in canon, because then we wouldn't have the intense Fuffy longing and pining and tragedy and all the angst and metaphors and symbolism that the show gave us. I want better for them both but also I'm glad it happened exactly as it did because of what it gave us as viewers. But in my mind they absolutely got together after season 7! And I will never stop reading fic that takes place at any point in canon because it's fun to imagine, even if I do love what the show gave us
Also I'd love to see less Spuffy vs Fuffy and more Spike/Buffy/Faith. They all deserve it. Whether that's all three of them dating each other or, the way I view it cause I think Faith is sapphic, Buffy/Spike + Buffy/Faith. I think Buffy would be very happy in a poly relationship (she says something so poly in season 7) and post season 7, Spike and Faith are probably mature enough to handle it. They've both reached a place where they're happy if Buffy's happy, so I think this should be written more!!
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DIGI-ADVS 02 ~ "Chosen Child of Faith"
{the precursor to the "REPEAT?_verse}
Hikaru's personality + Characteristics (C) ME / @koushirouizumi
{Epilogue!Hikari inspired Look + Outfit by Toei}
Hikaru's overall personality was intended slightly more expressive.
[Hikaru is in (Junior) High school in "COF"]
"DemiSilVmon" & "DemiGoldVmon"
were ideas I had when I was Young Me.
{DO NOT Copy} {DO NOT re-post} {DO NOT Edit}
{DO NOT re-produce under ANY Circumstances}
Oh and this is Hikaru's Crest since before 2010 by the way...:
{Art by Skye G.} (Yeah, it was also B.S.S.M Inspired)
(It was the only Crest with this type of design at time too
others did use similar themes but rarely the actual image.)
The "V" sign is swapped with primary colors intentionally
("red" for SilV = a 'hidden' passionate + fiery side;
"blue" for GoldV = a 'hidden' sensitive, compassionate side;
SilV is originally overall portrayed as "calm, quiet, sweet" while
GoldV is originally portrayed as "outgoing, lively, jokes a lot" but
both had 'hidden' sides of them too that would be revealed in time.
GoldV's 'Adult'-level form is "GoldVdramon" from the T.C.G.)
Silver and Gold V-mon designs in this combination did NOT exist prior to me requesting these arts from people I knew of the time.
I know that for a fact because I heavily researched existing 02 sites that existed in the Western fan base during this time-frame.
{My site was among the very first 02 O.C.s sites.
No one else {almost no one} at time paired their O.C. with
Daisuke specifically as a (major) lead} 02 had finished airing.
There was at least one other person involving Daisuke in an "FDD" {Fictional Digi-Destined and Dgmn} fic but Daisuke was definitely not the lead, they were more like a "side pairing"
{02!Takeru was often heavily the "lead" chara + ship-involved;
in old O.C. F.D.D sites.}
SilV's eyes were originally blue; GoldV's green;
but lately I've been considering swapping them both to Brown
[GoldV was originally meant to parallel GoldV-dramon overall]
but I didn't like the bright red eyes that GoldV had in the OG T.C.G back then which was why I chose the same red for SilV's "V" instead.
(The vividness of the "red" often was/is a kind that hurts my eyes if I stare at it too hard or long and GoldV-dramon's look was "focused".)
Since then a newer one has GoldV-dramon looking more tolerable to me there as the vividness of the eyes isn't as intense as the old art.
(SilV meanwhile was meant to show differences to GoldV)
{Mainly in personality but also with a different color design!}
But GoldVdramon has a new art or two lately I can edit?...
SilV's evo line is also different; may or may not have an alt
"SilV-dramon" form which doesn't exist officially,
but also has an evo line concept {still in development to this day} inspired by {J E W I S H} interpretations
of spirits, "angels" and such.)
Hikaru "looks like" Hikari for reasons, but NOT
the reasons you're thinking, most likely...
(In reality, they do have very obvious differences more up close, which Daisuke will come to recognize over time too.)
A notable difference is Hikaru's hair is meant to be overall more obviously curlier and a darker shade, or more like simply Black, than Toei portrayed Hikari as
(Since y'know Hikaru is partly based of MeTM
and I have such hair...)
Back then when I made requests however I wasn't as specific as I should have been, and people I requested from maybe took "looks like Hikari" a bit too literally (not their fault!)
BlackTail icons were edited by ME. (Based on "B.S.S.M" {Luna})
{DO NOT COPY} {DO NOT re-post}
Back then I was originally under the impression these Face-blinking icons were free for anyone to use or edit since many J.P.N fan-sites + web-rings of the era did the same with them, but since then I only use things + icons I specifically requested back then.
For example:
{Spirit Evolution!}
I requested this from someone on "With the Will" forum
but since then lost their name...
This icon is ALSO NOT TO BE USED or re-produced!
It was more meant as just a visible representation;
GoldV isn't necessarily a "slide" evo of SilV lol.
(I was still working on SilV's evolution line concepts!!)
The one of Hikaru with Jounouchi ("Joey") was requested towards the end of my old site being removed during a web-purge, and someone who did art had their requests open. At the time I was also super into Y.G.O D.M. still
and thus requested O.C. with my Y.G.O D.M. Fav,
also because "COF"'s anniversary was basically Jounouchi's bday.
(Jan. 25th circa pre 2010 02 fan-base era)
This is marked 'no rb' for now,
but I might make it re-bloggable in the future.
At the time I heavily paired O.C. with eventual Epilogue!Daisuke.
Things here with them both were meant as mainly,
Friendship and both having mutual starting crushes on each other.
(Top left is my edit attempt of 4th img;
I was using it for a page to store these requests.)
Since the fic takes place jumping around their later high school years, by the middle and end of the wider story, the Epilogue is starting to come into play, but a wider plot is also happening.
This is the fic that spun off my never-ending love for Koushiro
(Koushiro's arc was right in the middle of everyone else's;
and the development of ideas was IMMENSE from there.)
{02 Fan-base has Always Existed!}
2nd by: Tiara
3rd by: Kari A.
5th & 6th by: Alana D.
7th by: Jenn M.
8th by: Liliy
The story has long since been offline;
(I might have also lost a final draft of the last chapter...
but I do have an original finished draft and thus)
'Parts' of the original plan are being slowly inserted into
my Kou+Tai A.U. "The Past World".
ALSO, at some point, I was then diagnosed "A U T I S T I C"
and Hikaru TOO was eventually
going to be portrayed AS SUCH;
but my site got deleted via web-purges and was barely hanging on by threads in my later Angelfire imgs archive :') :')
Sometime after I finished some later schooling
I made the "One Week" A.M.V.
KouTai + Koushiro in general came back around to
TAKE OVER and Koushiro now has starring role too
{Koushiro just mainly appears by Koushiro's middle arc!!}
(There was buildup in the early arcs for KouTai's story though!)
{The original design for the Crest by Young!Me.}
(You can tell it was by Young!Me because I used M.S. Paint.)
#coftff#coftffverse#coftff daisuke#coftff hikaru#repeat daisuke#repeat hikaru#daikaru#daisuke x hikaru#daisuke motomiya x oc#(Yeah friendly reminder my O.C. has existed with this Crest look since before 2010)#(I'm also compiling this for MYSELF because I'm reminding myself my O.C. *actually existed* and *so did my Crest*)#(No matter *what the web did to purge my old sites*)#(My O.C. *still existed* and *was an active part OF 02 fan base history* *long before* I made izzyizumi side)#autistic hikaru#autistic chosen#(Are A THING in my 'verses since Too!)#(Not many F.D.D.s of time if . any ? seemed aware of such before mine either & I'm super glad some have shown up since bUT Y e a hhh)#(Ppl also interpreted eye color in various ways & 'Hazel' could work too but yeah since then I'm deciding on more dark Brown l o l)#be digioriginal dont steal#dont steal other peoples o.c.s#(at least not their personalities and like the *whole premise of someone's fic and ALL their O.C.s dynamics* bc like YEAH?????)#(Also these are not to be edited under ANY circumstances THANKS)
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