Prose before Hos (but this blog gives both and it shows) Fan fiction author Contains dark and dirty adult only content that is not safe for work (Banner by @pb-Boeboe)
I believe the title of the post says it all; this is my goodbye letter to the site and the remaining people that have made the past 6 ½ years the most eclectic learning experience ever. It really shouldn’t be a shock or surprise given that I have already stepped away from Tumblr for indefinite periods before and am currently on hiatus; I’m just making it official.
But there’s a finality to this, a sadness over this chapter of my journey coming to a close.
It's been quite the ride; like so many, I came to lurk and read about my chosen LI and all-time OTP. I never intended to write; while I have dabbled in creative writing off and on since I was a teenager and had a personal blog for therapeutic purposes from 2010-2014, I felt my writing style was too clunky/wordy, too repetitive, and downright boring because my voice didn’t sound like others.
But one day, I decided to sit down and write something (my very first fanfic, Queen of Diamonds) I thought hadn’t been done before; I was so wrong. Fandoms are the literal embodiment of nothing new under the sun. I had no taglist, no idea how to tag my fic, and it received one note.
It didn’t matter. The joy and feeling of accomplishment from reading MY writing ON THE INTERNET is still the best high I’ve ever had (and I’m a recovering addict). So I wrote another something (my first series, Timing, which is STILL incomplete), and that is when Tumblr stepped in to help me along. I was befriended and mentored by the most amazing writers (who are no longer on this site), which helped me to hone my craft and appreciate my voice.
My time here has been a journey: I was schooled in fandom etiquette (I was greener than a can of peas); there has been discourse (nothing like a robust argument to bring a fandom together); I have been on both sides of the popularity line; I made both frenemies and nurtured friendships; and was gaslit (heavily) by Note Count Syndrome.
I have learned to agree to disagree, that 4 +5 isn’t the only way to get a sum total of 9, to stay open to learning, and to listen to another opinion/perspective with the objective of understanding, not rebutting.
While my reasons for finally cutting the cord with Tumblr are many, my #1 reason is to further explore my writing, digging deeper into characters I have already molded in images far removed from what Pixelberry presented. Side note: Yes, I am taking my versions of the TRR gang (and a few from other stories) with me. PB doesn’t own names, countries (even fictional ones), or tropes. I do not plan to use their story verbatim (which is plagiarism and wrong), although there will still be a few fics with a Cordonian/royalty element to them.
I’ve written basically nothing but these characters for the past 6.5 years; I have custody of them now.
I’m looking forward to breathing life into original characters, creating worlds and situations that are both real and relatable on all levels. I can’t do that with fanfiction (especially fanfiction based on a romance trope), I can’t do that within a fandom where happily ever afters are mandatory and true love prevails no matter the plotline.
So yes, I plan to continue writing; if you’re interested in following the next steps in my journey to the Great American Novel, I am on WordPress. Right now, there isn’t much there but hopeful that will change soon. If you wish to connect with me on social media/messaging, I am really only active on Facebook, Signal, and WhatsApp. I’ll be leaving this post up for 24 hours to let the algos rithm and hopefully reach someone, so PM me for contact info.
Not tagging anyone because no idea who (if anybody) is left here.
In closing, THANK YOU, Tumblr. I couldn’t have done this without you.
Is there a list of accs who write colt x mc fics you could recommend please? Besides you it’s been hard to find any 😅 I would appreciate if it contained nsfw too
Ok. So I apologize for how long it took to answer this because you have come to the right place but I don't have a computer now and it's kind of a hot mess but like, I am THE PERSON who has this info, ya know? Because you're asking about the loml right there.
So. In no particular order, please check out:
@raleighcarrera
@omgjasminesimone
@client-327
@lilyoffandoms
@emichelle
@ohsnapitzlovehacker
@lorirwritesfanfic
@flowerpowell
@burnsoslow
@domesticatedantelope
@pixelburied
@brightpinkpeppercorn
@dancingboba
@aces-and-angels
@mrsbhandari
@matsuoclan
@ritachacha
@walkerismychoice
@leelee10898
@queenkaneko
@lolablackwrites
@zaffrenotes
Not all of these do n*fw and some are majority-Logan but there are some gems here.
Also I am SURE I am missing some bangers. ROD-fam, who did I forget and need to beg forgiveness from?
A/N: Apparently it’s now canon that Liam is creepy if you’re not romancing him. I decided to write a more extreme version of what we saw on the weekend. Rating it NSFW because some people may find it dark and disturbing.
Words: 2500 approx
Droit du Seigneur
They all huddle around the bonfire and Riley watches as the flames dance higher and higher. She squeezes Maxwell’s hand tighter and he rubs his thumb across her knuckles reassuringly.
It’s been a strange day and certainly not what she expected as an end to her honeymoon. It’s wonderful to have another sunset in paradise and she always enjoys the time she spends with her friends, but if she’s honest, she wishes they’d stayed at home.
The last few days have been magical and carefree – just her and Maxwell, naked and nonchalant.
They’ve done so much for Cordonia: timetabled their wedding so that it was the pinnacle of a Unity Tour and fought off assassins on their wedding night. It would have been nice to have this island all to themselves. To leave it as they found it: just the two of them arm in arm.
@queenmiarys wow! Thank you for this reblog! It’s been so long since I last read this piece and I definitely feel like we should manifest @ritachacha ’s comeback🙏🙏🙏
@choicesflashfics #36. Uses prompt #2, "You’re allowed to fall apart a little."
A/N: I started writing this before I thought to grab a prompt, and it went to dark places. It was supplied to be a Harper x Ethan, but F!MC started talking... That's it. This fic is dark and I'm not sure why it came out, since it seems like the first chapter rather than a one shot. // Words: 1150 // Pairing: light f!mc x Tobias, acor MC x Antony (implied) // implied age gap relationship.
I always knew I'd end up working for the Outfit, from the time Uncle Tony caught me with a plastic stethoscope in my hands, to the day that Uncle Sam signed my soul over to the combat medical corps.
We need good people... like you, Chiara. You're the brains and Sy is the brawn. There will always be a place for the both of youse in the Outfit.
Is that because of Mama? I asked as I stood in front of Uncle Tony's desk and watched him swallow his grief along with his Campari, gold rings glittering. The shadow of two days beard was heavy on his jaw, and I yearned to reach out, to touch him, but instead crumpled the acceptance letter to Edenbrook in my pocket into a smaller and smaller ball, trying to keep my breathing steady as I watched him, the hero of my girlhood, the master of us all.
He set the glass down on his desk, the sound of it like the funeral bells that had gonged as the hearse pulled away from the cathedral steps in Little Italy, and I felt my throat tighten too. I swallowed my grief with my wine, clinking his glass in a toast. To her, then. I would always live in her shadow, until I could prove my worth.
Uncle Tony's eyes glistened wetly. Arin was a good woman. Bellissima... my tiger. You remind me of her, Princess. That blonde hair, and those eyes... Dio in paradiso, but she was a hurricane. And you are her very image...
Even though he'd married Octavia, I knew Mama had been the love of his life. Uncle Tony would have died for her, and nearly did. That was why I gave him my pledge of loyalty, right there in that room. A pledge for love, the kind that lasts beyond the grave.
And when I returned, I was no longer Chiara Valentine, Arin Valentine's little princess, but Chiara Valentine, combat medic and fast tracked through medical school due to all the strings pulled by Uncle Tony. It wasn't that I couldn't have done it on my own recognizance, but time was a luxury we didn't have after Doc Claudius had gotten his brains blown out by the Family, out in Drakovia. And Sy was in the clink. Again. For stealing cars from some gang in LA, connected to the Yakuza.
The Campari on the desk turned into the Negroni at the bar, and I was staring up into the golden eyes of my boss's and biggest mistake's biggest rival, the one and only Dr Tobias Carrick.
"Valentine." His upper lip curled, and I itched to smack the smugness right off his face, but I'd probably break a nail. After all, I was the Brains. I'd never fought anyone closer than fifty paces in my life, and we'd been in a tank. "Am I really that ugly, little princess, or do you scowl like that at all the plebs?"
If it were up to me, men like him would be six feet under, but I'd promised to hold my peace on mob soil, and the last thing Uncle Tony needed was a war with the Irish. Not that he'd do it for my sake -- it had been Mama who held his heart, and always would. So when I opened my mouth, what came out next surprised me. "I lost ... I lost someone. Today... it's the anniversary of her death."
"Bartender!" Tobias waved down the hipster serving white claw spritzers to the masses. "Get us a bottle of -- what's your poison, princess?"
"Limoncello." I didn't have to hesitate when the bartender slid the bottle down, and poured us two, on the rocks.
He prepared to knock back the entire glass when I caught him on the sleeve, for a moment looking thrown off his game, like he'd never seen a woman before. "Whoa there, Princess."
"Do you know what they say, Dr Carrick? They say that only the dead have seen the end of war. That's Plato. And don't call me princess." That's Antony's name for me.
"You’re allowed to fall apart a little." He touched my cheek gently, and it was only then that I realized I was crying. "Was it... a patient?"
What could I tell him? Of Afghanistan, and the starless desert skies that seemed to reach into the abyss, or of that single moment when my life changed forever? Or of how my life now seemed laid out before me in a single straight line with only a few stops along the way, Chicago to Afghanistan, to Boston and soon, soon, sooner than anyone could ever know, back again.
A pledge for love, the kind that lasts beyond the grave.
"She's been dead a long time." I wiped my cheek angrily with my sleeve, streaks of mascara coming away on it. "My mother. She died, and no one ever figured out what it was that killed her. That's why I'm here, really." I had never admitted the truth out loud before, to anyone.
Antony had come to find me at the barracks. I'd been barely eighteen, and one year in the army already. We'd drunk Limoncello til midnight, Arin Valentine's favorite drink, and we'd held one another and wept. In the morning, he'd left me with blood still drying on the sheets and an ache in my heart that no amount of Limoncello would ever ease.
A pledge for loyalty, until I stepped out of her shadow and proved my worth.
"Do you want to get out of here?" Tobias rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw and held out a hand. "We can just walk, Chiara. You look like you need some air. I won't talk about old business tonight, and it's not a trick, I... I promise."
I took his hand, Dio in paradiso, heaven and hell. Eyes as gold as the sunless desert sands. "You can talk about it all you want, Tobias." I don't care if we win, after all, a snap of the fingers, a pouch filled with thirty pieces of silver, a handshake in a back room, that grant will end up lining the pockets of Edenbrook instead of Mass Kenmore, whether Tobias Carrick likes it or not.
I'll be going back to the Outfit, my mother's daughter, back to Antony. For I owe so much more to him than blood. Life and loyalty, and a love that never dies.
"Valentine?" Tobias waited by the door, jacket thrown over one shoulder, looking at me with a troubled question in his eyes. If I slid off the stool now, I'd have to make that choice. I'd have to face the truth about what drove me to this place, to Boston, to Edenbrook, and to stare at my own reflection in a glass of Limoncello as I counted the stars like the drops of blood in a vein, all the way down the bloody years.
Blood on my hands, blood on the sheets, washed clean by my tears.
It’s been so long since I read or wrote choices fics but you draw me back in @boneandfur
The ACOR characters are gangsters and Antony is his usual morally challenged self… banging Arin’s (barely adult) daughter…. Gosh I hope it isn’t HIS daughter.
Tobias is there too- his name perfectly fitting into the universe and him oddly being the less villainous in this world.
I’m a little late to this party but I was on a small break when the event hosted by the kind @choicesfandomappreciation took place.
Thank you so much to all the friends who tagged me! I love you all too
I wanted to thank all the great writers, creators, readers, lurkers and amazing people that make this fandom possible. I love reading your stories, comments and reblogs. Being here is an amazing experience.
@mskaneko My Polish bestie love this fandom but even if I didn’t, I’d be glad to join only because I met you. How are you so talented, generous and sweet? I love you so much.
@burnsoslow You’re generous, kind and funny. One of the best people I know. Never change, Burns. Your heart is gold and that talent of yours … incredible!
@argylemnwrites Insightful mind, kindness and talent. I love your fics so much!
@ritachacha Queen of smut extraordinaire, amazing writer and the creator of the most original pairings (only person in the world that makes me ship Maddie and Max!)
@kat-tia801 I’m always at awe at your talent to create perfect pairings and create so many different stories for all of them
@petiteboheme Always so kind and supportive. Ava is a beautiful MC and she reflects her creator so well.
@princessleac1 I can’t even count the number of times I write a Drake scene and think about your reaction. You’re a wonderful person and I always look forward to your comments and reactions
@nestledonthaveone I’m just getting to know you but you seem such a nice, supportive friend! And a great Drake Stan
@gkittylove99 this fandom wouldn’t be the same without all your love and support to us writers. Thank you so much for always reading and sharing our crazy stories
@drakexwillow You’ll always be one of the most beautiful people met on this site!! I love you sooo
@forallthatitsworth I know you’re a hard die Liam stan so thank you for reading, sharing and commenting my Drake craziness. you’re always so kind and insightful
@marshmallowsandfire I always look forward to read your comments and I love how honest you are. And thank you for increasing my Drake playlists!!
@bebepac Kind and funny and always worried about others. A beautiful friend
@thegreentwin I look forward to read more about your Drake stories! I love them. Thank you for being so kind and supportive
@angelasscribbles I’m so glad such a positive, supportive person like you joined this fandom.
I’m sorry if I forgot someone. I appreciate all of youuu
For the made up fic title ask - those who favour fire
This is a historical AU. A sweeping epic, a tale of forbidden lovers in the Napoleonic era. MC is born in the Year of the Dragon, and as a child is abandoned as a foundling on the steps of the Rhys estate. She grows up alongside the glittering lords and ladies, becoming ladies maid to Olivia Nevrakis, and falling in love with the youngest son of the household, Liam Rhys, who follows the drum of war along with his friends, all the way to France... And MC, who can barely stand to be left behind, follows them...
A/N: I dedicate this fic to my friend @dcbbw in celebration of her birthday. Robin, I have attempted a very different writing style (one that I hope is right up your alley), because I know that playing with prose is as important to you as playing with pixels. The subject matter has also been chosen with your tastes in mind. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Word count: 2000 approx
Thank you to @fullbeaumonty for pre-reading.
The Best Days
In the last day of his reign, King Liam of Cordonia stood before the mirror, contemplating the tasks he must complete before the sun would set, as had been his ritual for the past thirty-five years.
At sixty, he was a handsome man, his hair so black it shone blue underneath the soft lights of the Royal Chambers, save for the streak of grey that had emerged when he was just forty and persevered without expansion in the two decades that had followed.
I haven’t done one of these in a whole year, and so many people are gone or inactive.
Also to be honest sometimes I think about getting rid of the tag list altogether but I am told I would get yelled at for that.
I’m not writing for fun very much these days due to time constraints (now if there was a big clamoring for weekly 10-page research papers, let me know, bc that I can provide), but I still have stories to tell, ones that I love dearly, just as I love those characters.
rated Explicit // summary: Kenna meets a general, and Diavolos fights for the glory of Rome. // tag list: @darley1101 @ritachacha @debramcg1106 @indiacater @thatcatlady0716 @enmchoices @breaumonts @walkerismychoice @princess-geek @nomadics-stuff @blackcatkita @thefirstcourtesan
CHAPTER TWO
The Hand of Fate
Time, the devourer of all things. - Ovid
“May I present Kenna, my most accomplished courtesan.” Lena makes the introductions, but Kenna barely hears them. Venus’ Sacred Arte… Lyre… Conversationalist.
“So. You are the Princess.” Antony looks her up and down, and a muscle ticks in his jaw. Kenna is not sure what she has done to displease him already, but she sets her mettle.
If he sees my weakness, it is over. And I will never be truly free...
He loved her, you see… I take a great risk in sending you to him, for I both fear and hope you may remind him of Sura, as you remind me...
“I am the queen of the Cordonii. I would not claim to be what I am not, which is a mere princess.” Shaking out her crimson skirts, Kenna meets Antony’s dark, calculating gaze with a stubborn tilt of her chin.
Antony quirks a brow at Lena. “You always provide such… unexpected pleasures. Where have you been hiding this pearl?”
“In the shell of the scholae.” A pleased smile lifts the corners of Lena’s red lips. “Burnished by the sands until she could emerge from the foam, a barbarian Venus.”
“You may depart.” Antony nods to Lena, who nods quickly to Kenna and takes her leave. Kenna follows the gaze of her bodyguard, a burly man with gray hair, as it follows the sway of Lena’s hips. I trust Gabriel. He reminds her of Leonides in some ways, her mother's most trusted warrior, who never left Adriana’s side… Even in death. Gabriel stands a ways from the chairs, his somber old legionary's gaze fixed upon the arena below. The day is hot, with barely a breeze, the only movement in the air provided by the slaves fanning them with palm fronds.
“So… you were a queen. And I suppose you rode bare breasted on horseback like a Scythian when you fought the Romans?” The condescension in Antony’s tone is palpable.
“I never fought the Romans.” Kenna fights back the red fury that has settled in her marrow, selecting a perfect grape from the tray of delicacies before them, and rolling it between her fingers for a moment. “I fought the Abanthii, and the Bellatorii, and the other tribes, until I bound them all together against our common foe. The Romans stayed out of our war, but my enemy had made negotiations with them behind my back.”
Her blood still boils at the memory, but she presents the grape in her hand to Antony, the dark purple globe a peace offering of sorts. Antony’s brows raise, but he takes it from her palm, his fingers brushing the center, and presses the grape between her lips. The juice is tart yet sweet, and as it explodes over her tongue, Kenna makes a surprised sound of bliss, excruciatingly aware of Antony’s dark eyes upon her.
You could do much worse than Antony for a patron, Kenna. I have the greatest of faith in you. Do not remind him too much of Sura, though, I beg of you.
But it is what it is, and Kenna is who she is, And I am Irithia.
“No wonder your punishment was so lenient, then.” Antony brushes a calloused thumb over the soft skin of Kenna’s knuckles. “I would have invited you to my bed, to negotiate our peace out there.” At the sudden widening of her eyes, he laughs. “Your enemy must have been dead from the waist down for not considering it…”
Kenna can barely contain the shudder of revulsion at the memory of Luther’s dead, flat eyes as he stood above her kneeling form in the palace wood, a smile playing upon his thin lips.
“At last, you are on your knees before me, Kenna of the Cordonii. Your ally has betrayed you. The man you might have wed, in another life.”
Kenna’s heart sank in her chest, turning her veins to lead. Not him… Not Diavolos.
Luther tipped her chin up with the point of his glaive, forcing her to look him in the eye. “Tevan of the Fydorii will now wed my daughter Zenobia instead, as reward for his loyalty.”
Her former ally, with his eyesore Tyrian purple tunic and cloak, shuffled into view. He could not meet her eyes, blazing with accusation, and instead looked down at the head of his new bride, who hung on his forearm like a limpet. “Kenna… I'm sorry, Kenna…”
Kenna surged forward against her bonds, spitting blood in Tevan’s face. Luther’s pet Amazon, Helene, backhanded her hard, and when Kenna fell, kicked her in the stomach for good measure. Kenna lay in the dirt, stunned, the cuts she had taken in battle beginning to sting.
Tevan wiped his face, eyes streaming. “I had to do it, Kenna. Luther took Aurynn hostage while she was helping tend the wounded behind the lines! He would have killed her, and she's my only family left, Kenna…”
“I would have helped you rescue her, Tevan! You only had to ask.”
“But blood is thicker than water, Kenna, and how could I know that you would stick your neck out for the Fydorii when we all knew you'd been negotiating a coup with the son of our enemy by slipping into that Abanthii general’s bed!”
Luther's face went slack with disbelief, and then his mouth set in a hard line. That was when Kenna knew it was all over. “What would you do with her, Tevan?”
Tevan looked nervously at Luther, still refusing to meet Kenna’s eye. “What better way to give the Romans a show of good faith than to send Kenna to Rome as a hostage? This pledges that the tribes still loyal to her will not fight Roman rule… Even though we may fight each other.”
“Well, well. My new son in law is an orator as well as a diplomat.” Luther's eyes gleamed.
Zenobia cleared her throat. “Father… if I may?”
“We are not killing her, so your daggers will not be needed here, daughter.” Luther did not look at Zenobia.
“If I may take a page from my…” Zenobia blushed deeply, “M-m-my husband’s scroll, we should make the tribes think she is perished. Then they might be crushed easier beneath the heel.”
“Ah. I see.” Luther’s boots came to rest beside Kenna’s head. He grabbed her by the hair, pulling her head back and exposing her throat. “Nothing would please me more than to split you open from collarbone to cunt, as I did to your mother. Helene?” With his Amazon’s strength pinning Kenna’s arms back and his hand over her mouth, Luther wrenched the serpent armlet from Kenna’s arm with the help of his dagger. “But this will suffice.”
“...But some men were made for wartime, and have forgone the pleasures of the flesh.” Antony’s intense dark gaze rests upon hers, dragging Kenna back to the present. There is a carnal knowing in his eyes that makes the hairs on the back of Kenna’s neck rise on end, but not from fear.
“Who would dare to go against Venus with such sacrilege?” Her throaty whisper makes Antony’s pupils darken, and his eyes roam the shape of her under her gauzy dress, as if she is some taverna slut he wants to fuck up against the wall of an alleyway. “A man made for only war must be made of stone indeed.” She brushes her hand over his thigh, and she knows that if they were not in the stands of the arena right now, he would push her skirts to her hips, and bury his cock inside of her.
“There. There is a man who was made for war.” Antony gestures down at the gate, rising to welcome a new gladiator into the arena, and Kenna feels the blood drain from her head so fast that the world spins.
Not him. Not Diavolos.
•••
Diavolos has spent the last few hours before his fight preparing himself mentally. He has fought for the ludus exactly six times in the past two years, this will be the seventh. Most gladiators do not fight more than three times a year, but if Leonius and Lysiam are to be believed, he has been specially requested after his bout with the Gaul, not two months gone.
You will square off against another Dimachaerus from our father’s ludus, Lysiam had confided, barely able to keep the excitement from his voice, and then you will participate in the spectacle, which features the winners from every fight in the Games today.
You know that we cannot grant your freedom -- but if you can win this, it will bring honor to our gladiator school, and you will be one of the most famous gladiators in all of Rome! Leonius clapped a hand on Diavolos’ shoulder. Every man will want to be you, and every woman will want to fuck you!
Did you like the present in your quarters last night? Just think how things will change for us when you are able to move more freely among society, for the honor of our house!
But Diavolos does not want to win the Games for the house of Leonius and Lysiam. Don't these men know that he is two times dead already? He died first when Kenna’s bloodied serpent armlet was shown to the tribes as proof of her death, and then a second time when he was hauled off to Rome in chains. Honor… that is all he has left. And if he wins, it will not be for himself… But for the memory of dark eyes and dark hair, and an Irithian princess.
The gate opens, and Diavolos touches the silver serpent on his arm just once, for luck.
•••
“What's going on? Ei! Let go of me!” Val watches the commotion in the cell across from her with glee. The self-styled Venator, Tariqus, is given the two swords of the Dimachaerus, and ushered out the door of his cell. “Bitch!” He spits on the ground before her door. “I know you have something to do with this. You'd better lock your door when you get back to the ludus, because after I bash this man's skull in, I'm going to spill your guts and fuck you bloo-- I said, let go of me!”
Val’s laughter follows Tariqus all the way to the arena.
•••
Kenna holds herself perfectly still as the fighters square off, aware of Antony’s eyes upon her. I cannot let him know. And yet, she cannot tear her eyes away from Diavolos. He is fighting Dimachaerus style, with a sword in each hand, and no armor. The scars that criss cross across his rippling bronzed chest and back lay proof to his bloody trade.
“He is a good fighter, do you not agree?” Antony’s dark eyes are studying her, and Kenna rips her gaze from Diavolos, who is circling the other man, dodging every thrust and slash, tiring him out, and nicking him stylistically with the point of his blade. The crowd cheers. He must be a favorite.
“I am sure you are better.” Kenna looks up at the dark haired Roman from under her lashes, tilting her head just so, so he cannot miss the double meaning of her words.
“Do not mock me, Princess.” Antony’s words are stern, but she has pleased him, she can tell. When he trails his hand up her bare thigh, under the slit of her skirts, she allows it, letting her thighs fall apart.
After all, he has paid for this.
“Keep on watching him, if it pleases you so.” Antony’s voice is a low growl in her ear. His skillful fingers deftly begin to stroke the damp cleft between her legs, focusing on her clit.
“It does not please me.” Kenna smiles sweetly, able to keep the lie in her voice from betraying the lie in her heart. “As you say, that man is a mere foot soldier, and you are a god of war.”
•••
The man from the ludus of Leonius and Lysius’ father has begun to tire, sweat dripping into his eyes. He is not a big man, his midsection already softened with the fat of a life spent drinking on a couch, and Diavolos wonders for a split second what life choices could cause a nobleman to be thrust into the gladiator’s pits. But it does not matter.
“They have come here to see a show, Grecian! And you do nothing but mince about like a woman!” Diavolos’ deep baritone is a carrying one, and the crowd takes up the cue from his mocking bellow, booing at the Grecian. Diovolos is a crowd favorite, after all, and the Grecian? He is no one.
Letting out a yell of rage, the Grecian barrels towards Diavolos, who neatly side steps him, tripping him. The Grecian goes sprawling into the sand and then Diavolos is on him, fighting fast and hard with his blades. The Grecian falls to the sand, Diavolos’ blade at his throat, babbling for mercy.
Kill… kill… kill!
And Diovolos no longer fights the bloodlust inside of him, but lets it overtake him.
@boneandfur what a treat to get this notification- I’ve been in hibernation for some time but you know I can’t resist you!
I love Kenna and Diavolos and you somehow weave ACOR in too. I’m interested to see how it ties in to the previous chapter.
I love that you use the knowledge of Aran x Syphax the reader has to paint Kenna and Diavolos as their avatars. Star crossed lovers that each believe the other is lost to them. I can’t wait for more!
Ps. Really not shipping Tevan x Zenobia but I think it was your intent to give us that sort of reaction!
rating: very... very... Explicit. deals with taboo subjects, prostitution, child marriage, etc. This is a Ride or Die Pirates AU set in the Georgian Era, and life was not pretty. I don't shy away, but I don't glorify them either.
Pairings: Ellie x Logan, Ellie x ?
summary: a ROD AU set in the 1700s. When Elspet Wheeler makes the choice to break a horse thief from gaol, it changes the course of her entire life...
CHAPTER ONE
1720.
"No." Magistrate Wheeler cuts into his sausage and blood pudding, forking a piece into his mouth. The conversation has ended, and with guests at the table, Ellie cannot even say her piece. Her hands clench her skirts under the table, marring the fine embroidered blue silk that Riya sent down from London, a gift for Ellie's coming out ball this eve.
She thinks of the beaten bronze mirror that her dead mother, Flora, brought back from the ruins of some ruined fort on the shores of Orkney, and how her reflection had looked inside, rippled and strange, like an echo from a shadowy age, when the world was yet young. "But I just turned eighteen!" Ellie hates how high her voice has gone, like a child's.
"That is my word, Elspet, and my word is final." Her father clears his throat, nodding at the handsome man on his right as he wipes greasy fingers on the tablecloth.
"I must say, Miss Wheeler, you are looking a trifle peaked." Across from Ellie, her father's former protégée, a watchman from London by the name of Shaw, tilts his head to look at her and then levels a winning smile upon the table, as if playing to an audience. Grease glistens on his cleft chin, as if dabbed there by the angels, St Bacon and St Goose Grease.
His eyes are so blue, her new maid had giggled behind her hand as she did Ellie's hair for breakfast. He is so very handsome, Miss.
Shaw's teeth are straight and white and Ellie cannot help but feel a chill seep into her marrow at the thought of her freedom from the schoolroom being ended so suddenly by the shackles of marriage. Handsome? He is at that, but Ellie has never cared overmuch for golden hair, even if his shoulders are so broad they strain the threads on his black coat.
"Perhaps if I took her out for a turn with the pony cart, it could bring the bloom back to your fair daughter's cheek, Magistrate Wheeler? After all, we would not want her to fade into a wall flower before the ball commences."
Ellie looks down at the letter on her lap and quickly folds it up, stuffing it into her pocket. "Papa...?"
The magistrate runs a hand over his stubbled jaw, the thick stubble of a man whose acquaintance with the razor is but brief. He looks to his daughter on his left, and Shaw on his right. "Well, I see that I am outmanned by both Youth and Beauty. Very well, Elspet, you may go with Mr Shaw. But come back in an hour, mind you, and take a maid. That girl of all work from the hiring fair will do just as well as any other."
•••
Megan is in rapture at the prospect, to Ellie’s disgust. She had hoped to plead the headache, but now there is no getting out of it. Megan gives a little squeal at the sight of the cart, and blushes deeply when Mr Shaw tips his hat to her. She curtsies prettily, as if she is the Miss and Ellie is the maid, and Ellie wishes for one furious moment that she was still living back in London, a simple watchman’s daughter. If Mama was still alive… But the thought does not bear finishing.
No: she is here now, rusticated in the countryside, no longer the daring child who spent every moment of her free time gobbling up broadsheets and ballads from Fleet Street and attempting to pen her own. The bracelet on her wrist, little silver charms tinkling together, is her only reminder of that time. It is as if Flora never existed, as if her mother’s very memory was burnt to a crisp, just like the silver slammerkin…
Did you read about the ‘anging at Tyburn that almost was, Ell? Wot a lark, luv! They said ‘e was a blackbird, come to shore to recruit men for ‘is crew! They called 'im Salazar, ‘e was a Spanish pirate ‘e was, wanted for ‘is crimes against the Crown! But at the last minute, they pulled the sack off ‘is ‘ead, and ‘twere another man! They said that it were the devil’s trick and hung the man anyway, but I know wot a Spaniard looks like, and that weren't no Salazar, but an Englishman!
“Miss Wheeler, I asked if you had been to the May Day revels?” Shaw coughs politely, and Ellie shoves Riya’s letter into her pocket, her cheeks growing hot. “I was just asking Megan here if she'd ever been crowned the Queen of May.”
Megan is sitting between them, as propriety dictates, but Ellie has never known propriety meant grabbing a man’s thigh every time the pony trap hits a rut. Megan follow’s Ellie’s gaze to her hand and then removes it from Shaw’s thigh, folding her fingers together primly in her lap. A rosy blush dots both cheeks, and she looks up at him from under her lashes. “Oh la, sir, I couldn't even be so bold!”
Bold, Ellie thinks, is exactly the kind of girl that Megan is.
“No, I never have.” Ellie returns her attention to the fields with a small sigh.
“Well, that is disappointing. I had so hoped to hear your stories of the lusty May revels, Miss Elspet.” Shaw raises his brows at Megan, his tone dropping to a growl at the word lusty, and Megan’s cheeks turn crimson as petticoats that lined the streets of Soho of a night, not so very long ago.
Bold, indeed. “Is that so terribly hard to believe, Mr Shaw?” Ellie pushes her hair back from her face, wishing herself anywhere but here. When you come back to London Town, Ell, what fun we’ll have!
“If I may say so, living in the countryside quite agrees with you. It's brought the bloom back to your cheeks!” Shaw dips his head and says to Megan, who has begun to pout, “We all thought she'd die of the fever that took her mother!” He makes circles by his temple with one finger, and then taps the side of his nose, as if sharing a confidence. “Wandering all over London at all hours of the night, clad only in a silver slammerkin!”
Megan’s eyes widen as she claps a hand to her mouth, and Ellie shoots up in the seat, hands balled at her sides.
“Mr Shaw--”
She is saved from humiliating herself by the sound of a shot. Immediately, Shaw throws himself to the side, but the bullet whizzes harmlessly over their heads. “My God!” He turns to Ellie, his lips bloodless. “Your father did not say there were footpads upon this damned track! We had best turn back.”
“You are not frightened, are you, Mr Shaw?” Megan lays a hand on Shaw’s arm, looking up at him from under dark lashes. A muscle in his jaw ticks as he stares at the top of her dark curls, blue eyes gone hard as slate. For an instant Ellie feels pity for the woman who will become that man's wife.
“Frightened? No, I mean to ride after them myself.” He bares his teeth in a smile, making clicking noises with his tongue in an effort to get the pony to turn around, and when it will not, he sharply cracks the whip. “Haw! Turn around, I say!”
The pony flattens its ears, stomping its hooves and swishing its tail.
“It was probably Young Lord Vandermeer. It is known that he has terrible marksmanship. Look, we are near Vista Park.” Ellie points to the manor in the near distance, the lawns sprawling towards them. “It's where Clover was born. She probably would like to go back there. And we can get a drink of water from the kitchens, and talk to his lordship about the gunshot before we head back.”
“Oh… can we? I should so love to see Lady Vandermeer’s roses.” Megan looks wistfully into the distance, as if a maid could ever set foot in an aristocrat's garden without having a purpose there. It is on the tip of Ellie’s tongue to tell her so, but…
Perhaps I can borrow a book from the library, and the day will not be such a waste after all.
Shaw sets his jaw mulishly, and Ellie rubs her temples. She can feel a headache coming on. Megan looks between them and quickly lays her hand on Shaw’s arm. “Oh, Mr Shaw, I am feeling a headache coming on. We can let Miss Elspet go to Vista Park without us, and return to the magistrate’s. You will come back soon, won't you, Miss Ellie?”
“I shall be back before Papa ever knows I am gone.” Ellie hops from the pony cart, and with more glee than decorum, waves merrily goodbye.
•••
The distance to Vista Park is not so far, but with Riya’s letter burning a hole in her pocket, Ellie waits until the pony trap is out of sight and then runs for the forest. There is a shortcut to Vista Park through the wood, though folks say that anyone who sits for too long beside the ancient well might be taken off by the Lord or Lady of the Greenwood, to dance in fairy revels as a hundred years pass in the twinkling of an eye.
She finds the ancient well, the oak tree that has grown around the stones strung with a thousand faded ribbons. The water is bone-achingly cold and green, but impossibly sweet, and if this is truly the doorway to the Greenwood and the revels, then Ellie will go, and gladly.
A silver slammerkin. She squeezes her eyes shut tight against the hot tears that threaten to overwhelm her.
A bird sings, somewhere in the forest, and Ellie forces her feet to move. She brushes her hand through the ribbons and they make a sibilant whispering, all the wishes of their former owners releasing into the haze of the afternoon. I wish. I wish. I wish.
But her feet cannot seem to move another inch. She opens her eyes, and sits down upon the roots, enjoying the shifting sunlight through the leaves. Somewhere, another bird has taken up a song.
In London, women white their complexions with lead paste, but Ellie feels a spark of rebellion inside for her freckles. Mother never would have…
But that is past.
She touches the charms, each a memory, and remembers sitting with Flora in the warm kitchen, playing a counting game upon it on her mother's wrist as Flora embroidered.
What does this one mean, Mama? And this?
Flora thought for a moment, and then she spoke in Orcadian, a language Ellie only remembers in snippets.
I was a girl when I met your father, as you know… I came to London from Orkney, where my father had been a fisherman. My mother, though, washed up upon the shore, though some folk claimed he'd caught her in his net… They said she was a selkie, a seal woman… But this bracelet was hers, and when you are grown and I am gone, it will be yours… Flora had looked to her little trunk, tucked away in a corner by the hearth, and smiled gently. And the silver dress, my wee selkie lass, so you never forget where you came from…
Mother… And Riya.
Ellie opens the letter, smoothing it out upon her lap, and lets the tears fall.
•••
I want to go back to London… I have to! Ellie paced the small room, treading holes in the soles of Lady Ingrid’s cast off kid slippers, smooth as butter. At first light, we’ll cast off in one of the coracles, and dock in London by sunset!
Tell me about the dancing bear again, Riya set her chin in her hand, sighing. And how Lady Ingrid alighted from that carriage on the Strand with a crown of candles in her hair for Yuletide… They say that Lord Brett was so struck by her beauty that he vowed to scale the Tower and steal a raven’s feather to thread in her golden hair!
Lady Ingrid... Ellie could barely hold back her laughter. She was Inge then, and no better than she ought to be! She sewed costumes with her mama on Fleet Street, and as for Drury Lane, her father was a scribbler... And the raven’s feather was but a prop from the Scottish play!
Riya had thrown back her dark head then, and oh, how they had laughed and laughed!
Inge had not wed Lord Brett after all, but secured a marriage with his father instead. She'd been fifteen, and Flora Darrow Wheeler had not been dead yet. Legend had it that Inge had eaten a hundred pound bank note between two slices of toast on the morning the banns were read. Her widowed mama had sewed her a wedding dress with ten thousand glass beads, down at that flat on Fleet Street. But Ingrid had gone with a Bond Street modiste instead, as was befitting her new station. She had already begun to call herself Ingrid.
Inge was not the only person with a mother who went mad in her family, though Ellie did not tell Riya that part of the story. The watchmen had dredged the wedding train out of the Serpentine, the thousand glass beads falling off and scattering down the Ratcliffe, through the Field of Forty Footsteps and all the way to the potter’s field. There was a rhyme sung by the children, which Ellie heard as she sold ballads up and down the Strand in the weeks following.
Inge be nimble, Inge be quick
The old fat lord had a brand new walking stick
I'll give mama a glass bead to buy you my dear
Don't look back, for Death’s in the mirror
How many glass beads do you see?
One… two… three!
“Stand and deliver!”
The pistol shot shatters the memory. Ellie jumps up, dropping the letter. There is a man on a black destrier before her, holding a smoking pistol in the air and laughing. He wears a black mask tied around his eyes, his jaw thick with dark stubble. Broad shoulders and chest strain a jet black waistcoat, and he wears a corbie feather in his hat.
For a moment, time stops, and in later years, Ellie will return to that moment: when time stood still, and the whole course of her life changed in a single instant.
Ellie looks up and meets his intense gaze, and then has to look down, and away, clearing her throat. “I have no coin, nor valuables. You have made a mistake.”
“A mistake?” He leaps down from his horse, lifting Ellie’s chin with one hand, and spits tobacco juice to the side. “I never make mistakes when I'm making a pretty bird sing and shake its feathers to lay me a golden egg.” He smiles, and Ellie is suddenly very aware of how very close and how very male he is. He smells of tobacco and leather and something spicy, and it's doing something strange to her insides, heat fizzling through her veins.
“A pretty girl in a pretty dress, near the road to London.” He walks around her, as if inspecting her. “As I said… A Salazar never makes a mistake.”
’Is name was Salazar.
Ellie gasps aloud, clutching at her throat. “The pirate!”
Salazar winks at her, tapping his whip upon his black boots, polished to a high shine. “Aye. A blackbird, the English call me, ashore with an associate o’ mine to recruit men for our crew. And a highwayman, when I have the need for coin from pretty birds.” He grabs her arm, and whispers, lips brushing against her ear, “I know your kind. Come down from London for that ball tonight, or running away. You'll never make it past the gates before some bawd sweeps you up on the pretense of hiring you as a servant. You'll be in the Seven Dials with your petticoats to your neck and enough blue ruin in your gullet to drown you before they sell your maidenhead for--”
“A glass bead?” Ellie pulls away and slaps the pirate across the face before she can stop herself.
“Mierda! You're a wildcat, aren't you?” Salazar rubs his face, grinning at her for a moment, and then he grabs her wrist, staring at the silver bracelet. “A Salazar never makes a mistake. What's this, then, Princess? No coin or valuables?” His chuckle sends a thrill down Ellie’s spine that leaves her cold.
“No! That's mine!” She tries to pull away from him, but he loops one arm around her waist and pulls her flush against his chest. “Let me go!” She doesn't want him to let her go. There is something so sordid and thrilling about being held by a pirate. In Grovershire, of all places! If only Riya could see me now...
“What do you think, Princess? Your bracelet…” Salazar’s dark gaze strays to her mouth. “Or a kiss?”
Salazar’s mouth is very close to hers, and she can almost taste his breath upon her tongue, cloves and Madeira. The warmth in her veins spreads through her body, nestling between her thighs where she feels a sudden, almost insistent tingle. Suddenly shy, she casts her eyes down, for if he looks into them, he will see the secret she tries so hard to hide.
I want him to kiss me.
“You really are a princess, aren't you?” Salazar’s rich, deep voice is struck with wonder.
Ellie raises her chin, meeting his gaze, trying to keep her voice steady. “I am a selkie. My father hid my seal’s skin, and it's in London Town. This bracelet is the only way I can find it again. Let me go!”
Her heart is pounding and she can feel his hand on her waist, nearly burning her through layers of silk and bone. If he does not let her go, she will be lost, as lost as the girls that walk the Strand of a night, selling their bodies for tuppence.
If he lets me go, I will be lost, but in a different manner.
Salazar’s brows above the mask knit together at the strange word, selkie. “I would bring you with me to Cuba on my ship, selkie. To swim in the Cárdenas cays, and be free.” He shakes his head, smiling and looking away. “When I was a boy, my father took me on his ship, and I always fancied I saw mermaids on the rocks, but I have never heard of a selkie.”
Ellie swallows, and touches the shell on the cord that is tied around his neck. “And this?”
Salazar’s teeth flash white. He strokes the slit of the shell, and Ellie feels her insides liquify. “I would strand your hair with cowries, and teach you to dive for pearls.” He brings his hand down, brushing his thumb over her bottom lip. Ellie’s heart stops in her chest as Salazar cups her cheek. If she closes her eyes, she can hear the rush of the ocean waves coming from the tiny shell.
Somewhere, close by, a bird whistles, and Salazar jerks sharply.
“By your leave, I’ll take what I came for and nothing more.” It is as if he is all of a sudden another man, as if the one who spoke of the cays of Cuba never existed.
Salazar’s mouth hovers over Ellie’s, and she parts her lips, closing her eyes. There is a sudden lightness as he slips the bracelet from her wrist, and she is left standing there, trembling and alone, virtue intact, yet feeling strangely bereft, as though she's lost more than a bracelet.
I am so excited to finally get to read this! You are the absolute QUEEN of period drama- and I adore this reimagining of ROD.
Shaw is creepy, Megan cringey, Ellie is relatable and pirate Salazar is the fantasy I never knew I desperately needed.
Your writing is so rich and vivid. I’m transported to another time. The dialogue is pitch perfect and the imagery is superb.
I can’t wait to see how you introduce Logan and Colt. Will they be pirates/highwaymen too or adversaries of Salazar?
Elspeth does not know what has hit her (but something tells me Salazar will find her to be more than a match)!
I’m so glad to read a new series from you! My favourite part was him calling her “princess”- such a great nod to canon and yet it fit so perfectly in this completely different setting!
