#fan fic history

[sarahthecoat]

signal boosting in case any of my followers might have pointers.

Star Trek fans!! I’m in need of help!! I’m writing a paper on fanfiction and interactive fan communities and I am trying to find some primary and secondary sources talking about the early days of fanfiction (especially in Trek)!

If you know of any documentaries, journal articles, books, newspaper scans, archived primary sources etc… on fanfiction/fan communities/fan-zines/slash fiction/people discussing the phenomenon of fanfiction/anything else you might find interesting please comment, reblog or tag with some resources ! Thank you !!!

- a desperate undergrad student 🖖😭

[gothamite-rambler]

Slade lifted his face mask, leaning forward slightly as he looked Jason up and down. Stepping back, he muttered to himself.

Slade: Daisy said he was related to Batman. That guy is the same height as Batman. Does he-

He shifted his focus to Jason, pointing at him.

Slade: Do you know Petunia?

Jason sighed and lowered his gun.

Jason: It's Rose. Her name is Rose.

Slade: Oh my God, you’re Jason Todd?! You’re the one defiling my daughter?! No! No! I’d rather it be Nightwing, but you? I’m going to be sick!

Jason (scoffing): Yes, cause you, a pedophile, definitely have the right to disagree with me dating your daughter.

Slade: Dating? Where did I go wrong? All the steps I took to make her a super soldier wasted on a Robin?

Jason: Slade-

Batman having silently listened to the exchange slowly lowered his phone and turned to Jason.

Batman: Who's his daughter?

Jason froze remembering his father was teaming up with him. He avoided eye contact from his father, but this only made Batman step closer to him.

Batman: Hood, he better have another daughter named Petunia that you're with and not the one who stabbed her eye out for that creep!

Slade: Why does everyone word that like it's a bad thing that she proved her loyalty to me? Also for your information Bat jerk, I only have the one daughter... to my knowledge and that's the one your worthless son is fucking!

Jason sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

Batman (worry in his voice): Red Hood tell him he's lying so we can leave.

Jason: Batman… Have I ever told you how understanding you've been and that I was dating someone?

Batman (realization dawning): Oh God, he’s telling the truth? No! NO! Rose Wilson? That man’s daughter? Why would you lay with that woman?!

Jason: Oh, like you have room to talk!

Batman: Damn it, my cases are different!

Jason: Yeah you sired a child with said actually evil woman who ignores her daddy issues by still working with her father. I'm with the woman who stopped working with her insane father.

Batman: I'm not with her anymore and don't you bring up Catwoman!

Slade: Hey, man, I get it—my daughter is an idiot, but being with him is dumb even for her.

Jason: Hey, shut your fucking mouth! You will not disrespect her in front of me!

Batman (shouting): Oh dear God, you're defending her? This isn't good. First Nightwing with Starfire and now this!

Jason: You have a son with an assassin. Have several seats! And Slade I will shoot you in your fucking kneecaps if you keep insulting Ravager who goes by Rose!

Slade: Make me, zombie man! Floral has left me disappointed before, but this transgression I will not allow! Her allegiance lies with me, not you!

Jason: Her name isn’t Floral, you're just picking random words that are related to plants! And it's not allegiance, we are a couple! How are you so awful?!

Slade: Because I strive to be the best at everything!

Batman (interrupting Jason): That doesn’t even make any sense. My son is dating Slade's daughter. My son is dating Slade's daughter. Why didn't I bring any alcohol to this?

Batman sighed, the weight of fatherhood pressing down on him, then he calmly cracked his knuckles. Jason sighed wanting to disappear.

Batman: Hood, stay here. I’m going to have a talk with Slade, father to father! Cyclops, let’s talk!

Batman strode over to Slade, while Jason stood by, watching at first. He eventually nodded and texted Rose that their fathers had discovered their secret relationship and were currently fighting.

Jason: Is he defending me, or does he just not like Slade? I’m going to say both. That's sweet of him... I'm going to have to deal with this later.

[twobitsblade]

Hi!!! I saw your poll and I was wondering if you could write a 60s!Elvis X Reader fic, where Reader is having a hard time at work because they can't seem to keep up with everything and Elvis finds them crying outside their work place? Comforting them and asking why they can't just let him take care of them?

Take all the time you need!❤️

(hello, thank you so much for requesting this! it was slightly difficult to write since this is my first time writing smut, but i hope you all enjoy it. i’d love to see more requests featuring elvis in my inbox!)

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ MY HEART BELONGS TO DADDY !

a work of fiction written by @twobitsblade and inspired by @atleastpleasetelephone, @jhoneybees, @wanderingelvis, @lustnhim, and @theelvisprincess !

contains: smut (obviously), reader and elvis are married, elvis is a cocky know-it-all with hints of the 1960s male mindset !

you and elvis had been together for a while now; around three years of loving, fighting, and arguing, but you knew that at the end of the day he’d always be there for you. and you knew that even when you took up a new job at your aunt’s boutique—something which elvis discouraged multiple times (“oh m’baby, you ain’t needuh do these stupid ol’ jobs, m’the one providin’”)—while you were very thankful for him, your aunt desperately needed your help, and who were you to turn her down?

but it turns out that perhaps elvis was right—this job began to be a lot more than you’d signed up for. originally, the deal was you’d wear a cute dress, get your hair done all nice (for free, mind you), and greet the customers, but then more and more duties started being asked of you.

“oh dear, can you go bring the boxes from the basement?” “can you go downtown and pick up some new hair dyes? we’re all out, and the shipment won’t be on time?” “can you give her a little trim? it’s not too complicated.”

while you don’t like to think of yourself as spoilt, you’re not very used to working these types of jobs. i mean, you and elvis have been together for years, and you’d gotten used to the comfy lifestyle he provided you.

one day, it just became too much—you were turning around like a dog, fulfilling one task after the other, and it didn’t help that you barely slept last night. it’s not like you could tell elvis about this because it’d prove him right, and you can’t handle that damn cocky smirk on his face as he tells you how he knows his little one wasn’t made for such hard work.

you sigh, placing your things down—the sound a bit louder than intended, causing you to flinch. you toss off your high heels, lazily running up the stairs of graceland and into the bedroom you and elvis shared—grand, beautiful, and decorated by both of you as a visual representation of your love for the other—but now all it felt was suffocating.

you plopped down on the bed, not bothering to change out of your outdoor clothes, and laid your head facing the ceiling when suddenly you heard rustling and groaning, causing you to turn your head as you saw the back of elvis’s head. he slowly turns around to face you, clearly still half asleep.

“mmm, hey m’baby, how’s work?” he says drowsily, grabbing you by the collar of your dress and pulling you close, wrapping his leg around your waist.

“it was fine, el—fine as usual,” you say, though he wasn’t stupid; even half asleep, he could tell. he groaned, rubbed his eyes, and sat up.

he looked you up and down before smirking—god damn it—“well, what’s the matter, huh, little ’un?” you rolled your eyes and weakly shoved him, the shove barely moving him.

“i said it was nothing, didn’t i?” you groaned, but he doesn’t care.

“ah, f’god’s sakes, just let me take care of my babygirl…” he groaned, grabbing you and laying you on top of him. you tried to pull away to no avail, causing you to let out a mewl which made him chuckle—everything about him was irritating you in that moment: his baby blue eyes, his tan skin, his perfectly, oh so disgustingly perfect smile, and the softness with which he looked at you, his girl. you sighed, resting your head on his chest and stifling a sob, and he noticed, tangling his fingers in your hair, “shh, m’girl, tell daddy what happened.” you did, and even though it all came out as incomprehensible high-pitched, whiny rambles, he nodded as though he understood you—not just your words, but the language of your soul.

you eventually felt content, done venting. you sighed, wiped your tears, and looked up at him, and suddenly you chuckled. it wasn’t quite wry but not quite from happiness; you felt good—elvis always had a way of making you feel good.

and in your exhausted state, you needed him, needed him badly, and he could see that; after all, he knew you inside and out. his hand went down to your back, then to your hip, then to your butt, then to your thigh, causing you to feel slight tingles coursing through you—you hated that, you hated how easily he could get you in such a vulnerable state.

“baby, come on, you need to open up for me. how else can i keep you safe, huh, lil ’un?”—ah, the typical elvis double entendre.

you nodded slowly, turning around on his lap so he could unzip your dress, the slight friction causing him to groan, “fuckin’ tease, you are…” he said, unzipping your dress slowly but surely, “ah, m’girls wearin’ somethin’ fancy, hmm?” he said, observing your baby pink bra with lace detailing. your face heated up at his words as you expected him to unbuckle your bra, but he didn’t.

he linked his fingers underneath the clasp and pulled you backwards so that your back rested on his chest, as his hands, in a painfully slow manner, slid down from your cleavage to your ribs, to your belly, down to your pelvic bone, and under your skirt—and you arched into him, causing a giggle to escape him. “hmm, needy, ain’t ya?” he said, his fingers rubbing circles on your clothed cunt as you squirmed into his touch. he slipped one finger underneath the fabric and then inside you, causing you to let out a loud, high-pitched moan—and god knows he wasn’t going to be the one to silence those sounds—then another finger, then a third and final one, as he slowly began pumping them in and out of you. you lost yourself in his touch; incomprehensible words mixed with moans left your mouth drowned by his groans—the sounds almost pornographic.

he pulled his fingers out and wiped them on your dress, causing you to whine at the sudden emptiness you felt and at the vulgarity of the action.

he rolled around so that you were now under him, and a surge of excitement crossed you.

he removed his pants, then his boxers, his erect cock springing out from them. he grinned, “y’ready m’baby?” you nodded, preparing yourself as he aligned his tip with your entrance, your wetness working as the perfect lube, and slowly—painfully slowly—he entered you, moans leaving your mouth as your mind became dazed, hungry for the man you loved so much.

slowly, he began thrusting in and out repeatedly, causing you to let out a strange sound—a mix of a scream and a yowl—with his fingers digging into the sensitive flesh of your hips. “mm, take it for me like a good little girl.” you nodded, continuing, and as you felt your climax approaching, he nodded, a silent signal that you could release yourself, and so you did—all over him—and soon after, he followed.

you both plopped down onto the bed with a sigh. he looked at your tired frame with admiration, the sweat glistening off your body and making you look like an angel. he hugged you slowly, “m’girl, you gotta be honest with me; i’m always gonna be takin’ care of you, aight?” you nodded, letting out a gentle mix between a whimper and a sigh as his body embraced yours.

[anishenanigans]

aand done!! This took forever, but it's the first time I've successfully finished one of these templates and it was a lot of fun :]

[rockahulababyy]

Do you do imagine posts? Id like to hear what being Elvis wife would be like

Hii angel !! Thanks for your request <33 I just wanted to clarify that since you didn't give a specific era like 50s, 60s or so, I chose late 70s Elvis (my baby) but you can totally imagine whatever era you want or ask for another era. also this the first imagine i've ever wrote so y'all tell me if it's good !! xx

𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐄

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐈𝐓 𝐁𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐈𝐒' 𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐄 ?

It’s not what people think.

It’s not rhinestones and flashbulbs and screaming crowds.

It’s soft lamps at 3AM.

It’s his fingers brushing against your spine while he hums something you can’t place, lying awake beside you while the world sleeps.

Elvis doesn’t sleep at night—he never has, not really. His world comes alive under dim lighting, when the air is quiet and everything feels suspended. He’ll wake up after dark, hair messy, voice raspy, moving slow as honey while he finds you. Always looking for you first. Doesn’t matter who’s in the house. Doesn’t matter what the schedule says. His day starts when he sees you.

Some nights, you find him in the den, sitting cross-legged on the carpet with his nose in a book about chakras or ancient prophecies, incense burning low beside him. Other times, he’s pacing. Deep in thought. Rambling about something he read, or a dream he had, or how everything’s connected. He’ll talk until his voice gets hoarse, then just sit with you in silence, letting his hand fall into yours like it belongs there.

You’ve learned to follow his rhythm. Late-night peanut butter and banana sandwiches in the kitchen. Midnight drives. Curtains drawn during the day so he can sleep peacefully, your body curled against his under the heavy sheets. You’re his peace. His anchor. You didn’t ask to be, but he gave you that place without question. Like he just knew.

Some days are harder than others. You see it in his hands when they shake just a little trying to open a bottle. In the way he leans on you more than he lets anyone else see. The meds slow him down. Some of them make him tired, foggy, forgetful. But he tries—for you. He tries to take less, or take them later, or ask the doctor about changing things up. Because he sees the worry in your eyes, and it kills him. He says it doesn’t bother him, but you know it does. He doesn’t feel like himself sometimes, and that makes him feel like less of a man.

In the beginning, he was scared. Scared you’d want someone younger, stronger, someone who didn’t flinch at mirrors or dread mornings. He couldn’t touch you the way he used to touch women in his younger years. He couldn’t always feel what he used to feel. He cried once, thinking you were asleep—held your hand to his chest and whispered that he was sorry he wasn’t enough.

But you stayed. You didn’t need him to be the man the world saw. You just needed him to be yours. So now he kisses you softer, slower. He holds you longer. He asks if you’re happy and believes you when you say yes. Because happiness here looks like coffee at midnight. It looks like his head in your lap while you play with his hair. It looks like soft pajamas and gospel records and half-finished conversations at sunrise.

The boys—the Memphis Mafia—thank God for you more than once.

They don’t say it outright at first, not when it’s new and Elvis is still pretending everything’s fine. But over time, you catch it in the way Jerry’s voice softens when he says, “He’s been lookin’ better lately.” Or how Joe gives you that knowing nod when Elvis eats a real meal or skips a pill because you asked him to. Red jokes that he used to have to drag Elvis outta bed, but now? He gets up for you.

They see the way he tries. The way he holds himself a little straighter when you walk into the room. The way he reaches for water instead of another handful of pills. He still struggles, of course. Still has those days where the weight of everything gets too heavy. But they’ve seen what he was before you—how he let himself slip deeper into the dark. And they see now: he wants to stay in the light, if only to be the man you deserve.

Some nights are soft and sacred. You don’t need fireworks or grand gestures. Just him. Just the two of you. Sometimes, the world feels far away—shut out by blackout curtains and whispered “I love you”s under breath. You’ll make love slow and quiet, like you’re trying not to wake the house. Like time’s frozen around you. And afterward, he’ll tuck you against his chest, bury his face in your hair, and sleep through the whole day with your body wrapped in his arms. It's not just passion—it's safety. It's home.

Other nights, he’s all wide-eyed and playful, coming into the room with a sly grin and that little bounce in his step that only means one thing: he’s got a plan.

“C’mon, baby. Get dressed. We’re goin’ out.”

Out means he's rented out an entire movie theater in the middle of the night just so you and the boys can watch some old western or kung fu flick. Popcorn for everybody. Blankets just for you. He watches you more than the movie—smiles every time you laugh, kisses your temple during the boring parts. For him, your joy is the main event.

And then there are the quiet, thoughtful things he does that no one else sees.

Like the time he went into a little church while he was away—just wandered in after a long day. He found a rosary in the gift shop, held it in his hand for the longest time. Later that night, he gave it to you, eyes low like he wasn’t sure if it was silly or not.

“I figured… when I ain’t here, you could hold it while you pray. Think ‘bout me. That way I’m always with you, baby.”

You cried, soft and quiet, and he held you like the world could end right there and he’d still be content, as long as you were in his arms.

Being his wife means learning how to love a man who's seen too much and felt too deeply. It means patience when he's quiet, comfort when he's overwhelmed, and laughter when he forgets how to smile.

But in return?

You get a kind of love that’s rare. The kind that fights for you, even when he's tired. The kind that shows up at 2AM with a peanut butter sandwich and a kiss. The kind that holds your hand during gospel songs and stares at you like you’re something holy.

He’s not perfect. But he loves you like it’s the only thing he’s ever done right.

And maybe, in a way, it is.

Being Elvis’ wife means living in a world that turns upside down—where night is day, and love is whispered in the quiet hours.

It means seeing the man behind the myth: soft-hearted, haunted, trying his best. It’s devotion wrapped in silk sheets, gospel records at dawn, and a hand reaching for yours even in sleep.

It’s not always easy. But it’s real. Raw. Sacred.

And in the end, it’s this:

Loving him in the dark, and being the light he always comes home to.

[amtrak12]

After a conversation with a friend about this weird trend of fic readers who only want epic length fics (and also what seems to be a massive misunderstanding between parties on terms and their definitions), I went searching for the fandom sources I cut my teeth on. I don't have much bookmarked from those days anymore, but googling got me to this fiction length/terminology breakdown from a Livejournal blog. (Which also has good fandom definitions for other terms like A/N and fanon too, so if you're super new to fandom, go check that out.)

The definitions come from the publishing world (hence the page counts), but fandom and fanfic has always borrowed heavily from official publishing terminology. Flash fiction (aka, anything less than 1k words) is called a 'ficlet' within fandom. We call everything else a fic until it reaches the novella mark -- which may start at 20k words but as synecdochic breaks down on their Dreamwidth blog, there's a lot of overlap between short stories and novella word counts. Because, when you're not constrained by physical page counts, the real dividing line between short stories and novellas are the number of plots and themes you're using. (Seriously, go read their meta on this topic. It's fantastic!) Either way, once you're hitting tens of thousands of words, you're in longfic territory. And then if your fic is even longer than that -- 100k+ like shown in the screenshot above -- it's called an epic fic.

And these terms, longfic and epic, are important because they're used to differentiate these stories from the average fic. Because, at least in the 2000s up until the 2020s, the most common fic lengths you ran into were between 1k-20k words. "Fic" made the reader assume only a few thousand words at most. It's only when you changed the term to drabble or ficlet or longfic that they would realize 'oh this is going to be shorter or longer than normal'.

I don't really understand why that baseline assumption has changed amongst the newer demographics (and maybe amongst some long-running fandom members too?). I've seen a lot of theories and 'tiktokification' complaints, but I honestly don't know what's true. And I don't want to start a fight or even try to change anyone's minds if they are dead set against reading short story length fics. You can do what you want!

Just maybe shift your attitude about it a little bit? Remember that it's a personal preference the same way tropes are, and that one story length isn't better than another. Just like tropes, each story length serves its purpose. Some stories are best told in 1-2k words. Some are best told as 100 word drabbles -- or even a single sentence! And then, yes, some stories do need to be 100k+ in order to be told properly.

But that's not every story. And it shouldn't be expected of fic writers to pad a 1500 word plot into some sprawling epic just because they left it on a cliffhanger. The cliffhanger is probably the point of that fic! Short stories are an entirely separate art form to novels and as such are able to cover different topics than novels can or cover the same topics differently. And that's what makes them special!!

And look at that word count breakdown by genre! That's mainstream publishing standards! Now, go back up there to the definition of a novel and notice that the average published novel is 80k words long.

Let me repeat that:

The average length of a published novel is 80,000 words long.

Could a novel go longer? Sure! And if you're dipping into adult sci-fi or fantasy, absolutely it will be longer! But does your fic need to be longer than the average novel in order to be good? In order for you to feel satisfied when you finish reading it? Why does the length of the fic matter more to you than the content?

idk just some rambling food for thought, but I guess too long, don't read:

~✨~ Every story length is valid ~✨~

It just depends on the plot you have and the structure you want to use to tell it.

[lustnhim]

‘let’s take jesus off the dashboard’ 𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

‘got enough on his mind’ 𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

if u can’t tell by my latest fic i have a thing for…him in his car…oh well, someone please relate to me 😭

[jaqueline19997]

you told me yo’ new man don’t make you nut,😬

🗣️that’s a damn shame! 🗣️

🫠😮‍💨you come here i’ll knock yo’ p***y out the damn frame🫠😮‍💨

🫦‘member the last time🫦

🤭i made you miss your damn plane🤭

😏🙂‍↕️‘member that last time😏🙂‍↕️

😩🍾i wet you down with champagne😩🍾

( ME AF WITH E 😫OBVI, all credits to owner, 😚 and guys i lied i love Elvis to much, to stop posting/defending about him 😝🙂‍↔️ anyways, byeee much love)

[presley4president]

🩷

[rosepresley68]

We miss them ❤️❤️

[jeszrosse]

Ashen Roots ❦ | (Hanahaki disease) - Chapter One: The Thorns That Bloom in Silence.

.

.

John "Soap" MacTavish x reader

.

Scottish Highlands, 1883. After the second Anglo-Afghan War, you volunteered as a civilian caretaker for veterans to uncover the truth in the mysterious disease that your brother died from during the war.

---

The road to Braeriach Hall was long and graveled with silence. Even the carriage wheels hesitated on the stones, as though the land itself wished to swallow the past and all who wandered into it.

The mist did not lift for miles.

It clung to the hills like memory, low, cold, and relentless. Heather grew thick along the roadside, the purple heads bowed with dew and decay. You had read somewhere that heather meant protection, but here it looked more like mourning.

You arrived with a letter. Folded in black wax, marked with a military crest you recognized too well.

Your brother’s name had been on it. Corporal Elias [insert surname], deceased—1879.

Second Anglo-Afghan War. His body returned, but not whole. And not all of him had made it back. Strangely enough, his lungs were filled with blooms of sweet violets that seemingly grew inside his lungs. The roots thrived in the tissues of his bronchus. From there it stemmed all the way up and housed the flowers to his oral and nasal cavity. You saw it yourself.

The military offered no explanation beyond “honorable death.” No apology. No real answers.

Only this: A place where the broken were sent. A place where something had gone wrong.

Braeriach Hall.

Braeriach Hall did not rise. It hovered, watching. Stone-dark and shrouded by moss and memory, it loomed through the trees like a secret remembered too late. The light never quite touched its corners; instead, it clung to the heavy eaves and watchful windows as if afraid to trespass.

The Hall had the shape of a fortress, but none of the warmth of safety. It was a place built to endure. Not to welcome. Ivy curled against the walls like veins beneath tired skin. The upper windows were narrow and silent, as though the building itself held its breath.

You could look upon it for hours and still not be certain if it had ever been truly alive.

They needed staff. But you weren't just here to serve tea or fluff pillows.

You came with questions buried beneath your skirts and grief sewn into every hem.

---

The Hall rose from the moor like a wound stitched into the hills, gray stone darkened by rain, slate roof veined with moss. Windows like watchful eyes. No warmth. No music. Just wind, and rot, and secrets.

They said it was a sanatorium now. A convalescent home for veterans.

But whispers lingered. Strange tales muttered behind locked doors. Of men whose lungs failed in bloom. Of fevered nights and breath laced with petals. Not wounds of flesh, they said, but something far crueler. Quiet. Hidden. And growing.

You didn’t believe it. Not at first.

---

They told you his name before you saw him: Sergeant John MacTavish. Twenty-six. Highland-born. Decorated. Damned.

He’d been in the same battalion as your brother. Fought in the same frostbitten hell.

The letter didn’t say that, but you found his name scribbled beside Elias’s in a report stamped “Confidential” and left unsupervised.

That’s how you knew. And that’s why you asked to care for him.

---

You found him in the west wing.

Alone.

His hands were wrapped in linen, knuckles bruised from old fights or new nightmares. His hair was dark and unkempt, and he sat too still for someone awake. The window cast his face in silver and shadow, cheekbones drawn sharp, eyes heavy with storms you dared not name.

He didn’t look at you.

Didn’t need to.

Pain hung around him like incense.

---

You sat across from him. Not close. Not distant. He did not speak.

Neither did you.

But in the silence, you thought of Elias. Of the way he’d whispered in his sleep before they took him. Of the petals you found on his pillow before he was sent for war. Lavender. Violet. Rose.

After his death, the doctors said it was infection. That war does strange things to a man’s lungs.

But you had watched him bleed color. And you knew better.

You were not here to save Sergeant MacTavish. You were here to watch. To gather whatever the doctors missed or refused to name. You didn’t know what ailed him, not yet. He was silent, whole, and breathing. But so was Elias once. And if something unspeakable had begun to bloom in his lungs too, you would be there when the first petal fell.

And maybe. Maybe, he wouldn't suffer the same fate as Elias.

---

He exhaled. A ragged, too-human sound. And though he didn’t look at you, you felt something shift.

Recognition. Resentment. Or ruin—you couldn’t say.

But you stayed.

Not because you were brave. Not because you were kind.

Because something inside you whispered that if you left, you'd never know what truly happened in the snows of Kandahar. And you would never forgive yourself for letting another soldier slip quietly into the soil, unseen.

[gothamite-rambler]

Duke Thomas when he learned the darker moments of Bruce including the "Test" he performed on Tim, everything with post revival Jason, and a few bits and pieces for Dick. So he is sticking up for his buddies/brothers.

Duke (on comms during a mission): When I see you stand by Selina, I believe you see two bad bitches. I believe you don't like women, it's real competition, you might pop ass with 'em.

Batman (confused): What?

Duke (rapping): Let's speak on percentage, show me your splits, I'll make sure I double back with you. You were signed to a trigga that's signed to a trigga that said he was signed to that trigga.

Jason and Dick listening in are too stunned to speak.

Barbara (eating cheese puffs while working, impressed): Nice switch up there.

Batman (sad dad voice): I just wanted to know why you were giving me the silent treatment. Please stop.

Duke (rapping with ease while decking a goon in the face): Put your eldest son through hurtles, you're a douche bag. Throwing a weapon at your second son's neck that's a jackass move and putting the third to a test, that's hoe shit-

Batman (enraged, gritted teeth): You are not doing this! Stop it right now!

Duke continued to play the villain as the Dark Knight confronted him, the entire exchange echoing through the Batmobile's speakers.

Duke (interrupting while rapping, enjoying this): Hoe, what? You ain't like that call out? Bat to bat, I'll call out the ego knight. Imma get back to that, for the record. Now why would I call you out at this moment? Y'all think I'd let that slide? Nah, but you got a son to raise, but I can see you don't know nothin' 'bout that-

Batman (hearing an echo from his batmobile): You're on a speaker system?!

Duke: Tell him to pray, know nothin' 'bout that. And givin' him tools to walk through life like day-by-day, know nothin' 'bout that. Teachin' him morals, integrity, discipline, listen, man, you don't know nothin' 'bout that. Speakin' the truth and consider what God's considerin', you don't know nothin' 'bout that-

Batman (shouting, startling the villains in front of him): ALRIGHT, I GET IT!

Poison Ivy (in the background, pouting): Aww, come on, it was just getting good!

Batman: You shut the hell up, Pam! Signal, we will talk about this later!

Jason (laughing): Nah, he’s not finished yet.

Dick (sounding corny, bless his heart): Let him cook!

Batman: Who told him?!

Tim (amused): We may have… told him some stories about you while his arm was healing.

Duke: Yeah, and it’s a good thing little Robin isn’t on patrol tonight. I was holding this in, but I didn’t want the kid around. I respect you, Batman, but sometimes you’re trash at parenting! You trash! You trash!

Batman (offended): Stop calling me trash! This is oddly hurtful!

Riddler: A dumpster fire fit's you more.

Ivy (dryly): Rat-infested garbage barge.

Mad Hatter: Trash island!

Batman: Oh, would you all shut the hell up!

Dick covered his mouth, smiling but also shocked. Jason was laughing. Tim smiled while patrolling with Duke.

Duke: I’m tired, B! I'm tired! What did these intelligent, handsome, confident men do to you? That test alone was foul! You are—

Villains: Trash!

Batman (clenched jaw as he spoke): What can I give you to make this embarrassment end?

Duke: I can see you’re a changed man, but you owe your sons, and me—an apology. Namely, a trip to New York Comic Con all expenses paid... and you buy me a cosplay for an anime of my choice.

Poison Ivy: Good start, but go higher!

Jason: Get us all cars!

Batman (mumbling): Am I in hell?

Barbara: Sorry to chime in, but I’d like a trip to Hawaii with a date.

Dick: No fair! I said Star and I were going to Hawaii!

Batman: I said I was sorry, why must you remind me of this and demand bribes! I already pay all of you and I am not a bad bitch! I’m Batman!

Barbara (joining in): Bitch Man!

Batman: He’s only acting like this because I said Castlevania is dumb! Which it is! That’s just my personal opinion!

Mad Hatter and Riddler disagreed, but Batman threw a dull batarang at both of them to shut them up.

Tim: Batman... you sent him a PowerPoint on why it’s bad.

Ivy (crossing her arms): I bet you hate Kendrick too.

Ivy ducked as Batman tossed a small pebble at her.

Duke (shouting, enraged): Castlevania isn’t a stupid anime just because you didn’t understand Dracula as a character! Keep talking and ooo, I’ll start with Not Like Us! Don’t test me, I’m operating on two hours of sleep!

Stephanie (laughing): Bitch Man's gonna need Aloe Vera for those burns!

Batman: Okay, laugh it up! When I'm back home, all of you are on punishment! Oracle cut the feed from my car speakers and I don’t dislike Kendrick! I have great taste in music!

Batman cut off his communication device and Barbara disconnected the bluetooth connection Duke set up when Bruce wasn't aware he put that in his car. Ivy walked over to the Dark Knight with a smirk, making the hero groan annoyed.

Batman (gruff, wanting a break for the night): I already thanked you for helping me.

Ivy (enjoying the strife and chaos): You did, but this little call out towards you was much more satisfying. At least you’re not a terrible dad like mine.

Batman: I’ll take that as a compliment, weed.

Ivy (smugly): Whatever helps your verbal beat down, douche canoe.

[presleyslilbaby]

~Masterlist~

~Feel Free To Request~

Read me before requesting!

Hello! I’m just a writer and an artist hoping to put my work out there and to stop being so shy. If you couldn’t tell already, I really love Elvis, and I like sharing my passions with other people. 💜

!Page Rules!

Bullying will not be tolerated, nor will any kind of hate or harassment, as well as racism/transphobia! If I am not comfortable doing certain types of stories, please do not send hate towards me. We all have limits. Another important rule is that I am only human, and cannot mass-produce stories. So please treat me, and other writers with respect and patience.

Thank you!

(Thanks to @atleastpleasetelephone for giving me a bit of advice on how to fix the problems with my links!)

———————————-

Red colouring means smut! Blue colouring means Agere!

————————————

~1950’s~

~A Little Picky~

~Dig Into Me~

~Telephone, Part 1~

~Cosmetics~

~You Don't Tease Me~

~Lunch Time~

————————————

~1960’s~

~Sweet Sugar~

~Emotional Soup~

~If You Talk In Your Sleep~

~Sleek Leather~

~His Wife~

————————————

~1970’s~

~Take It All Night~

~Birthday Ribbons~

~A Little Gift~

~Mockery~

~Nervous Jams~

~No Playtime~

~Giddy Up~

————————————

~Movies~

Vince Everett

~Did You Take My Advice?~

————————————

Art

~First drawing posted/1976 Elvis~

[rockahulababyy]

Can you write early 70s Elvis smut? If possible can he be a sub?

a/n : hi anon !! thanks for your request !! sorry this is like TOO short but i didn't have any "plot" in mind, and ur request wasn't detailed :( so, hope u like it angel !! mwah xx

𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐁𝐎𝐘

pairing : 70s!sub!Elvis Presley x dom!FEM!Reader

triggers/warnings : p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, mention of slight overstimulation, sub/dom dinamics

Your thighs burn with the effort, but you don’t stop. You won’t. Not when Elvis looks like this. With his head thrown back, eyes fluttering, jaw slack, sweat gleaming on his chest in the low light. His hands are digging into your hips like he’s trying to tether himself to reality.

He's just so pretty.

He’s so deep inside of your clenching walls it’s obscene, your moans echo every time you slide down the full length of him. Thick and hot and pulsing inside you, twitching like he’s already on the edge. And you haven’t let him go anywhere near it yet.

“Please—honey, I—I can’t, I’m gonna—” he gasps, the words catching in his throat like they hurt to say.

You press your palm flat against his chest and pushing him down onto the mattress further. “Shh,” you soothe, rolling your hips, slow and deliberate. You feel every inch of him dragging against your walls, your slick making it easy to slide—wet, filthy sounds echoing in the space between your bodies.

“You’re bein’ such a good boy,” you purr, leaning forward to brush sweaty hair from his face. His breath hitches when your fingers run through it, when your nails lightly graze his scalp. He whimpers—whimpers—and it shoots straight through you.

"Your cock feels so good, El," you murmur. "But I wanna hear how bad you need it. Tell me."

His hips twitch up involuntarily, driving himself deeper. He’s a mess, eyes unfocused, face flushed, mouth working but barely forming words.

“Need it—fuck, I need it so bad,” he babbles, voice cracking as his thighs shake beneath you. “I been holdin’ it—don’t think I can—can’t—please, lemme come, honey, please."

You clench around him on purpose and he howls, hips jerking up hard enough to bounce you. But your hands are on his chest again, holding him down, keeping him under you, under control.

“Just hang on, baby.” you whisper. “You don’t come until I say. You wanna be good, don’t you?”

“Yes—fuck, yes—your good boy, I am, I am, I’ll be good, I swear—” His voice breaks off into a sob, and you swear you feel his cock throb harder, soaked in your slick, so damn hard it’s twitching inside you with every beat of his heart.

You watch him tremble, every muscle drawn tight like a bowstring. His hands are gripping you like iron vices, and you revel in the thought of him leaving bruises along your hips and thighs.

And you know he’s at the edge—has been there for a while. He’s panting, moaning through clenched teeth, his cock stretching your walls perfectly as it twitches inside of you.

So close. So damn close.

You slow down to a grind, hips circling, pressing your clit against the base of him. His head drops back with a raw groan. “Please,” he begs again, voice wrecked, throat gone.

“Okay, big boy.” you whisper. “I wanna feel it. Let me have it, Elvis. Come inside me."

And just like that, he breaks.

His whole body arches off the bed, back bowed, a strangled cry ripped from his chest as he finally, finally spills inside you: hot, thick pulses flooding you so deep you feel it in your gut. His cock jerks hard with each wave, and his hands grip you even harder than before.

“F-fuck—fuck—” he chokes, forehead pressed to your chest now, tears prickling the corners of his eyes from the sheer force of it. He’s blubbering again, incoherent, whispering your name like a prayer between broken breaths.

You stroke his hair, slow and gentle, grounding him while he comes down. His heart’s beating so fast against your body, his chest rising and falling like he’s just survived something.

You press a kiss to his temple. “That’s it,” you murmur. “Feels so good, you're so good, El. Settle, settle, shh...”

And all he can do is nod, eyes closed, arms wrapped around you like he never wants to let go.

[stvolanis]

ELVIS ONE-SHOTS

✎ Birthday boy

✎ All dolled up pt.3

✎ All dolled up pt.2

✎ All dolled up pt.1

✎ Pretty Stars

✎ Broken heartstrings

“𝘐 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵.”

[lustnhim]

elvis at a press conference (8-1-69) 𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

guys someone requested a fanfic n’ im so excited to write it i already started 😭