#blathering about my fic

[perverse-idyll]

Fic authors self-rec! ✨ When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you’ve written, then pass on to at least five other writers ❤️

Thank you to @yletylyf and @danpuff-ao3 for the invitation and reminding me to think about fic! It’s one in the morning, I had four hours sleep last night, and I’m going to entertain myself by seeing how coherent/interesting I can make this.

Anyone else want to play? @ac1d6urn, @writcraft, @liladiurne, @squibstress, @titconao3 - do you have favorites?

The first two picks are easy:

1. When the Rose and the Fire Are One - My first fanfic! Snape/Harry, my OTP before I knew what the acronym meant, my first experience of fandom, a love letter to the pairing and the Snape-centric LiveJournal community I had serendipitously stumbled upon. Written for the Snarry Games, thus finished on a (several times extended) deadline after pulling an all-nighter. I was talking shop with a writer friend recently about themes, as in “in 20 words or less, tell us the theme of your story,” and we agreed that it grows organically out of the writing and we have no idea what the theme is before we muddle through the first draft, nor do we care. (My friend writes pro fic, but she never condescends when I talk about my fanfic as if the creative process is the same - because it is in many ways, with the exception of professional editing in her case.) Well, I lied, because this fic was consciously and passionately written with the themes of freedom and beauty in mind. In canon, Snape is a character who never gets to experience adulthood free of masters; he signs up to be a pawn not once, but twice. I wanted to give him - for Harry to give him - that freedom, while at the same time presenting the temptation of a third master. The fact that Harry loves him by the end doesn’t make that beholden-ness less true. I was also determined to show that even someone raised in financial and emotional poverty, associated with ugliness, trapped in an ugly life, was capable of beauty under the right circumstances. Yes, I was up my own arse about this fic, but that’s okay because it made it more personal and intense. It was also, as I’ve mentioned elsewhere, my first time writing a sex scene, and I jumped in at the deep end with glorious abandon. As one may gather from subsequent fics, I proceeded to make up for lost time and contribute to the mainstream perception that fanfic = smut.

2. The White Road - If there’s one fic I’m known for among Snarry readers, it’s this. Why? Because it’s set in Lily’s POV in the afterlife? Because it positions her as a voyeur, a mother watching the fork in the road of her child’s future, someone with the right to judge Snape? (The voyeurism aspect turned a lot of readers off.) Because it has a cracky premise treated seriously? Because it’s nonlinear? (No. For some, this was a bug, not a feature.) Because, as a recent bookmark proclaims, it’s “such a weird fic”? Mostly it was me wresting a different ending out of the ruins of Snape’s canon demise and the utter bollocks of the epilogue; it was a purgative experience. I think for Snarry readers at the time, in the year after the series ended, it touched a communal nerve. Snape fandom remained in turmoil for quite a while after the Lily reveal and Snape’s redemption by death (a redemption currently much disputed). At this point, 15 years down the line, perceptions of Snape have changed so drastically the fic no longer has that cathartic effect, if that’s what it was. Readers are less inclined to be consoled or sympathetic. But the chutzpah of putting Lily’s voice at the center - of turning her into a Snarry shipper, to be flippant about it - well, I’m still surprised I pulled it off. And this fic, like Rose & Fire above, vibrates with so much of my joy in fandom at the time, love for my OTP, for the stories being written about them, for the exuberant emotional engagement on all sides, that I'll always be able to dip into it and be transported back to that creative ferment and sense of belonging. I think it’s one of my best fics, but my love for it goes deeper than its relative worth as a story. It’s a memento of one of the best periods of my life.

Now things get tricky. I’m pretty sure the five, arrrgh, five WIPs I’m working on would be eligible for this list, but since at this stage only I can know what makes them favorites, I have to make other choices. And I haven’t written very many fics, you see.

3 & 4. In Infinite Remorse of Soul (Snape/Dumbledore, Snape/Harry-ish) and And Mine the Gall (concluding the Dumbledore arc from the earlier story, and going further with the Snape/Harry-ish mess) - I put these together because they were conceived as a single narrative, but In Infinite Remorse was written for a fest with a word count limit, so I posted the rest of it as a separate fic. Which turned out to be the right choice since the second fic is the darkest thing I’ve ever written. These linked stories were inspired by Dumbledore’s words to Snape in The Prince’s Tale - “You disgust me” - and how he condescends to and sometimes makes a fool of Snape in the books, when the poor bastard is simply trying to abide by Dumbledore’s expectations. Dumbledore is a fascinating character, but his lack of generosity toward Snape - his tendency to treat Snape’s moral worth as disposable when it’s clearly one of the things Snape struggles with throughout his life - caught my attention. It’s a counterweight to all the examples of Dumbledore’s wisdom, his concern for other characters. Even Draco has more charity and protection bestowed on him than Dumbledore ever gives Snape. And I decided to run with that idea because surely what Snape suffers and the loyalty he demonstrates deserves more than a “Poor Severus...” afterthought. What would it have done to his soul to never once be thanked, to have Dumbledore pass over his sacrifices while lavishing time and explanations on Harry? Yes, Voldemort’s defeat depends on Harry going back to fight. But what would Snape’s reaction be to learning that Dumbledore knew of a way for Harry to survive - counted on it, in fact - and lied about it to Snape’s face? From there I decided to chart Snape’s moral collapse and his “fuck it all” desire to go after something (someone) he wants for himself - destroying every moral gain he’d so painfully acquired because in the end the authority figure who was his role model took it so much for granted he even forgot to say “thank you.” And then I went for something twisted and frightening because I think a Snape who no longer believes in anything - who feels nothing he did in his life ever actually redeemed him - would be terribly destructive.

On a less dark note, I enjoyed writing a florid and heavily metaphorical prose for Dumbledore’s POV, mostly to suggest the complex and not always praiseworthy workings of his mind. He’s one of canon’s most intelligent characters, bent up into plot contrivances for the consumption of children, and I didn’t want to rehash his canon schemes because they rely too much on coincidence and authorial fiat. (Plus: word count.) I tried to show how his calculations and his roots in the Victorian era might influence his interior monologues. As for Snape? I just enjoyed letting his worst impulses off the leash. (Some readers haaate And Mine the Gall.) (Where is my evil grin emoji?)

5. Hmm, the last choice should be split between my creepy massage kink/character study Soft Touch, but I’m feeling rather listless about that one at the moment, so No Room for the Weak it is. Another oldie, functionally a gen fic with pre-slash Snarry vibes, it evolved from my interest in Snape’s mum Eileen. Snape fans often assume she’s dead in canon, probably because she’s not referenced past a certain point in his childhood and doesn’t appear in the Spinner’s End chapter. So I wrote this fic about Eileen trying to come to grips with her son’s violent death and all the contradictory rumors clouding his reputation. It was a chance to explore what kind of mother would produce a kid like Severus and to ponder how he seems to lack any instinct for distinguishing right from wrong. His upbringing left him morally deficient - in fact, clueless. I also tried to pull off a bit of a plot twist, just to see if I could string readers along. Also, tip o’ the hat to Joy Division. Best of all, IMO, I nailed the ending. I found exactly the words I wanted, and I’m pretty confident the story earned them. (Same with The White Road. And Mine the Gall … maybe.)

[plusultraetc]

I'm so sorry but ever since that teen Hawks page was translated on twitter I can't stop thinking about it. like. Mera treated him like a person. he was assigned to Hawks when he was already a teenager. did no one treat him like a person before then? was it such an uncommon occurrence that it seemed special when someone did? I mean, they didn't even let him have a person's name. they gave him a hero name, and to the HPSC, that was the name of a tool. of a product. they basically bought a child and treated him so coldly that Mera stood out to him because he treated him like a person. the bars of my enclosure.

[vamp-bites]

I love using art school assignments as an excuse to draw my own trigun au. Anyway more haunted knives au, featuring Legato this time

[treasuredplanet]

having a great idea for an au literally no one but you knows about

[kjack89]

Wake up babe, new milestone just dropped 😅

Since I still have 3 fics from my last giveaway to do, I won’t be doing anything special for this one, but I did want to take a moment to thank everyone who’s supported me along the way, whether you’ve been here since the beginning, or whether you’ve just now found one of my fics. I can’t do it without you, and I wouldn’t want to anyway.

Thank you for being with me on this weird, wild, seemingly never ending ride. Here’s to 400 fics, and to however many (almost certainly not 400) more!

[thetarttfuldickhead]

Interested in hearing about the TL 1x05 Canon divergence fic if you have thoughts to share!

I do have thoughts and you are a darling for asking about them!

So, concept: Ted doesn’t bench Jamie, Jamie goes on to score a hat trick, and Richmond wins the game… only no one but Jamie is feeling particularly good about it. The dressing room is subdued, but our precious prick couldn’t care less, he’s being his very best (worst) arrogant self. Roy is fed up to the point where he, realizing that Ted isn’t about to do anything, follows Jamie home and knocks on his door to have a very civil and polite word about what being part of a team means.

Predictably, the conversation quickly devolves into shoving and growling and – less predictably (to them, not to any reader) – it then takes a turn for the sexy and the messy when Roy realizes that Jamie isn’t exclusively pissed off about being pushed against a wall. Not a particularly original set-up, granted, but it’s a classic for a reason, so.

This is basically pure kink, fulfilling all my enemy ship and sadist!Roy and bratty subs being taken down a peg needs (except that last bit might not quite work out in the way Roy imagines, and in the end there’s some actual conversation and vague hints at vague Feelings because I’m bad at not letting them be a little bit vulnerable too. At the end of the day my true kink is character studies, so a little bit it's that, but disguised as sparkling pornography).

This is the fic I’ve got the most stuff already written for and I’m very excited about this idea, but it’s also the piece I’m least confident about writing. We’ll see how it goes!

[electric-plants]

i pretty much always listen to instrumental music while writing and i keep a playlist of some of my favorite long compilations which works well and good until one of my three hour piano compilations ends and suddenly transitions to an intense soundtrack and scares me half to death because i was too focused to expect it

[purgaytorysupremacy]

OMG IM JUST NOW REALIZING YOURE THE AUTHOR OF “A LIFE IN YOUR SHAPE”!!! I LOVE THAT FIC, IVE COMMENTED ON IT A FEW TIMES (I’m transgenderisms101)!!!!!’ It’s literally one of my favorite fics, I’m so happy I found you on here!!! ♥️

OH HI HEY HELLO!

yes! I remember your comments <3<3<3 thank you so much for leaving them 😭😭😭 Benny is such an important part of the fic, even if he's a bit in the background. I don't think he could be where he is with Cas if he hadn't had Benny.

ANYWAY thank you for this ask! 🥺 definitely needed a reminder today. it always means so so much to me to hear that the fic is resonating with people. 🫶

[losersimonriley]

(BARRELS INTO YOUR ASK BOX) 3, 6, 20 & 27 please ‼️

MY ANGEL THANK YOU 😭💕

3. What work are you most proud of (regardless of kudos/hits)?

Gotta be my Detroit become human wip breathe simply because I’ve never managed to get that many words into one story before—my brain has big trouble with writing longer word counts and this fic has been in the making for literal years. I deleted the original off ao3 a long time ago but kept my google doc and decided to repost and pick it back up early this year! I’m determined to finish it eventually!

6. Favorite title you used?

Titles are my absolute nemesis—usually it’s just lyrics to whatever song is stuck in my head, but once in a blue moon I can think of something pretty good. My fav is definitely one I haven’t posted yet—part 2 of my ghoap Christmas fix-it. It’s titled Christmas ain’t the only thing coming (😏),,,OR I guess hold on moments eternal is pretty cool too considering how long I wasted trying to think up a meaningful backronym for the word “home”skshsgsh

20. Which work of yours have you reread the most?

Probably my fuck or die ghostsoap when it all crashes down because, first off, it took me forever to write and then a couple months later after rereading it one too many times decided to heavily edit and add to the darn thing 💀 (if anyone clicks on this one beware the tags!)

27. What do you listen to while writing?

Most of the time I put on instrumental playlists because I get too distracted when words are thrown in the mix lolll. I try to match the vibe with whatever story I’m working on!

Ao3 wrapped

[roselightfairy]

Six-Sentence Sunday

From the ongoing fic! This is a bit from the next chapter I will post (probably tomorrow).

“You didn’t respond to my message,” was Qui-Gon’s greeting to him when the door slid open.

Obi-Wan grinned despite himself, sudden and wide enough to make his jaw ache. “You clearly stated that my silence would serve as assent.”

Qui-Gon smiled back, and one of his hands landed on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, heavy and solid, a welcoming clasp that spoke more than any words ever would. It was a gesture that would not have looked out of place on any master and apprentice, but this one had come to be theirs; Obi-Wan had strained against more expressive displays of physical affection in his youth, and so the reassuring grasp of shoulder or arm had become their compromise, Qui-Gon’s expression of affection or concern or comfort in a way Obi-Wan was willing to accept.

It made him feel more loved than he could ever admit, though today he found himself also admitting – somewhere deeper than he could ever acknowledge aloud – that he would have welcomed a greeting embrace.

[galadriel-blue]

STOP IT RIGHT NOW THIS IS BEAUTIFUL-

the fact that in trop canon, sauron is written with bearing in mind the fact that he LOVES galadriel??????? L O V E S HER???

imagine being galadriel knowing that the evil incarnate loves you? the abyss that she gazed into with hatred for so long gazed back into her with love!!!

and she is the only thing he is capable of loving? bc there is this cosmic connection between them that is just out of this world, metaphysical, entirely unique??? that they have their very beings bound to one another? that it's something much greater and of a higher essence than anything shallow and common? that they are the light and the dark fated to never unite but being eternally connected in a way that they are unable to with anyone else?

what are we even supposed to do with this information? how are we going to collectively ever be sane again???

THE love story of TV, i'm afraid.

[localwhiskeyuncle]

me: is so weird about desire that I've made Hellraiser metaphors and looked up diagrams of teeth to write this fic that has absolutely nothing to do with either of those things

[plusultraetc]

so it turns out that if I can put the finishing touches on 'hold on and feel i belong' before Wednesday, I can still break 100k words on ao3 this year. do I think it will happen? no. do I kind of want to try anyway? well. 👀

[itwasntimethatdidit40]

How could you love somebody like me?

Pairing: f!reader x Javier Peña Words count: 3032 Rating: + 18, NSFW, MDNI. Summary: Javi is under protection and has asked you to join him in the hotel room where he is confined. When you discover his secrets and lies, however, that room will become too small. Too small for both of you. Tags/warnings: POV second person, no use of y/n, angst, Javi is still a DEA agent but it's a modern setting so the man has a smartphone. Reader is described having female genitalia and breasts, no other description of her is given, she doesn't blush and her hair is not described. Mention of alcohol, mention of cheating, Javi is a cheater, no happy ending, we will go through the man's phone (you're not supposed to do that but I never said my reader could do no wrong, right?), use of pet names (gatita which means kitten in Spanish, baby, darling), smut, angry sex, unprotected p in v (do better irl), cream pie, of course a little nipple play ‘cause it’s still my fic, toxic relationship, self doubt, mention of Steve, a huge pile of lies, Javi is bad at feelings, some reader’s thoughts marked in italics. I think it's all, let me know if I forgot something and I'll add it right away. A/N: Written for @jolapeno 's "Dear-uary" challenge. This was my prompt, I struggled a little bit at first but I ended up having a blast writing this ❤︎ Heavily inspired by this song (from which the fic also takes its title), I heard it randomly on Spotify one day and I thought "wait, this is perfect for Javi!" and I ended up being obsessed with two more songs by the same artist. LOL Many thanks to: - @aurorawritestoescape , my beta, for her help and advice, she will probably dream of elephants because of me tonight hahaha Kate I own you a big one, thanks baby so much, I love you ❤️ - The person who basically pulled this out of my brain and supported me throughout the process, my precious, my peanut @joelmillerisapunk. 🥰 Love you so much it's ridiculous🥹 - @milla-frenchy for letting me blather about this thing some days ago. Love you, bb ❤︎ English is not my first language, every single mistake is still on me, I deeply apologize if you find any.

Edited - because I forgot to change the most important detail, of course. I’m not myself if I’m not doing a mess. Yay. It’s okay now.

“Why the hell am I here? Was I the only available hole this week?”

“No,” he whispers. 

“So what?” 

Javier came back and found you in the middle of the room.

You were brandishing his phone like a sword in the air, the banner of everything that was wrong.

His face went pale when he saw you like that. 

Eyes wide open. 

Mouth agape. 

He tried to say something but you immediately hit him with a vomit of words.

“I know what you’re doing,” you hiss under your breath, feeling your eyes sting.

Javier is a marble statue in front of you, his lips pressed together, his absent eyes not even looking at you, staring at a spot behind your shoulders, his arms abandoned along his sides. 

He seems anchored to the ground. 

His last words to you still burn on your skin like a fire you cannot extinguish.

A heavy silence between you fills the air of the room and makes it unbreathable. 

“Fuck, Javier, talk to me,” you whisper angrily.

You clutch his phone in your hands, so tightly that your knuckles are white from exertion, as if you were clinging to it to keep yourself from falling off a cliff. 

“You knew I was no good,” he says sternly.

You have been in this room for two days. 

Officially, Javier has to stay here because henchmen of one of the new drug lords in town are set on taking him out. 

Unofficially, he has you infiltrating the room. 

Typical Javier, spending his time under protection fucking someone. 

You foolishly almost believed it was romantic, until this morning. 

“So you’re trying to say that it’s my fault? Is that what you want to say? It’s my fault that as soon as I turn my back you go and stick your cock in someone else's pussy?” You don’t even have the strength to scream right now. Your voice comes out rancorous but low, hoarse, like a blown growl. 

Oh, you’re not going to accept being lectured by him, fuck no.

“No, I’m just saying -” he tries to explain and you glare at him, making the words die in his mouth.  

"What?" 

“Fuck, I'll never change,” he shrugs as if it were a truism that only you can't grasp.

His eyes shift to the ground, dull and absent.

“You don't change because you are convinced that you can't,” you admonish him, feeling anger rising from your chest. 

"That's not true," he murmurs, keeping his gaze on the crimson and gold carpet that lies at your feet.

“Yes, it is,” you insist, ”and you seem to like to think of yourself as an incurable asshole.”

He still fails to see the real problem, the elephant in the room that lives and thrives among you. 

"Then you tell me, if you think you know me so well,” he asks with defiance. 

“You bet I fucking know you,” you lash out. “You think you're so mysterious and complicated?! Well,  news flash, I've seen plenty like you. You’re just another man. You're not even that, you're a child. A child who's afraid of his own shadow when it comes to relationships.”

“Don’t fucking analyze me,” he hisses, finally setting his eyes back on you. 

Raven, angry and fearful. He knows you can read him like an open book and this unleashes an awareness upon him that crushes him to the ground.

You bitterly laugh, “Truth hurts, huh? I know something about it”. 

The wrinkle between his eyebrows deepens, his nostrils flare, and his mouth tightens into a line so thin you think he’s about to burst. He stays quiet instead, eyes back on the damask carpet decoration. 

_____________

“Yes, Steve, I'm fine. That jerk won't find me here, and anyway it's full of police outside the door.” 

A pause and a sigh. 

”No, no one followed her, they don't know who she is.”

You stood behind the half-closed bathroom door listening. 

You smiled. 

His voice sounded softer when he talked about you. You lulled yourself into that feeling. 

Until you heard something else. 

A booming laugh. 

Water ran in the shower, tiny droplets coated the wall as the mirror fogged up.

“Whatever. Of course I'm still screwing around. At least, I was doing it before that asshole started chasing me,” his voice suddenly lowered so you took a chance and opened the door a little more. You wanted to make sure you heard right. 

Your hand trembled against the doorknob, you grabbed your wrist to hold it steady. 

“You idiot,” he scoffed. “Yeah, we'll be in touch.”

Suspicion. The black wing of a crow that had been wrapped around your heart for a long time.

But then why did it hurt so much? 

You allowed yourself to hide it in a part of your brain where you never looked-that was a mistake. Making the hunch barely a firefly when it was supposed to be a bright neon sign.

He always places the phone with its screen down when you go out to dinner, softly smiling at it when he checks it after a few vibrations, telling you “it’s Steve” when you ask. 

But you know that crooked smile. 

He dodges when you ask him about his day "oh work, you know, just work." 

He tells you he is with Steve but you hear female voices in the background. 

Every time you try to confront him it always ends the same way, him telling you, “you’re paranoid, there’s no one else, just you, baby. You’re the only one I want.”

And then he fucks your doubts into oblivion.

You heard the thud of the phone on the blankets. And then Javier calling you. 

You swallowed the gall rising from the walls of your stomach and just smiled when he joined you in the bathroom and suggested that you shower together.

You wanted some proof before you charged him. 

If there was anything you had learned from being with him, it was that hard evidence was the key. So you played cool. 

He fucked you against the shower wall and you moaned into his neck. 

He licked your pussy like a man starved and you just bit your lips until you felt iron on your tongue.

He kissed you with that liar's mouth, and you let him.

And you fell asleep beside him, on the unmade bed of your uncertainties. 

This morning someone from outside called him into the hallway to report the latest movements of the guy who was looking for him. 

His phone was on the bedside table.

It was like a magnet, pulling your hand to it.

You were almost sure you knew his unlock code ‘cause you had watched the movements of his finger many times. 

You tried twice without success. 

The third time you let out a long sigh, visualized in your mind the movement one more time and unlocked it. 

You were in. 

Your heart was beating wildly in your chest as your fingers swiped and clicked on the screen. 

And there they were.

Dozens and dozens of messages and pics exchanged with 4 different women.

You scrolled through one of the chats with a certain Maria, who regularly sent him pictures of her tits and her legs spread wide, her pussy in the shot.

There was sexting, arranged dates, same promises he gave to you, things you never asked for but he kept repeating like a broken record. Even the same pet name. Gatita. 

Blood simmered in your veins, a jolt in your heart, throat dry. 

Your finger furiously scrolled through the chat, finding tons of messages he had sent her while he was with you.

You switched to another one and you found pretty much the same. And yet another, message after message containing flirting and explicit sex.  

“Oh Javi, you keep getting better and better with that cock of yours”

“My pussy needs you, darling, can you come over?”

“I can’t stop thinking about your huge cock dripping on me”

And the more you scrolled, the more a question formed in your brain, rumbling through your temples like a deafening drum. 

Was he ever sincere with you?

________

When he looks up at you again, you see it. A veil of fragility in the dense blackness of his gaze.

He looks almost helpless. “I know you tried,” he admits, ”You tried harder than anyone else.”

“Apparently it was no use,” you chastise him.

He doesn’t reply. 

Instead he comes closer and closer. 

You pull back, responding to his every step forward with a backward one. 

“Please,” he whispers. 

“No.” 

“Don't do that.”

“You have no right to tell me what to do,” you bark.

”I know...” 

“Fuck off, Javier, leave me alone.”

You pull back until you hit the wall behind you. 

Javier approaches, bending slightly to reach your mouth, his mustache brushes against your cupid’s bow and you don't even have the strength to turn your face away anymore. 

When your lips collide you let it happen. 

It’s like when you drink too much Tequila. 

It burns on your tongue, leaving you almost anesthetized as soon as you down it, and then an aromatic taste wafts into your mouth; it is lysergic, unusual, unmistakable.

You love it, so you keep doing it.

Javier is the same. 

He's sharp, stiff at the edges, burns like fire, but he has an aura that you won’t mistake for anything and he hypnotizes you. He’s not like anyone else, despite what you told him. There is an underlying despair in him, a cry dying in his throat, “How can you love someone like me?” 

He says it only with his eyes but you hear it clearly.

He is a time bomb that explodes in your heart every time he touches you. So you keep doing it.

“Fuck,” you whisper against his lips. 

“Yeah…I know. I’m not worthy.”

And yet, you’re still here.

You let him peel off your every layer of clothing, to leave you naked and vulnerable in front of him. 

You do nothing when he undresses too. Hastily taking off his shirt, fumbling with the button of his jeans, nervous hands and short breaths.

It is like some mind fuck game, intoxicating, dangerous, capable of leaving permanent marks.

He lowers his jeans just enough to free his cock, no boxers. Always ready.

His hands run over your hips and you groan. 

His tongue slides over your neck, his eyes closed, his breath heavy and warm on your skin. 

He makes you cry, but you don't say no.

His lips latch onto your nipple and adrenaline rushes through your veins up into your head, hitting hard like a jackhammer.

You don’t pull back anymore, you push your tit into his mouth so eagerly you feel his teeth closing on your bud and you whine in pleasure. 

His growing erection leaks against your center. You are trapped. Not so much because you are between him and the wall but because you no longer know how to get him out of your head. 

Right now it doesn't matter how much it hurts. 

He slides his hands down your thighs and you know what he wants, without needing to speak. You wrap your legs around his waist. He kneels on the bed with you still clinging to him, you lie back on the soft blankets that smell of you both, arch your back and press against his cock. You folds splayed and dripping for him.

His fingers go up your rib cage, stop under your breasts and grasp there, he draws you back to him and your mouths collide again.

You let his tongue enter. You let the fleeting pleasure of this instant take over all the no's you know you have to say.

There’s no right kind of love here, this room is drowned in angry sex.

Angry at how you can never say no to him, angry at how he makes you feel, angry because you know that no one has ever fucked you the way he did, invading your body with a pleasure so addictive that it makes you sick. Angry because maybe he's right, he can't change. 

You break the kiss and bite on his shoulder, a small act of revenge that really does no harm compared to your bleeding heart. 

Your hands grasp on the golden skin of his back, leaving marks with your nails digging into it, your miserable attempt to leave marks on him in return.

You moan convulsively under his touch, your mouth wide open against his, your tongue desperately seeking him out. 

His hands tighten on your ass, lifting you slightly, his cock slides over your wet opening, a guttural sound comes out of the back of your throat without you being able to hold it back. 

You want him inside you. 

You need him inside you.

And it’s wrong, and desperate. It’s masochistic.

You don’t even care for his jeans’s zip scraping your skin.

The thin line between pain and pleasure is so blurred now.

It’s a pathetic shit show of need and urgency. 

You’d walk away from any other guy but Javier is the person you can never have just for yourself and at the same time he is the only one you want. 

He is the knife and the wound at the same time.  

When he asks “Whose pussy is this?” in his deep groaning voice that fucks directly with your brain, you can only reply “yours.”

Digging your nails deeper, biting more, wailing louder but just pleading with him.

You take his shaft in your hand and rub it against you in blind desperation, wetting it with your juices. 

He groans into your ears while his hand reaches for your nipple and his big strong arm holds you close.

You are sitting on his thighs, your legs crossed behind his back.

His fingers pinch your nipple as you don't stop stroking his big throbbing cock.

Just put it in there. You think. I just need to feel your flesh against mine, inside me, claiming me like the rag doll that I am now. 

Stupid bitch trying to have you when you’re damaged like a shattered glass, when you can bring nothing than heat to my body and freezing ice to my heart. 

“Fuck me,” you groan. 

He pushes against your core, entering you with one deep thrust.

Your pussy is weeping so much it doesn’t even hurt.

You clench on him with all the strength you have, chocking his cock with your walls.

“Fuck,” he growls. “You’re gripping me so hard, baby. There’s nothing you want more than this, huh? Me fucking you raw?” 

“Shut up,” you hiss. 

He starts moving, pumping into you as his hand reaches for your clit, brushing it in circles.

You whine, clinging onto his back, your face hidden in the crook of his neck.

You can’t look him in the eye, you can’t face your own shameful reflection in his pupils, you can’t think of anything else than this pleasure firing your body, your limbs, your mind.

Your pussy never gets the memo when it comes to him. She just clenches, and cries and asks for more.

At the verge of your brink, when you’re so utterly overwhelmed you could swear, you’re about to jump out of your skin, you hear it.

It’s the softest whisper on your skin, so low you barely catch the words, “I love you” 

You cry a single tear that slides down the column of his neck, it could be mistaken for a bead of sweat so easily and Javier doesn’t notice it. But it’s there. You’re crying again.

You come, weeping.

Grasping to him like your last shred of hope.

But there’s no hope anymore.

You know you can’t go on like that.

You cried before. You argued before. It’s all useless.

A devastating orgasm shoots through you, leaving you without defense.

It’s the last thing you want but you need to get it over with. 

You lie on the bed, feeling his last twitches inside you, his cum dripping onto your walls, his cock pressing against that spot that belongs only to him.

He lies down on you, gently crushing you with his weight, his sweaty skin against yours, the smell of your orgasm filling your nostrils.

You’re hopeless and breathless. 

He's still inside you, like he doesn't want to leave. 

You know you have to. 

Eventually he shifts, lying on the other side of the bed muttering, “god, you really are something else.” He takes the pack of cigarettes from the nightstand and lights one, taking a long drag.

“I'm not enough,” you want to scream looking at him through the cloud of smoke enveloping him. “Or maybe you're not, for me.”

When he is about to fall asleep, you get up. You pick up your clothes off the floor and put them on silently.

“Where are you going, gatita?” he grunts. 

Does he think he has solved it? Does he think you will forgive him as you did the other times? 

You don’t reply.

"You only ever tell me the truth when you think I won't hear it,” you type on your phone and send it to him, before coming out of the door without turning your back.

You leave him there, wondering, lost as he makes you feel.

There will be two broken hearts. 

You know he loves you and you love him.

He is convinced that he doesn’t deserve you and pushes you away every time you get close to his soul. 

He knows that you see him clearly; that scares him.

You are tired of fighting for the both of you.

You push the elevator button under the gaze of an unsuspecting policeman who urges, “Where are you going, miss?”

“I'm leaving.”

“Do you need someone to accompany you?” 

“No, thank you.”

“Someone could follow you,” he counters.

“No one knows me, you don't have to worry.”

You wait for the elevator, still hoping to see his ruffled raven hair poking out the door, his voice calling to you, his hand tightening on your wrist. 

None of this happens.

The only ones who will follow you are your ghosts.

Tag list: @baronessvonglitter , @almostempty , @probablyreadinsmut , @thundermartini , @gothcsz , @cas-readsandwrites , @harriedandharassed

Archive tag: @pedrostories

If you want to be added or removed just let me know! Thank you very much for reading❤︎

[treasuredplanet]

plans to see sleeping at last tonight and based on where we’re at emotionally I’m going to start openly sobbing during the first 0.5 seconds of saturn

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Someone New 4

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include angst, pining, romcom tropes, and some darker elements later in the series. Some triggers may not be specifically tagged. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This fic will contain explicit content. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You’ve had a crush on your best friend for years, but you’re slapped in the face with reality when he takes things to the next level with his girlfriend.

Characters: Steve Rogers, Thor

Note: I got like insanely sick suddenly and I still feel off.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

“Sam, that paradise punch was a bad idea,” you groan as you struggle to get your bag out of the trunk of the taxi. 

“Whatever,” Sam slurs as he comes around, “I tipped the driver extra. Bud, you think you can get this out for the lady?” 

The driver is all to helpful as he comes around you take the handle from you and swiftly plants the bag on its wheels. It’s everything you have that isn’t bundled up into storage or sacrificed to the dumpster. You thank the man and swallow a belch. 

“Have a safe trip, miss,” the driver nods and turns to slap Sam’s arm, “and you, sir.” 

Sam salutes the man and pushes away from the cab, your carry-on slung from his shoulder. The two of you clumsily lift the bag over the curb. You look up at the airport as the roar of jet engines cuts through the dusky air. 

“I feel like I’m drunker,” Sam snickers. 

“Uh huh, me too,” you murmur. Two hours on his couch was barely enough. If anything, it’s just set your vision askew. “They’re not gonna let me board if – hiccup—I'm blasted.” 

“Don’t worry, we can get water,” he blathers and yanks your bag onto its wheels, “off to the land of vikings! Skol!” 

“Skol?” You follow him in a clamour. 

“It’s what they say, isn’t it?” He chuckles, “I saw it on a show or whatever.” 

“I... yeah, usually while they drink, not stumbling drunk,” you rebuff. 

“Sound pretty sober to me with all that whining,” he rebukes. 

“Whatever,” you roll your eyes and follow him through the automatic doors. 

He veers off and you follow him in confusion, glancing back at the check-in counter. He stops before a bright vending machine and feels around in his pocket. He taps his card and focuses intently on pressing the button. 

“Waterrrrr,” he drones and leans on the machine to reach through the slot. 

He hands it over and you unscrew the cap. You chug half the bottle and let out an obnoxious belch. You cover your mouth in embarrassment and offer him the rest. He finishes it off and you linger by the machine as you let the cool flow settle in. 

“Feel any better?” He asks. 

“A little. I’ll have a coffee on the plane.” 

“Nah, you should sleep.” 

“Maybe,” you take out your phone and tap the side button. Nothing. 

“Anything from Mr. Carter?” Sam asks. 

“No,” you black the screen and shrug. “Come on, I gotta check my bag.” 

“You should check that boy,” he blathers as he stands straight and once more yanks the bag after you, “tell him what’s what.” 

“Sam, he’s busy--” 

“He’s your best friend! At least, he likes to say so then do nothing.” 

“Quit,” you beg him, “this is hard enough.” 

“This is what you need--” 

“I know!” You throw your hands up and face him as you come up before the counter. “I know. Okay. I’m stupid and---” you shake your head and let the truth sink back into the depths of your soul. You face the clerk and sigh, “I’m sorry, I’m here to check my bag.” 

You pull out your wallet and slide your passport across the counter. You show your boarding pass and pay for the extra weight. Your bid a safe journey and carry on with only the smaller bag still on Sam’s shoulder. 

Wordlessly, you sit in a row of seats. You look up at the clock. You’ll have to go to the boarding area sooner than later. He won’t be able to come with you. 

“Sam, I’m sorry. I just... is it that obvious?” You croak. 

He puts his hand on your back and rubs it gently. It’s soothing. The tension trickles down your sides and seeps out. It feels good to admit it aloud yet mortifying just the same. 

“No, I just sense these things. I know Steve, I know you, and I know he doesn’t deserve you. Even as just friends.” 

“Ugh,” you put your head in your hands, “I am so stupid.” 

“No, you’re not. You’re human. It stinks. Our brains, our hearts, they aren’t logical, as much as we like to pretend,” he huffs, “trust me. We’ve all been there and if we haven’t, we’ll get our turn.” 

“Yeah, I guess,” you sit up as your eyes glisten, “I just... he said he’d be here. I thought I’d at least get that--” 

Your name echoes through the airy space and you wince. Right on cue, just before you can collapse completely. You turn as Steve rushes toward you. He wears jeans and grey sweatshirt. He remembered! 

You stand as Sam sighs. You smile, only halfway before you see the figure trailing behind him. Peggy looks less than excited to be there. Her sleepy lashes flutter as her wave hair is pinned back in a messy chignon, still elegant despite the carelessness. She wears a dark green trench over a silver satin nightie. She must’ve rushed out with him. 

“Hey,” Steve nears, “sorry I couldn’t make it for drinks, but I couldn’t miss take-off.” 

“Mmm, they don’t have any afternoon flights,” Peggy mutters. 

“They do but landing doesn’t line up with the train,” you shrug and glance at her briefly. Her glare darts back at you. You wonder if that work dinner was so impromptu after all. 

“Are you excited?” Steve drops into the seat next to you. 

“Uh, yeah, nervous,” you smile as the weight lightens from your chest. He came. Maybe Sam is wrong. Maybe friends isn’t that bad. 

“It’s going to be great. You have to send me updates, oh, and I’ll be sure to send you all the wedding news!” He grins, “I still can’t believe you’re going to be so far away.” 

“It’s a good opportunity,” Peggy intones as she sits on his other side, resting her hand on his forearm, “in her line of work, I’m sure they don’t come often.” 

You press your lips tight and look down, “yeah, not really.” 

“She can get out. Make new friends. Some girl friends, maybe,” Peggy remarks. 

“I’m sure she’ll make all the friends,” Sam interjects, “I hear there isn’t much sunlight over there, she’ll be a breath of fresh air for those grumpy vikings.” 

“Mm, yes,” Peggy grumbles as she trails her hand down to Steve’s. “Too bad you won’t make the engagement party.” 

“Or the wedding,” Steve adds. 

“Well, we’ve a full wedding party as it is,” she shrugs. “There’ll be lots of pictures.” 

“Right, yeah, I’m sorry to miss it all,” you frown. “I...” you sit back and nearly choke, “I’m gonna hit the bathroom.” 

You stand as Sam puffs out heavily and to your surprise, Peggy swiftly gets to her feet, suddenly very awake. Your soberness is setting in along with a pulsing headache. You really don’t want to deal with her. If you knew he’d bring her, you’d have told Steve to stay home. 

“I’ll come with you. I’m splitting at the seams,” she trills. 

“Alright,” you agree with a tint of uncertainty. 

She twirls and you walk parallel to her towards the bathroom signs. You chalk it up to the feminine habit. It isn’t unusual to visit the toilets in pairs, even without much kinship between you. It does however spoil your attempt at respite. You less so want to empty your bladder than clear your mind. 

You don’t say a word as you enter the bathroom. You go into a stall and she does the same. Your mind clogs your biology and you have to sit and focus before you can get a flow going. By the time you’re trickling into the bowl, she’s done. A toilet flushes and you hear her unlatch the door and approach the sinks. 

She’s in heels, even at this hour. The sink sprays out water and you listen to her hum as she washes her hands. You finish up and flush, coming out meekly to use the sink next to her. You focus on the simple task as she watches you in the mirror. 

Sensing her gaze, you look up and pull your hands out from under the censor-activated faucet. You meet her eyes and nearly wince at the steely intensity. You stand straight and move past her to retrieve some paper towel. 

“This is a wise decision,” she says, “well-needed.” 

You look at her again as you dry your hands, “thanks.” 

“Oh, I’m not congratulating you. About time you got some sense,” she sneers. 

You wince and crumple up the towel. You drop it in the bin and cross your arms, “okay, well...” 

“It’s better you’re not here for any of it. He doesn’t need the distraction.” 

You chew the inside of your lip as venom drips from her voice. You’re still slightly tipsy and too tired to process this. You have no response. 

“The distance will help you get over it. Finally,” she snips, “you know, I thought it was almost endearing at first then it just became pathetic.” 

You swallow. You’re humiliated that even she could see right through you. You can hardly blame her for her spite. After all, she’s his fiancée, not you. 

“He thinks it’s silly. He laughs.” 

You flinch then. Hard. Your chest rents and your stomach boils. 

“He knows. It’s obvious. I mean, it’s convenient, isn’t it? You’ll do anything for him and really it was rather helpful. Took a lot off my plate and his but it’s time for all of us to grow up. I will be his wife and he doesn’t need some girl to measure out his laundry detergent or remind him to eat.” 

You blink and look away. You cross your arms and push your shoulders up, “got it.” 

“So why don’t you go ahead and just put him on mute now?” 

“Peggy,” you whisper. 

“We’re getting married. You know you can’t stop it, that’s why you’re running away. So end it.” 

“You don’t have to be cruel,” you mutter. 

“I could be horrid. I could have been for all these years. I believe I’ve had remarkable restraint with you,” she points a manicured nail at you, “you should be thanking me for having the grace to do this in private.” 

Your lip trembles and your cheeks tug painfully. You nod and turn away, “don’t worry, Peg, you won’t hear from me. He won’t either.” You make your way to the door, “I wish you both the best.” 

“Mm, I pray you find some clarity and perhaps some maturity along the way,” she retorts as she follows you, heels clicking loudly across the tile, “perhaps you might find someone too. Someone you deserve.” 

Her last words sting. The derision is pungent enough to make your nose crinkle. Someone you deserve... because you could never ever be good enough for Steve Rogers. 

💟

You don’t look back as you go through the gate. You can’t. It’s too painful. The tears have receded but the pain is only deeper. Peggy’s words reverberate in your head, nipping at your ears as your nape burns hotter and hotter. 

She’s right. Sam too. This is overdue. It’s exactly what you need to do. You know it. It’s the reason you chose this. That moment when you were faced with being the eternal wobbly third wheel, you made up your mind. It’s over. That part of your life is behind you, but you don’t know that you’ll ever stop feeling this way. 

It’s hard to settle in your seat, even knowing you have ten hours of flying ahead of you. Disembarking alone will be another hour at least, then finding the train station, another few hours... It’s a lot of time to think and you just can’t stop. 

You don’t take the book out of your bag or touch the screen in front of you. Instead, you sit, slumped down in your seat, eyes drifting back and forth, as you wallow in your self-pity. You stay like that through the flight. You decline the mid-flight meal and the snack cart. You don’t even get up to use the bathroom. 

You close your eyes and float away into memory. You can feel the scene around you. You can smell the stale air freshener forgotten on the shelf above the desk and hear the muffled thrum of music through the walls. You sit on the bed, your textbook open in your lap and your laptop open by your leg. Steve’s on the other end, phone in hand, texting as his golden hair flops forward over his head. 

He’s younger. That rosiness still kisses his cheeks as subtle freckles speckle his pale skin. Yet he’s just a well-built as ever. Broad shoulders, chiseled jaw, long legs. He’s the very picture that should appear next to ‘hunk’ in the dictionary. Every girl’s dream. Your dream. 

“Huh,” he chuckles and drops his phone, “this girl in my history class wants to meet up.” 

Your heart plucks and you force a smile, “a girl? Meet up?” 

“Oh, yeah, she lets me copy off her pop quiz every lecture. Guess I kinda owe her.” 

“Wow,” you utter, the only noise you can eke out. Owes her? Funny, you did his laundry last week and helped him print out his term paper... what do you get? 

“Yeah, so uh, do you think you could send me a copy of your notes?” He pushes himself to the edge of the bed. “I probably won’t be back tonight.” 

“Right,” you nod and hide your embarrassment at the insinuation. 

“You can crash here if you wanna. Long way across campus at night,” he shrugs casually as he grabs his varsity jacket. 

“No, I’ll... I’ll just go now,” you get off the bed and close up your books. 

“Probably a good idea. Just in case she wants to come back here,” he chuckles, “see ya in poli sci?” 

“Sure,” you keep your chin down. “See ya.” 

Your eyelids lift as you come out of the dazed memory.  

New York is gone. Steve is gone. You’re all alone. You’ve left it all behind but that home was never a home. It was all a farce you built on a childish hope. You’re done lying to yourself. It was never going to be. You didn’t miss any chance at all. You just wasted your own time. 

You just languish there in the airplane seat. It’s still hard to believe it’s all real. It isn’t until the wheels bounce and hit the tarmac that it fully sinks in. 

You’re not doing that again. You’re better off alone. You have to be, right? You don’t really know. You don’t even know yourself. You just know the girl who only wanted to be what he needed. 

But what do you need? What do you want? Can you figure it out? Is there anything in this land for you that you couldn’t find in New York? 

At least you’ll have lots of time to figure that out. Intimate hours with yourself to dwell and cringe and regret. Time to think, time to move on, time to cut him out. 

As you join the line to have your Visa stamped, you pull out your phone and turn off airplane mode. You swipe through to Steve’s last message. It was weeks ago. That makes it easier to hit that button; ‘mute’. It’s a start. Maybe in a few weeks, you’ll be ready to hit ‘block’.