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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 years ago

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Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth

Warnings: noncon sex (oral, m&f, intercourse)

This is dark!Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Summary: The reader is a fic writer and her number one fan can’t get enough.

Note: This is probably the most meta shit I’ve written but for all the fic writers out there, this one if for you. Hope y’all get the good d you deserve but until then, here’s this!

Please let me know what you think in a reblog/reply! <3 please and thank you.

You let out a sigh of relief and hit ‘post’. It was almost pathetic but it was the best part of your day, or most days. Having something to share with others was nice. The fact that they enjoyed your work and your boredom-induced work made it worth the frustration.

It wasn’t real writing. You knew that. Fanfiction was a genre to be laughed at. You didn’t admit it to anyone but there was a sense of pride to go along with the shame.

That part of you was kept online. The darker parts; the lust, the angst, the fear. It all went hand in hand and no one would guess that the bookshop assistant was stevies-doll. It felt almost scandalous to have a virtual alter ego.

You closed your laptop and checked the time. More than enough to get ready for work. Plain blouse, grey pants, mary jane flats. You were the typical bookish girl with dreams that would never come true.

The bus was late. Oh well. You’d still be there in time you’d just have to forego your usual espresso. Afternoons were draining and you often needed the boost to keep from nodding off in the last hour. You really weren’t sure why the shop stayed open so late; not many came out after five for books but traffic was relatively steady in the hipster village.

Nina met you with a frown. She preferred you at least ten minutes earlier. Tardiness had seen several other clerks fired and you had been the only to make it more than a year in the shop. Three in fact. This place was like a second home. A garden of ideas to plant the seeds of your mind.

When Nina left, you rearranged the desk. You moved aside her ledger and replaced it with your notebook, two pens to the right of it. In between the chime of the door and the rare customer queries you did most of your writing. When you reached a block you’d read, but today you felt particularly inspired.

The world was saved again. The news reports had shown footage of the daring rescue. As grim as the situation was, you couldn’t help but fantasize. The first avenger with his golden hair and sharp jawline was every woman’s Adonis. At least, you thought he was the very picture of perfection.

It wasn’t obsession. That was your mantra. You often argued with yourself. As much as you thought of the great Steve Rogers, it was only admiration. It wasn’t the possessive infatuation often found on social media. It was a hobby. An escape from the world.

You bent over the notebook. The shop was empty. The dulcet tones of indie folk floated along the shelves. You set pen to paper and waited for the ring to draw you away from the world behind your eyes.

You leaned on the counter and scribbled the first line in ink. That was always the hardest part. Then again, the beginning was always more exciting than the end.

‘The day the earth went dark, there was but one beacon left to shine…’

It was amusing at first. The thought of another person spending so much time writing about him. That someone would fabricate an entire universe in which he was entirely different. Somewhere out there was a woman who wore the pseudonym ‘stevies-doll’.

Steve knew he should have been perturbed by the fact. The idea of another so consumed by him that they would post almost every other day about him. He couldn’t remember how he stumbled on the small blog. A decent following but nothing close to viral.

The first story he read was cute. It even made him feel warm. The second was very much the same. He clicked through to another, this one more serious. Grey and daunting. A few more and he stumbled upon one he found most interesting, the letters NSFW emblazoned across the top. He googled the acronym and clicked back to the tab. Excited almost.

When he finished, he was warm in another way. Hot, almost. The things he read, the idea of him doing them, was almost arousing. Of course, he had never done any of it. Had never been more than the perfect gentlemen. Sweet and doting. That was how love should be. But that wasn’t love, no, that story was sex. Pure, unadulterated fucking.

He forced himself away from the computer after that. He needed to sleep. He had intended to browse his email quickly but he often found himself in the oddest rabbit-holes. That was definitely the deepest. He shook his head and chuckled. It was funny.

The next morning he awoke and went about his usual routine. He was out the door by seven. Off to save the world. Or wait around for it to need saving. At Stark Tower, he listened to Tony with his eyes on his phone. It wasn’t anything important. Some recounting about how he had scared Pepper with a nano-spider.

Steve gave a half-hearted chuckle and Tony went back to his screen. “Tough audience,” He muttered to Bruce who merely shook his head.

Steve leaned against a stool and squinted at his phone. He stared at the google search. Why had he typed it in? Somewhere in the tedium of Tony’s chatter, he had keyed in the name. He hit the first link and his phone loaded slowly.

His own face stared back at him. The banner was a press photo he had taken over a year ago. His bright eyes were staunch beneath the mask as he stared off into the distance. She had posted again. His thumb hovered over ‘read more’. Did he dare?

He looked up to make sure he was not being observed. The two scientists were too distracted to care about his online activity. He stood straight and cleared his throat. “I’m gonna hit the gym,” He lied. A grumble from both scientists as they squinted at the floating screens. “Right, have fun.” Steve said dryly as he left them to their work.

He stepped out in the hall and pressed his thumb to the screen. He bent his head over the phone as he walked blindly down the halls. Neither Tony or Bruce noticed through the window that he had gone entirely the wrong way. Steve didn’t either as his eyes flitted over the screen.

‘The day the earth went dark, there was but one beacon left to shine…’

You couldn’t believe how much your blog had grown in the last few months. You didn’t know if it betrayed your unexciting life or your one-track mind. Both, maybe. But it made your everyday responsibilities a little less tedious.

And the messages were even better than the hit count. Several had messaged to say they loved your work and went so far as to call you an inspiration. It was flattering but it was easy to remember who you were. No Stephen King or JK Rowling. You wrote silly one shots with limited development.

Today your inbox had been steady. Every time you found yourself bored at work, you opened the app and you had another message. Most of them short or even just emojis but nice nonetheless. And there was one you were waiting to answer

So long and in depth you had to give it more than just a thanks. You opened it several times and reread it.

‘Your story is really interesting. I think the way your portray Steve is believable. In this type of writing you rarely find anything realistic but your writing feels genuine if not entirely accurate. I would say you capture the essence of Steve perfectly and his actions at least make sense.

I always enjoy your updates and even look forward to them...especially the NSFW ones. ;)’

It was one of the few users who didn't use the anonymous feature and also left a complete comment. It was refreshing and you had come to look forward to their commentary. They went by CapUSA. Another Steve fangirl who was surprisingly inactive outside your blog. Her page was almost a clone of your own. They liked every post, reblogged, and commented. What more could a writer ask for?

Original characters maybe and not just fantasies of someone who’d never know of her existence. You closed your laptop and sighed. It felt like time. You could feel the block at the back of your head. The little thrill you got was wearing off and it felt like a phase better left to fade with your emo days in high school and that month in university when you dyed your hair purple.

You readied for work. Back on days that week. Opening was always easier. It didn’t feel so drawn out. Nina would be in at one and you’d keep her company until four. It meant little time for writing. Maybe that was for the better. You needed to start planning. For the future. For something truly your own. A fantasy so detached from reality that it would make market and maybe even a dime.

That was your dream. You didn’t want to be the listless fangirl forever. Ugh, how you hated to even call yourself a fangirl. No post today, you resigned. Maybe none tomorrow. You’d have to work up the courage to announce your hiatus. Life was calling and for once a sliver of genuine inspiration.

And the bookstore. It was Shakespeare’s birthday, which conveniently was also his death day. This meant two for one on all of his works. Nina also hired actors to stand outside the shop and re-enact famous scene from the playwright’s repertoire. They wouldn’t arrive till noon but you had a lot of set-up to do. Enough to keep you from thinking of the disappointed messages that would fill your inbox.

Steve scrolled through the pale pink blog for the dozenth time that morning. It had been two weeks since stevies-doll posted. The longest two weeks of his life. He wasn’t sure when it had become a staple in his life. A ritual almost. He’d read her latest fic as he laid down and try to clear his head of blood and grime. Lose himself in the person she dreamed he was. The man he had come to envy. Fictional but all too real in his head.

But there was nothing. At first he re-read and read again. But that grew old. He knew almost every story by heart at this point. He could recite the intro line to most and he fell asleep as his imagination reconstructed the things he had never done.

Her banner flashed across his sight when he woke, the image of his blue eyes staring beyond him. He’d come to think of her Steve as an altar ego. The beast buried deep inside of him. He was tired of being the nation’s golden child. Their unwavering moral beacon. He wanted to be him and she had helped him figure out who he truly was.

But she was gone. No green dot above her name in the chat window, her last post dated fourteen days ago, her blog like a time capsule. The ice that had preserved him for seventy years. Where was she?

Then a thought struck him. A devious one. He had been on enough missions to know his way around a computer. He considered himself quite savvy after living nearly a decade ahead of his time. It was simple enough. He tracked down many a drug pin this way and they were often concealed behind walls of encryption. He doubted she had more than a store-bought antivirus, if that.

He climbed out of bed and booted his computer. His leg shook impatiently and he tossed his phone just beneath the corner of the monitor. He rubbed his palms together as the home screen loaded and he clicked on the browser.

Her IP was simple enough to find. Right-click, inspect. When he found it, he felt his heart jump. This was a line. A very clear one. If he did this, there was no going back. He let go of the mouse and leaned his chin in his hands. He stared at her page, split by the window of code, and his jaw ticked.

He hit back and went to the messenger. He clicked on her name and his fingertips ran over the space bar. He didn’t know what to say. He’d send her little asks about her fics but he never messaged her directly. Would she respond?

‘Hey,’ He typed slowly, his fingers sped up with each key, ‘I’m a fan of your work. I think it’s excellent. I just wanted to check in and see if you were still writing for this blog.’

He hit enter and waited. He focused on the grey dot beside her name. If she saw this, it likely wouldn’t be until morning. He checked the time and sighed. It was late. He had an early briefing with Tony and he should try to sleep.

He hovered the cursor over the x but the dot turned green and he paused. The little ‘...’ blipped in the bottom of the chat box and the ding of her reply was music to his ears.

‘Hey, sorry. I know I’ve been quiet lately. I’ve just been so busy with work. I’m a bit behind at the moment. Thank you though for following me. I always enjoy your comments :)’ He read it several times before he could reply. Before he could even think of the words to.

‘It’s okay. We all have responsibilities. Take your time.’ He wanted to tell her to hurry up but who knew? She might be someone important, like a lawyer or teacher. He could wait. As long as there was hope.

‘Thanks. I appreciate that. Really.’ That response was quicker. Curt, almost.

‘I don’t want to overstep but are you okay?’ His cheeks were hot.

‘Ah, you know, life.’

He scratched his chin as he leaned back in his chair. Slowly he sat forward and typed. It took him three tries to get it right. Concerned but not pushy. ‘Anything you wanna talk about?’ He waited. The three dots appeared then faded. Several times before her answer blipped up.

‘I don’t wanna trouble you but I appreciate you asking. Nothing I won’t get over.’

‘Ok, no problem. Just know that if you need it, I could listen. It’s could to talk about stress.’ He laughed at himself. He should take his own advice. He had a horrible habit of letting things pile up until he burst at the seams.

‘Thanks again. I’ll ttyl. I gotta get some sleep. Have a good one.’

‘You, too,’ He replied a bit too quickly. ‘Talk to you then.’

You were ready to post again. It had been almost a month since your last fic and you had been reluctant to return. You couldn’t help checking in daily to see your notifications and scroll mindlessly through your own content. And your offline writing had come to a halt. You were stuck and you didn’t know how else to cope but fall back on what you knew.

Your new friend had helped too. CapUSA had quickly become a stalwart of your blog. She, or he, you still weren’t sure, spoke to you almost everyday. They encouraged you to try one more fic as you mulled over a certain prompt. Why not? It would be like a writing exercise. Maybe it would help you with your original writing. Take some of the pressure off.

And you didn’t just talk about writing. You talked about the bookstore and Nina’s incessant complaints. You talked about the stresses of your lives. Friends, or lack thereof. Cap seemed a popular person and recounted stories of the latest drama. A close knit group of friends who acted more like adversaries. It was amusing and made your forget that your life was rather empty.

You hit post and smiled. That familiar rush rolled over you and you snapped closed your laptop. You were already dressed and ready for work. You crammed in the quick editing session before the bus was due and now you’d have to run for it.

Back on afternoons. It was rainy and you were soaked by the time you got to the shop. The weather always helped traffic and you ducked behind the counter where Nina was tending to the line with Cara, a new addition. The curly-haired blonde reminded you of old Hollywood. Her high cheekbones and rose lips rivaled Monroe’s.

“Do you want me to start early?” You asked as you tucked your bag under the counter between them.

“You better. I’m gone in ten and Cara’s only on til three.” Nina muttered. “We got a new shipment. Boxes are at the end of the aisles. We’ve not had a chance to touch ‘em.”

“Okay, I’ll get right on it,” You pin your name tag on and stepped back around the counter. She was in one of her moods and all the better that you avoid her until she left. You went to the end of the history aisle and opened the box against the wall.

‘You working?’ The vibration drew your attention from re-arranging the non-fiction section. The message floated in a bubble on your lock screen. You smiled. This faceless stranger felt like more. Of course, virtual friendships were often fleeting.

You glanced down the aisle, both Nina and Cara were squinting at the computer as a customer waited patiently for them to figure out their conundrum. You swiped away the lock and typed swiftly with your phone hidden behind your leg.

‘Closing. Here all night.’

‘Oh :( you got company at least?’

‘For a couple more hours. But no shortage of work. :/’

‘Damn. Should I leave you alone?’

‘Up to you. My responses might be sporadic. Boss isn’t very pleasant today.’

‘Cool. I just read your new fic.’

‘Yeah? Sorry I haven’t checked my notifications just yet.’

‘No problem. I left a comment is all.’

‘What are you up to?’

‘Taking a break from driving. I should actually get back to it. It’s a long trip.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘To see a friend.’

‘Ah, ok. Well, drive safe.’

‘I will ;) See ya later.’

‘ttyl :)’

‘Nina’s Nook’. Steve read the crooked moniker several times over. He couldn’t believe he was actually there. That she was inside. He made good time on the road. An eight hour trip in six. Of course, he hadn’t exactly abided the speed limit. His impatience had turned to recklessness. So unlike him.

The sky was dim. The summer nights came later and later. She’d be done in an hour. The streets were dying down and the door hadn’t chimed in almost as long. He felt nervous all of a sudden. He tried to shrug of his anxiety and took a breath.

She wouldn’t know it was him. Well, she might recognize him but she wouldn’t know he was CapUSA. He couldn’t wait to see her reaction. Steve Rogers in her bookshop. In this town. It would be a story she would recount for the rest of her life. An encounter she would never forget.

Oh, he’d make sure she remembered it.

He crossed the street. A single car passed as he stepped up on the curb. It was much quieter than New York. No honking, no shouts, no hissing sewers. He liked it. It was quaint. He stood before the door and peeked through the glass. There was no one behind the desk. But the sign read open and the lights shone in welcome.

He pushed down the handle and slowly opened the door. The bell announced his entrance and a small voice called from the corner of the shop. “One moment, please.” He heard the shuffle of books and light footsteps. She emerged from the far shelves and his lips parted at the sight of her.

He had seen her before. Her few photos on Facebook and Instagram. He had found those shortly after he ferreted out her IP. He couldn’t see much but her privacy settings allowed him a glimpse into her real life. Her smile was nicer than in her pictures.

“Sorry, I was--” She stopped short as she saw him. She blinked. He closed his mouth as hers fell open. Her voice was higher when she spoke next. “I was just sorting some stuff out. I--How can I help you?”

“Um, a friend recommended a book to me and I was passing by, I thought maybe by chance… you might have it.” He kept his voice even. The same one he used for his press conferences.

“Do you have a title?” She asked. He could see her fingers tremble. The guilt as her eyes rounded. She was thinking of all the things she had wrote about him. He was thinking of those too.

“Jeez, you know, I’ve totally forgotten but the author was, uh…” He pretended to think and his eyes drifted down her body. Her flowered blouse was boxy but her pants hugged the curves of her hips and legs. She clasped her hands together and the gesture pushed her chest together between her arms. “Margaret Archer--er, Atwood.”

“Hmm, she’s done a lot. Do you know what it’s about?” She pulled her hands apart and wiped her palms on her dark pants. His eyes followed the movement. He wanted his hands there. Wanted to feel her thighs against him.

“Something about an apocalypse...um, a character named...Snow--Snow something.” He acted like he coudn’t remember. Couldn’t recall that it was stevies-doll who had recommended the very book.

“Oh, Oryx and Crake, I think it is. It’s an interesting one.” She smiled, proud to have figured out the riddle. “If you will, it should be with our most popular books.”

She hesitated as she passed him. He followed her as she went to the shelf just beside the counter. She hovered her finger before the titles as she read them. She bent as she got lower. He admired her ass as she did. He tucked his hands in his pocket before he could reach out.

“Yeah, I think it’s in sci-fi.” She stood and peeked over her shoulder. “It’s just over here.” She led him down the narrow aisle to the end. “Starts just here so Atwood…” She scanned the shelf, “Here.” She pulled out the book and held it out to him. “We have it in hardcover too.”

He took it and felt the raised letters on the cover. “Thanks.” He didn’t even acknowledge the book in his hand. The aisle was so tight she was trapped between him and the wall. She gave a sheepish smile and he turned to press his back to the shelf. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

She nodded and squeezed past him. Her chest brushed against his torso and she pretended not to notice. Once past him, she cleared her throat. “If you need any help, I’ll be up front.” She turned before he could respond and her watched her go. He never would’ve guessed the mousy shop assistant would have such a lurid imagination.

You were in disbelief. It couldn’t be. Steve Rogers in your book shop? No, you were dreaming. Or was it a nightmare? Oh god, why had you written all that stuff? You needed to delete. Now. You could hear him. The floor creaked as he moved slowly down the aisle. You hoped he would’ve taken the book and gone. The longer he stayed, the worse you felt. Your cheeks were on fire.

Your phone vibrated. You swiped the screen and found a new message from CapUSA. You sighed and rubbed your eyes. You should just pretend you didn’t see it. You unlocked the phone and read the message.

‘Hey, how’s work?’

‘It’s fine.’ You answered. What could you say? Who would believe that Steve Rogers had walked in your door?

‘I just was thinking about your last fic.’

‘Oh yeah?’ You peeked over at the far aisle. The floor no longer whined with his weight.

‘Yeah, I’d love to re-enact the last scene.’

‘Sorry?’ You sent the message and it went unanswered. ‘I don’t get it. What do you mean?’

‘The one with the girl on her knees. Begging to be fucked.’

‘Okay? I still don’t understand.’ Your heart jumped. This was really weird.

‘Or maybe and I could fuck you on that counter you’re standing behind.’

You hit close and locked the phone. You dropped it and looked around the shop. You rushed out from behind the counter and glanced out the window. You turned the latch and the floorboards groaned. You turned and pressed yourself to the door. You forgot he was there.

How could you forget something like that?

“Sorry, uh, we’re closing up,” You felt around for the lock, “I was just--”

“That’s okay. I think I’m just about done.” He slapped the book against his palm and placed it on the corner of the counter. He set his phone on top of it with a flourish. “Why don’t you flip the sign and we can get started.”

“What are you--”

“Do you prefer I call you by your real name or stevies-doll?” He leaned against the counter and smirked. “Or I can just call you doll. I know you like that.”

“No,” You exhaled shakily, “Y-you can’t be…”

“You’re not happy to see me?” He asked. He didn’t sound like the hero you saw on the news. Barely looked like him now. His pupils dilated to darken his blue eyes and the shadows of the shop cast his face in sinister tones. “You can call me Stevie if you like.”

“I...What I wrote, it was just...” You spluttered. “I’m s-sorry.”

“You don’t have to be.” He pushed himself away from the counter. “I’m not mad. Intrigued really.”

He stepped closer and your ears pounded as the adrenaline coursed through your veins. You turned and fumbled with the lock. The door opened an inch before his hand slammed it shut again. He easily flipped the lock back into place and spun the sign with a flick of his thumb.

“You can close early and we can have some fun...maybe inspire a new fic.” His arm was around your waist and you grabbed onto his thick wrist.

“They’re just stories.” You kicked as he pulled you away from the door. He tugged the blind down over the window. “Stupid fantasies.”

“Well, consider this a dream come true, doll,” He spun and let you go. You collided with the desk and gasped as the air was knocked from your lungs. “I think you remember this scene.”

“What do you want?” You clung to the desk as you turned to him.

“You know, I’m everything people think I am. Straight-laced, valiant, boring.” He planted his feet and stared you down. “Or was...until I found your blog.” His tongue ran across his bottom lip. “It gets lonely on the road. At first, your blog was like a secret companion. It gave me something to look forward to but then it made me think. So many things I never even knew I was missing out on.”

“Please, I don’t know what you want from me,” Your voice cracked. Your fear surged and left you shaking against the counter.

“I want…” He tilted his head and his eyes flashed, “You.” He paused and pushed his shoulders back. “On your knees.” Your eyes rounded, “Oh yes,” He raised a finger, “Naked.”

You stared at him. You were frozen in place. The counter your only support from melting into a puddle. His nostrils flared as he exhaled; long and drawn out.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” He snarled and his hand balled into a fist.

You gulped and held yourself with one hand against the counter as you bent to unlace your oxfords. You kicked them off with your socks and mustered your strength. You stood on your own and unbuttoned your shirt. You kept your eyes on the aged carpet stretched across the hardwood.

You dropped the blouse onto your shoes and unzipped your fly. The wool trousers slid halfway down without help and you untangled your legs from them. You added them to the heap and stood straight.

“Look at me,” Steve ordered. Your eyes snapped over to him. “Good.” You reached back and he raised a hand. “Stop...I wanna do it.”

He waved you forward and slowly you stepped away from the counter. He bared his palm in a gesture for you to halt and you hung your head. “Eyes up.” He corrected as he came closer. He walked around you and stopped just behind you.

His thick fingers touched the band of your bra and ran along it until they met at the hooks. He carefully unclasped it and the cups fell loose. He tickled your arms as he pushed the straps down them. He took it and flung it away from him. His hands came up to cup your tits and he pushed himself flush to your back.

“You always wrote so vividly of me but...I never knew how beautiful you truly were...how good you feel.” He squeezed and slowly lowered his hands. He dragged them to the side of your panties and slipped his fingers beneath the elastic. He bent as he guided the panties down your legs. “God, that ass.”

You shivered and his hands cradled your ass. He ran his rough palms along your cheeks and up your back. They settled on your shoulders and he pushed down firmly. “On your knees.”

He stepped back and you unsteadily got to your knees. He walked another circle around you. You could hear his dusky breaths. Glimpsed how his hand ran over the front of his jeans.

“Now ask, like a good girl,” He stopped before you and stared down with a smirk. “Go on, doll, I know you want it.”

You closed your eyes and swallowed. You grit your teeth and gather what was left of your wits. A story. That’s all this was. The letters could be backspaced and no one would know better of it.

“Please,” You recalled the last scene you had posted. The tingle which had flowed through you as you hit the button. What had she said? You opened your eyes. “Please, I want to...I want to make you happy.” You shuddered as the words whisked from you. “Can I?”

“Can you...what?” He taunted.

“Can I suck your dick?” It was barely a whisper.

“Oh, well, since you asked so nicely,” His hands were on his belt as he spoke. “But I have a different scene in mind for tonight. A new one.” He unbuckled his belt and cracked his neck. “I want you on the counter. On your back.”

You made to stand and his hand went to your head. He held you down.

“Crawl.”

You weakly dropped forward and turned. You crawled on hands and knees as he followed, stopping just in front of the desk as you followed his pointed finger to the other side. You stood and lifted yourself onto the counter and laid on your back. He guided your head over the side as he pulled you close and his hands found your tits again. He tweaked your hard nipples and you bit your lip.

He rescinded his hands and finished unzipping his pants. You tried not to watch as he pushed his pants down, his briefs too. The blur focused and you gaped at the size of him. He gripped himself and you snapped your mouth shut. He grabbed your chin and squeezed.

“Now, now, don’t act like this isn’t what you wanted,” He pressed his cock to your mouth and you were forced to open as his fingers threatened to crush your jaw.

He slid inside and your gasp was stifled as he met the back of your throat. He forced himself further and you threw your arms out. A clatter of books and papers as you swept them off the counter. He lingered at his limit and wiggled his hips. You arched your back as you choked and he grabbed your tit, kneading it as he slowly pulled out.

He pushed back in just as you gulped down air and you writhed atop the desk. He thrust in and out of your mouth. You gagged and groaned. The noises only fueled his fervour and he sunk in over and over until your head pulsed. The spit smeared around your lips and his balls.

He pulled back and slammed back in suddenly. His motion slowed as he came. He grunted, his breaths stuttered by the staggered rock of his pelvis. You clawed at the counter top and kicked until you could breathe again.

He slipped his cock from between your lips and his cum leaked from your mouth. You sat up and coughed. His hands were on your shoulders again. His fingers danced along your throat as if to ease your struggles.

“Come on, that’s just the first act,” He drew away and you glanced over your shoulder. “Turn around.”

You turned on the desk and he pulled your legs over the edge. He pushed your knees apart and stepped back to admire the view. You dug your nails into the lip of the counter to keep yourself from closing your legs.

“I know you’ve been dying to see this,” He grinned and pulled his shirt over his head.

His cock hung out of his pants. It twitched as he tossed his shirt at you. You caught it. It smelled like him. He shoved his pants down without pause and he hardened again. You dropped his shirt and looked away guiltily.

Had you not written this scene a dozen times over?

He was completely naked when you looked again. He came close, his hands on your knees as he knelt before you. You tried to pull your legs together but he held them apart. He shook his head and tutted.

“Just sit back and enjoy,” He licked his lips. “Trust me, it’s better than you could ever imagine.”

Your shock took over completely. You watched as he bowed his head and you felt his hot breath on your thighs. When his tongue met your pussy you gasped. He delved between your folds and swirled around your clit. Your nails went deeper into the wood and your thighs shook. It felt good. It shouldn’t, though.

He buried his face deeper and you watched his golden locks from above. He reached over blindly, his large hand found yours, and he guided it to the back of his head. He held it there a moment before letting go. You clung to him as he hands glided up your thighs and he framed your vee with thumb and index.

You arched your back and moaned. It was your declaration of surrender. You couldn’t resist it any longer. The heat stirred inside of you, the flames licking at your thighs and back. You urged Steve closer though he couldn’t possibly go any deeper.

His hands slipped down to the outside of your thighs. Your legs closed around his head and held him there. He tipped you slightly and you curled around him as he continued to lap. Your breaths mixed with throaty hums and you fell back.

You had one hand still on his head and the other in your hair as you cried out in a mighty climax. He didn’t stop until you were shaking across the counter. When at last his mouth left you, you shivered. A sudden coolness washed over your body. He stood and you looked at him through the haze.

He grabbed your waist and pulled you to your feet. You wavered and he spun you quickly. You caught yourself on the desk and he slapped your ass. “That’s it,” He purred. “You’re getting it now.”

He nudged your shoulder until you were bent entirely over the counter, your toes barely met the floor. He rubbed your ass and pulled your cheeks apart. His cock poked you as his hand slipped lower and he tickled just below your ass. You squirmed and he chuckled.

He felt around and his cock slipped lower as he bent his knees. He dragged his tip along your folds before prodding at your entrance. He shoved his hand between your legs and forced them apart.

He pushed inside and slowly stretched you around him. Your head shot up at the strain. A mix of pain and pleasure as he got deeper and deeper.

You whined as he bottomed out and his hips bucked almost instinctively. He hit your cervix and you cried out. He eased out and pushed back in. He repeated this again and again, his motion careful. Deliberate. He brought his pelvis flush to your ass and groaned.

“Fuck,” He slapped your ass again.

He drew back and slammed into you all at once. All restraint was lost and he thrust mercilessly. His pace was wild. You reached out to grab at the edge of the counter, your hips hitting the other painfully. The spark had caught and you felt the flame about to burst.

Your orgasm was surprising. More agony than pleasure. You whimpered and pushed your head into the counter as you heaved. You could barely breath as Steve never wavered. He fucked until you until your walls ached. Until they turned numb and you were nothing but a mewling fool before him.

He bent over your, his muscled torso against your sweaty back. He rutted atop you frantically. His hips jerked as his grunts deepened. His breath caught and he swore. He lifted himself off you and you felt the warmth spill down your ass and thigh.

You laid breathless as he panted behind you. He rubbed his cum into your skin with two fingers and you shook. You tried to push yourself up from the desk. He caught your hip and shoved you back down.

“Oh, we’re not even close to the finale,” He pinched your ass and you squeaked. “Not to mention the epilogue.”

tags to be added in reblog

#steve rogers x reader #dark!steve rogers x reader #dark steve rogers x reader #fic #steve rogers fic #au #marvel #mcu #captain america #dark!steve rogers #dark steve rogers #steve rogers #dark!fic #dark fic #dark!verse #darkverse

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antihero-writings · 4 years ago

Text

The Boy with the Unspeakable Name (Ch1)

Fandom: Harry Potter (and the Chamber or Secrets)

Fic Summary: Tom Riddle may have won his battle with Harry in the Chamber of Secrets, but there were a few unforeseen consequences; loss of Tom's memory being the most obnoxious of them. Is it possible to stop Tom's past from becoming his future? Or is the young Tom Riddle doomed to repeat his mistakes?

Notes:

I've actually had this idea ever since the first or second time I read Chamber of Secrets. Though Tom has never been my favorite character, I found young Tom interesting, and I always thought things would have gone differently if he had come back when he was Harry's age. I was always curious if he could have been redeemed if things had gone this way. Now, I know JK Rowling purposely wanted to create an irredeemable villain, so she wouldn't have redeemed him even then, but I wanted to write a fic playing with that idea.

Despite having had this idea for a long time, I didn't write it because I was afraid I'd bite off more than I could chew, and wouldn't finish. But this last time I read Chamber of Secrets, I decided I'd just go for it. I'm still afraid I won't finish, as this is the longest premise of any of my fics posted, (and I haven't finished any of my other, shorter, long fics...) but I didn't want that to stop me from at least trying out the idea. Even if I don't finish it, at least I'll have something to show for it!

All that being said, if you like this fic and do want me to continue...please please please consider commenting, and/or reblogging. Writing fics like this is a lot of effort, and while I do write them for my own enjoyment...it is still very difficult for me to find the motivation to continue them. Sometimes one comment can mean the difference between me gaining the motivation to continue, and leaving the fic behind.

Also, if there are any artists who are interested in drawing cover art for this fic don't hesitate to say so!! You can comment so below, or message me!!

Chapter 1:

He didn’t know how fitting it was.

Tom Riddle didn’t know just how fitting it was that the first two things he sensed after waking up were the sound of crying, and the stench of blood.

He didn’t remember how much of his past—or perhaps one could call it his future—was comprised of tears, blood, muffled screaming, and the words avada kadavra! hissed in a cold, high voice that was surely not his own.

Right now, he didn’t remember much of anything at all.

Sixteen years or sixty, he remembered none of pain, the loss, or the victory.

All he knew in this moment was that world was damp and cold, it smelled like death, and someone was weeping.

That was the world to him; an ink spill on living canvas. A hole made in screaming pages.

The sound of weeping was the first thing he knew in this new life—(or this old life, made new)—it echoed and filled the place—whatever the place was—like the slow drip of water in an empty cave; tiny on its own, mistakable in a crowd, but sharp, vast, and overpowering when the world was hollow.

And the world did feel hollow.

He did not wake to a warm, dry hospital bed, a fire, and a heap of get-well cards. His family did not surround him, showering him with love and gratitude, asking what he did and did not remember, and what had happened to their sweet boy. No one held up pictures, pointing to the scenes and people within them fervently demanding remember?!, praying amnesia would leave him sooner rather than later.

Instead he woke to a place in which every sensation burned: cold searched for weaknesses in his damp cloak and slithered across his skin; the smell of blood bored into his nostrils, enough he could almost taste it; and the longer he heard the wailing it burned in his ears too.

Burned because it hurt his heart not just his ears? Because it was sad? Because it mattered, and he needed to know what was wrong?

Surely not.

Burned because it was annoying, and he wanted to shut it up. Burned because it wasn’t a nice sound to wake up to, and whoever they were ought to have more courtesy for orphan boys who just wanted to wake up in peace.

Everything burned because something about feeling, sensing anything at all, was…oddly unfamiliar. Not strange as in a new way; it was like something he once knew well that had been forgotten, left behind for a while, like nostalgia.

And if simply living was this foreign…how long had it been since he was last alive? How long had he been a ghost? And what brought him back to his body?

He opened his eyes.

Sight didn’t change the impression he had received from his other senses; mostly it just added ‘dark’ to the list of not-very-nice things the world was made of. And due to this fact, sight didn’t burn nearly as much as his other senses. Still, the world was crisper, more colorful, somehow, despite its drab nature…

He was in a chamber, a dungeon of sorts—probably underground. Stones and statues, turned brownish-green in the humid atmosphere, lined the walls. Snakes poked their heads out at him from the walls, their eyes glittering as if they’d come alive at any moment. And before him was a particularly large statue of a bearded man.

But, as he sat up, his clothing—long, black robes, with a green patch on the chest—clinging to him uncomfortably, there were a few things sight showed him worth noting:

The first, most obvious, was the gigantic snake lying beneath the statue some ways down the chamber, its scaly green tail glistening in the low light. It was clearly dead; lying still, its belly up. There was blood where its lifeless eyes had been scratched blind, and a hole in the roof of in its gaping mouth, one of its front fangs missing. This was most likely the source of the foul smell. How long had it been dead? Couldn’t have been long, considering the other things around the room…

The second, what may have once been a book. This one was very close to himself. Its pages were ripped out of their bindings, in shreds, surrounding him like fresh snowfall. The leather cover had many holes and gashes in it, apparently made by the missing fang, which also lay beside the book, blackened ink on its tip—(but can words bleed?)—the book mutilated beyond repair. This was one of the strangest sights. It was almost as if someone—probably the person crying—blamed it for their problems and took their anger out on it, before that anger became the sorrow that resonated through the chamber now.

The third was a gleaming orange and red bird, long tail feathers unfurled on the floor, like a flame, its head held high, sitting quietly beside the mourner. It didn’t look like it didn’t belonged in such a grim place—like a rich person walking in a slum.

There was another glittering thing beside him: a silver sword with jewels encrusted in the hilt. This was likely the cause of the snake’s death, especially considering it had blood coating it.

A little way from it was a pile of raggedy brown fabric. …He couldn’t quite tell what it was supposed to be.

The sixth: the source of the crying, a boy. He had unruly black hair, and his black robes—(the same robes, he noted, that he himself was wearing, or very similar)—were christened with the blood and slime of beasts—(and maybe men, he couldn’t know)—and ink. He was possessed by the demon that was tragedy; his entire form shaking, heaving, whether from sadness or rage, or both, only time, and a healthy dose of good questioning would tell.

The last thing of note, and what was most likely the source of the tears: a corpse. A girl specifically, with red hair—almost as fiery as the bird’s feathers—ashen skin, and, once again, the black robes—(must be a uniform of some sort). Perhaps they were at a school? Quite a dreary school it was, if so. She was small, apparently young.

The scene was both a lot, and not much, to go on.

Three living things—one without memory, another without peace—two dead, and four inanimate, one of the inanimate things more mauled more than any of the living or dead.

His mind started to provide theories about the scene,

Theory one:

The snake had killed the girl, the boy had taken up the sword and killed it in outrage.

Made sense, but that still left the diary, the bird, and himself. As well as the pile of fabric…

He didn’t see the bird having a big role in this; his best guess was that it belonged to the boy, as it seemed loyal to him, sharing his grief, and that its role was the scratch marks on the snake’s eyes, helping the boy defeat it.

Theory two: The girl had written something in her diary the boy didn’t like, perhaps something about he himself. He had torn the diary apart, and in a jealous rage sent his pet snake after her, but regretted it after the snake went too far and killed her, and decided to kill it after all.

Theory three: Reverse of roles; the diary was the boy’s, and she had found it, and he was either mad she found it and tore it, or she had after finding something she didn’t like in it, potentially about him, and the offended party let loose the snake.

Theory four: The snake belonged to neither of them, it was by accident they happened to wake it, or stumble into its home while fighting about this diary.

But why did they find an underground chamber the best place for an argument? Did they live here? Was this a normal place for them to spend time? Like some sort of secret hideaway? Were they in hiding from something?

Four(a): Or else were they on some quest to find it—was the snake guarding treasure? Did the diary hold the map to it, and they tore it simply to keep anyone else from finding it, or else falling into the same trap?

Theory five: The diary was Tom’s. He had some relationship to one or both of them that went awry.

Five(a): The snake was Tom’s, and he had set it loose on the girl for some reason, perhaps he was the jealous and angry party here.

Theory six: The snake didn’t kill the girl.

Six(a): She was already dead or dying before the snake even arrived. Maybe the snakes venom, or something else about this chamber, was meant to cure her and failed.

Six(b): The boy killed her. Perhaps in his aforementioned jealous rage he had took the sword to her himself, and now he regretted it.

Six(c): Tom killed her.

He sat up, blinking at the dreary universe. The boy didn’t hear him, just kept on crying. It was a very tiresome noise to hear so constantly.

He reached over and, quietly as possible, drew the diary closer. What made its disfigurement all the stranger was that every page he could see appeared blank. People didn’t usually have qualms with blank diaries—it was the words that people were so touchy about.

When he lifted up the cover, he could see beneath the gashes a name: Tom Marvolo Riddle.

The sight of the name sent a curious sensation through his stomach; he didn’t remember who it belonged to, but the name set a fire boiling in his gut, a bubbling, swirling, writhing fire within him. A fire that threatened to destroy everything around it too.

He looked up at the mourner. Was that his name? Or was the girl, in fact, a very petite, long-haired boy? Did the diary belong to no one present, and it was the secrets within, not the owner, that mattered? But there were no words at all, let alone any secrets…

Or…was it perhaps his own? His own name that he didn’t even remember.

Sitting here theorizing wasn’t going to get him any closer to the truth.

It didn’t seem like a good idea to disturb the boy in his grief, but he didn’t have much choice—losing your memory is an ordeal of its own, you know.

He got to his feet—this sensation too didn’t feel completely mundane to him. Everything felt nostalgic— like in some fond childhood he walked, and smelled, and saw, and heard, but as he grew up, sense left him, and he forgot what it meant to be alive. His damp clothes clung to his body, making him shiver.

His footstep broke the atmosphere; the first new sound in the stagnant place, the pieces of peace cutting through the tears. The boy gasped—the kind of raw gasp, full of dread and despair, one takes when they realize the dragon is awake.

But the dragon in this particular chamber was slain…

His slow steps filled the chamber, an ominous repetition, the ticking of a clock.

When he got close, the boy’s hand wrapped around the hilt of the sword, the metal twinkling in the dim light, scraping and clattering on the stone as it moved.

“I’d stay back if I were you,” his voice was soft but solid, dangerous, wet with tears, shaking with rage, hoarse from screaming.

Tom stopped. He didn’t know what that meant, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

Hmm…What to ask? ‘Why’s that?’ ‘What happened here?’ ‘Who are you, who was she, and, while you’re at it, who am I?’

The scene was still fresh; if he touched the embers it might reignite.

“And…If you were me, what would you do?” he decided to ask. Speech, words forming on his tongue, felt odd too… but it was the sound of his voice that caught him most off guard…why? Had he been expecting to hear something different?

It was an odd question; he could tell the boy wasn’t expecting it. He paused. Then he scoffed,

“I’ll never be like you.” Then his voice grew quiet and dangerous, “But if I were in your place…I would run. As far away as I could, and as fast as I could, before I found out what the famous Harry Potter is capable of when you take something important from him.”

An even odder response.

The boy turned. One of his most defining features was the circular-rimmed, cracked glasses he wore. That, and the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, which was red and irritated. Seeing this scar, for some reason, made ire rise in Tom’s throat too. His glasses shielded eyes of a bright green which also heralded from a distant memory.

Bright, but dark. A green that pierced the veil of shadows, yet reflected the rest of the world. He wondered if he had ever seen such hatred in someone’s eyes before, in that past he didn’t remember. They burned as bright as the bird by his side, bright as the girl’s hair. They were bright enough to set the chamber ablaze, dark enough to enact the threats in all the room’s corners. Yet his name didn’t immediately come to mind.

Harry Potter. That was what he said his name was. Once said aloud, the name was more familiar than sensation itself; a burning scar upon his mind, never quite healed. The name was rage, and humiliation itself to him…though he couldn’t place the source of these emotions; no memories came to mind.

They were enemies.

Only two names he knew so far, and both sent the same sort of mad fury through him. Curious.

He couldn’t be more than twelve years old. Twelve years old was quite the young age to be defeating monsters, watching girls die, and to hold such hatred in one’s eyes. Very young to be so hated by he himself. He was just a kid, did he/this harry potter really deserve all this?

Why did they hate each other so much? Was it normal for him to hate twelve-year-old boys? Come to think of it, how old was he himself? He sounded young, not much older than him. But he didn’t feel young. Why did he hate him so much? It was starting to look like Theory six(c) might be the most likely.

He didn’t take his advice. He didn’t know much about himself, but he didn’t think he was one to take people’s advice, especially not that of his enemies. In ignorant defiance he took a step forward.

“Stay back!” Harry Potter barked, as vicious as a loyal guard dog.

That same hatred he felt buzzed behind his words.

Another step.

He held up the sword.

“I’m warning you.” Tom knew the threat in his voice was very real.

Yet he came closer. Close enough to see the face of the girl.

He didn’t recognize her. Predictable, but aggravating. He had hoped that perhaps seeing her would bring him to his senses. Alas, she was just a dead girl.

He leaned in closer.

“DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH HER!!” the boy’s words, along with the sword, were at his throat without a second to spare.

He simply flicked his gaze to him; no sign of shock or emotion at his outburst on his features.

The world must burn for this boy too. Burn, not because of sensation itself was strange, but because what he felt was currently was too much to bear.

Hatred, horror, heartbreak…hell. It all blazed and overflowed in his eyes.

Tom backed up one step, then another, and kept backing away until the sword was no longer close to his skin. Harry could have easily followed him, keeping the threat alive, but it seemed staying by the girl, protecting her lifeless body was his highest priority—Why? What could he possibly do now that she was dead? Was he prone to mutilate dead girls? Was his touch gross enough on its own to warrant such violence?

The anger was still white-hot, but confusion was in the boys’ eyes too now.

Yup, six(c) seemed pretty likely.

So, how had he lost his memory? He himself didn’t seem hurt in the slightest physically, he didn’t even have so much as a spitting headache to tell him he’d knocked his head hard enough to lose his memory. It didn’t appear as though he and the boy had dueled, despite the indication they were opponents, and the sword in his hand. Nothing indicated how he could lose his memory, or why…or, come to think of it, why he was still alive.

If it was true he had killed her, that they were enemies, why hadn’t Harry killed him in his sleep? He surely had the chance, in the midst of all the wailing. Why didn’t he walk up to him, send that sword through him and be done with it? Why didn’t he fight him, run him through, now? Tom was clearly unarmed, and Harry was likely the one who killed the snake, clearly he had the upper hand, the power to do so. It all made too much sense.

He could tell he wanted to.

…The diary. It must be connected to everything. Would it reveal the truth of the situation, and his lost memories? Everything seemed to trace back to it. From the looks of things, it was the source of the scene…and it was the most confusing part of the scenario. If he started with it, perhaps he could get somewhere.

He sauntered back to it, crouched down and picked up the mangled cover, staring at the name, the holes where someone—presumably Harry—had stabbed it, a few blank pages hanging limply out of the binding. But why would he hurt an inanimate diary?

“Who’s Tom Riddle?” he asked.

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patchofsunlight · 4 years ago

Text

hello! so this is a little bit about me, i guess! feel free to ask any questions if you want to!

name

nina! tbh that’s not actually my name, it’s a nickname my dad gave me when i was really young and i kinda really like it!! so yeah

age

i’m 17 yee haw

main acc

@astroninaaa

when did i start this blog?

july of 2020! i have no idea of what day it was but. july!!!

nationality/ethnicity

i was born and raised here in brazil, which means i’m latina! love to see it

languages

my first language is portuguese, but i’ve been speaking english for 5 to 6 years, maybe? however, i still make a lot of mistakes in english so please be patient with me alright? lmao!! i also can understand spanish pretty well but i can’t speak or write it so there’s that

sign

i’m a leo!!

hogwarts house

slytherin!! we hate jk rowling here tho

mbti type

entp-t, the debater

enneagram type

type 8, the challenger

type 3, the achiever

what do i write for?

atla, lok, pjo, hoo, and bnha. i might start writing for new things or stop writing for something after a while, but i’ll let you guys know if that happens!

posting schedule

smaus are posted on tuesdays and fridays, and fics are posted on wednesdays. the posts might not happen every week, but when they do it’s on these days!

tagging, asks, and submissions

so here’s the thing: you can tag me in absolutely anything you want. oh, you saw a nice meme and wants someone to see it? here i am, go ahead. you posted a bit of your art (be it writing, painting, drawing, music, whatever) and wants someone to see it? tag me please i’ll LOVE to check it out. honestly GO WILD i might take a while to actually see it but i promise i will whenever i can.

i love getting asks. i love getting those mile long asks (from anon or not) where you tell me about your day or rant about something or give opinions on this one tv show you’re watching. i love it. i also love those tiny asks where you just say “hi!!” or comment something about one of my posts. i love it, i feel validated, and it’s NEVER annoying. if you want to send me an ask, go ahead!!!! you’re never a bother!!!! same goes for private messages!!!

my submissions are open and, again, go wild. a lot of people send me memes and i keep them all under the tag “memes🦑” and i adore it. if you want to send something other than memes, tho? yeah go ahead. have fun y’all

also don’t send hate ig??? but honestly if you do i. i probably won’t really care. “i think you’re annoying and untalented” and??? so do i??? congrats, you accomplished nothing. just don’t be rude to anyone else in my blog or i’m gonna throw hands.

about reposting/copying/translating my writing

no. reblogs are very very VERY much appreciated but please don’t repost my writing anywhere. you can also like use my ideas for inspiration but please don’t copy my stuff??? and we can talk about translating but i’m not sure. it’s just that i work hard on my writing and really give it a part of me and i don’t like the idea of other people modificating/taking credit for it. don’t plagiarize please that’s a crime lmao

quick message

for everyone that reads this: please, take care of yourself! drink some water, eat properly, don’t let yourself get sleep deprived, don’t overwork, and rest when possible! your health is very, very important, so remember to care for it. i hope you have a good day!

thank you for reading, i hope this helped you know me better!!! see you around!!!

← back to navi

#about me #fromthewatertribe #patchofsunlight

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theissuewithred · 4 years ago

Text

On Harry Potter, J.K. Rowling, and being Trans

TW: mention of death, suicide, suicidal thoughts, self harm, transphobia, swearing (just cause i know some people don’t like it)

if anything is uncomfy for you to read, i’m really sorry, this is just my own opinion and the best way for me to explain it.

for my ADHD and autistic followers/anyone who has trouble reading long posts like this one, i’m gonna summarize everything in the last paragraph if you want to know what i said. I’ll also limit any potentially triggering stuff in that last paragraph.

Pretty much everybody in the potterhead community knows what has been going on with JK Rowling and her extremely transphobic comments that she has made over the years. I’m not exactly active in the online community, but i’m definitely a reaaaaally big fan of the books, and when I learned what Rowling had said, I had a lot of trouble processing it (which is why it’s taken me so long to post this.)

My mental health has never been great. I’ve pretty much always had to deal with some form of depression and anxiety, and while for a good chunk of my childhood i was pretty okay, my mental health took a huge nosedive when i was about 10 or 11. my great grandparents both died around that time, and i was really lucky to know them and i had been really close with them. it’s been years and i still don’t know how to manage the grief from their deaths. them dying was basically pushed me over the edge and what threw The Big Sad in my face.

I didn’t know that it was okay to talk about what was going on, so gradually I got worse and worse until I was starting to have thoughts of self harm and suicide. I did end up cutting a couple of times. It really sucked.

And then I read the Harry Potter books.

Lemme tell ya, I dove headfirst into the books. I couldn’t stop reading them, I think i read the full series in about two months? And then I just read them all over again, constantly disappearing into them.

Harry Potter gave me a world I could disappear into, a place where I could cast spells and brew potions, and a place where everything felt completely okay! When I read the books I didn’t want to hurt myself, i didn’t think about how easy it would be to just end it all. It was fucking magical!!

I made a ton of friends off these books, I met my first girlfriend because of these books! (she was wearing marauders map leggings in choir and i promptly started questioning my sexuality) Harry Potter brought me back to life, and without Harry Potter I would not be writing this post right now. I’d be six feet under, buried in Champlain, NY next to a bunch of dead people I’ve never met with a very christian headstone. (gotta love catholic grandparents *finger guns* *cries internally*)

I started getting a bit better, I still deal with self harm a bit but luckily i’m not suicidal. i figured out that i’m nonbinary and pretty fuckin gay. I no longer am dating the girl in the marauders map leggings (which is a story i’ll share at some other time), and i’m doing mostly okay. I would say completely okay but Rowling just HAD to be transphobic.

When i found out about what Rowling had said, I was really confused. This is the woman who wrote a series about love and acceptance, and she doesn’t love and accept people who are trans? I thought for a moment that I must be wrong, that it must be some big joke. But by that point to much was out proving me otherwise. I thought that I would have to distance myself from this fandom, stop loving the books. But to be honest? I can’t. I can’t cut these books out of my life. Harry Potter kept me going when nothing else could. When i’m having a really bad day (mental health wise) I still pick up the books and read them all again. They mean too much.

JK Rowling should never had said what she did. She never should have told us that we don’t count, that we are predators or freaks. The Trans community is so beautiful and I’m so proud to be a part of it. Rowling's transphobia is such bullshit and I wish I could still see her as I used too, but I can’t and that hurts so much. I don’t really know how to put into words how much it hurts me.

⚡ ADHD/autistic/can’t read long stuff fam, start here!! ⚡

I’m not going to leave the fandom. Rowling has been and will likely continue to be very transphobic. It hurts to know that the woman who wrote the books that saved my life will never accept me for who i am and will hate me for just wanting to be myself. But these books mean way too much to me for me to stop reading them. I’m not going to stop reblogging fanart and reading fics and obsessively analyzing the movies for new easter eggs. I’m still going to go see all the Fantastic Beasts movies as they come out. But I am not, in any way, going to continue to idolize and blindly support JK Rowling. She may have created something beautiful, but these books? They belong to us.

I don’t think I can write anymore without getting irrationally angry/crying so i’m gonna stop now. if anyone actually reads this, feel free to add on to it.

Happy pride month everyone!

Mischief Managed.

#JKRowling #joanne kathleen rowling #harry potter #hp #potterhead #nonbinary #queer #trans pride #happy pride 🌈#love each other!!#please?#trans #nonbinary pride #rita skeeter is trans and no one can change my mind #okay bye

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astudyinfreewill · 5 years ago

Note

Just a heads up the witch poem thing you just posted was written by a TERF. Hoping you didn’t know that.

hey there. thank you for the heads up - i had never heard of andrea dworkin before, and i simply reblogged the poem because i enjoyed it.

however, because i prefer to have an informed opinion rather than just rely on anon messages, i have been doing some research into it for myself, and i cannot seem to find any evidence of this: all the sources i have looked say that dworkin was a radical feminist -- and while i disagree with some of their ideas, being a radfem is not automatically the same as being a terf. in fact, dworkin, as far as i can see, seems to have been one of the radical feminists who did advocate for trans rights.

a few examples:

1) website theterfs.com, which is dedicated to exposing terfs’ hateful ideology and tracking terf posts, cites dworkin as an example of not being trans-exclusionary:

2) this article criticising trans exclusionism actually uses dworkin’s words to advocate against a biological view of gender:

3) this new york times article against terfs, while rightly criticising dworkin’s outdated terminology, recognises her as one of the first radical feminists to defend trans people’s experience:

4) the wikipedia page for radical feminism outright cites andrea dworkin as being trans-inclusive:

5) from the wikipedia page for feminist views on transgender topics:

this was just what i was able to dig up on short notice, but if you have any evidence about dworkin being trans exclusionary, please let me know, as i would be very interested to read about it and educate myself.

on another note: while it’s good to be vigilant, if you are looking to educate people, anonymously going into someone’s inbox and leaving them a passive aggressive message is not the best way to go about it.

first of all, i am not obligated to know the background of every single piece of media i reblog; to frame your comment as “hoping you didn’t know that” implies the assumption that i’m a terf gleefully endorsing terf-y content -- which i would hope is clear to any of my followers that i am not.

second of all, enjoying or consuming a piece of media, even if it were made by someone problematic (which in this case i see no evidence for) does not mean the person who consumed that media supports, much less shares, the views of the author. jk rowling, for instance, is an egregious transphobe -- yet how many tumblrs have never posted anything harry potter related? it doesn’t make her opinions any less scummy, and it doesn’t make hp less important to anyone who grew up with it. you can think someone’s views are garbage and rightfully criticise them, while still enjoying something they have created.

at the moment, i don’t plan on taking the poem down; if evidence should come up that makes me uncomfortable having it on my blog, i am very open to revising my opinion.

#anonymous #answer #in case it wasn't clear: i do not agree with/support/endorse terf rhetoric AT ALL #trans women are women and trans men are men and that is on period

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green-violin-bow · 5 years ago

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That is a very true post about Lovecraft and Rowling. Is it all right that I still love your Mystrade HP stories more than anything?

Anon, you lovely thing—that JKR post I reblogged wasn’t intended to make you, or me, or anyone, feel guilty about enjoying HP or the Strike books. Goodness knows, as someone who got a degree in literature in two languages, I’ve studied, and still love, an awful lot of literature by an awful lot of people with awfully shitty opinions.

I enjoyed studying Sartre’s writing...but he was about the standard level of misogynist as many men of his day. I fucking love golden age crime writing...but both Christie and Allingham were ragingly antisemitic. Some of the new editions of their work are actually edited to try and get rid of the most offensive comments about Jewish people. I love Woolf’s writing, but she (and most of the Bloomsbury Group) are often accused of elitism and classist snobbery. I fucking loved my surrealist literature module, but the backbone of it focused on Andre Breton, who was both a misogynist and extremely homophobic. The incredibly interesting women and queer men of the movement were often pushed aside both by Breton himself at the time, and as part of university curricula now. The huge majority of my literature degree, in both languages, was incredibly white, without much critical dissection of that fact—it was pretty much left up to the students to make choices seeking out postcolonial literature modules or to try and build a more intersectional approach themselves in their own research and reading.

The point is—it’s impossible to be entirely ‘Tumblr-pure’ about the literature and other cultural things that you enjoy and admire. The trick is to maintain critical distance, and to be critically engaged—to be able to say simultaneously ‘I love this’ and ‘I don’t admire or support this aspect of this book / TV show etc’. Of course there’s a part of me that grew up thinking of JKR as a wonderful, clever, thoughtful person who I admired greatly, but hey, that’s done now. She has views I don’t endorse and won’t ever support. But only people who are obsessed with being performatively ‘pure’ online will be unable to hold concurrent contradicting opinions about a cultural thing.

I’m so flattered that you love my HP Mystrade stories. I wish JKR was someone we could both admire. But we can enjoy transforming and playing in the world she created without reference to her or her opinions.

Also, it’s totally fine not to want to engage with an author’s work anymore once you’ve realised how disgusting their opinions are. I don’t think I could read The Silkworm (Galbraith) again, having realised how the caricature character of Pippa Midgley is intended to play into JKR’s transphobic agenda. Similarly even though I used to love Black Books and The IT Crowd, having witnessed Graham Linehan’s insane transphobic rants online, I just can’t watch those shows anymore. I don’t find them amusing or clever, seen with context on the creator’s bigotry. But those are personal lines in the sand, not something that should be imposed on anyone else in a childish, internet-purity ‘you’re not a Good Person™ if you choose to continue enjoying the content without reference to the creator’ way.

Sorry about the ramble, and thank you for your question! x

#anonymous

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pinkettepoet · 7 years ago

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In Which He Pops The Question

Summary: After weeks of being ignored, your boyfriend suddenly drops by and asks you a quite surprising question.

Warnings: Peter Parker x Fem!Reader, Fluff.

Note: I’m trying to post one imagine for each Avenger + Marvel characters to start this blog. Comment or reblog who you want me to write about next! So far, I have Tony Stank, Becky Barnes, and Clintness Everdeen. By the way, you guys are amazing.

You were going to strangle the life out of Peter Parker the first chance you got.

For the past two weeks, your boyfriend had been avoiding you. He managed to avoid the cafeteria during lunch, got Ned to distract you while he escaped, and made stupid excuses to not hang out with you.

First and foremost, you were disappointed that Peter didn’t come to you and talk whatever the problem was. After he revealed himself as the Spiderman, there was probably nothing about him that could surprise you anymore.

Second, you were hurt that his instinct was to avoid you as if you had the plague.

You noticed that he’d been acting really strange and jumpy around his friends, too. Whatever it was, you just wished that you could help him. It obviously wasn’t about his superhero gig since he told you almost everything about that.

It didn’t help that all your friends were fawning over their dresses and dates to the Homecoming Dance. It was all every girl could talk about.

Speaking of the dance, you weren’t even sure if Peter would ask you out. Even so, you’d probably just end up going anyway and dance alone.

To distract yourself from all this boy drama, you concerned yourself with your homework that was due next month. That didn’t stop your eyes from drifting to the dress that was placed perfectly flat on your bed.

You didn’t even know why you had the urge to place it there this morning when you woke up. It was probably your subconscious trying to remind you that your dress was worth going to the dance for. Nothing else was going to change that.

A bang erupted from throughout your room as you dropped your head harshly on your wooden table, suddenly losing all urge to study. Your eyelids started to droop slowly, the last thing in your vision was your messy handwriting on your notebook.

Then suddenly your windows flew open, the gush of wind whooshing straight inside your room. The sudden sound made you jump up your chair. Your eyes darted left and right in surprise until they landed on something coming inside your window.

Halfway inside your room was your boyfriend, Peter Parker, who was dress in a tight suit, clad in the colors red, black, and blue. He went straight to the bathroom, coming out after a few minutes, dressed in a casual shirt and jeans.

“What a nice surprise.” You had an eyebrow raised, tapping your pen impatiently against the wood surface of your table. In a loud and sarcastic tone, you muttered, “I was beginning to think that this arrangement was permanent.”

Peter didn’t say anything as he walked towards you with a sigh. He gave you a short peck on the cheek before saying, “I’m sorry for ignoring you these past weeks. Will you forgive me?”

“Hmm.” You pretended to debate, stroking the imaginary beard on your chin, prolonging every minute just because you could. “Of course I will, you big red spider dork. Only if you tell me why, though.”

Peter moved away from you in an instant, you ending up regretting to have asked that question. He no longer had his eyes on you as he cast his eyes to the floor, shifting his weight from one foot to another. You could see the nervousness when he kept scratching his neck at different intervals.

“About that. . .” He said, his voice a bit shaky. You saw the sweat glistening from his forehead.

You decided to help him out of his misery. As much as you hated vocalizing the words, it had to be done. You didn’t want to be selfish. You took steps toward him, lifting his face up and resting them between your hands, his eyes piercing right through you. You whispered, “Hey.”

“It’s okay to fall out of love.”

Straight away his whole demeanor changed, he took a step back. “What? No!”

He took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair, before continuing, “I’m not going to break up with you. Oh my God, I love an idiot. I don’t think I’ll ever break up with you— I mean, if you don’t love me anymore then I’ll let you go. But I’ll fight for you— if that’s what you want but even if you don’t, I will. Okay, what I’m trying to say is that, I freaking love you and your smile and your hair and y—”

“Peter!” You smiled, a blush warming your cheeks. Knowing Peter, he probably could have gone on for hours, but you couldn’t handle that much compliments. Not before dinner, anyway. You said, trying to not let your happiness escape, “Your point?”

Another sigh escaped past Peter’s rosy lips. He rolled his eyes before sending you a cheeky grin. “Well, since my beautiful girlfriend is being an impatient ogre.”

You laughed, amazed how he could insult you and compliment you in one single sentence. It seemed like you closed your eyes for one second and when you opened them, he was kneeling on the floor. “Peter, what?”

“Y/N.” He began, pulling a dark black box from his back pocket, making your heart beat in fear and excitement. “You are the most beautiful person I have ever met even if you send me the weirdest selfies. Even if you screamed right in Captain America’s face when I introduced you to him, you’re still the most proper girl I know. Not even your bed hair is going to scare you away from me—”

“Peter, what is going on?” Your heart was beating quite faster know, pounding against your chest, demanding to be let out. Yet, you can’t seem to wipe off the grin off your face.

He smiled, ignoring you as he continued. “We’ve been dating for a year now. You are the best girlfriend anyone could ask for. You’re gorgeous, smart, caring, and you put up with me. I love you so much, Y/N.”

“Peter, I love you, too. But what in the world is going on?” For the past minute, your gaze had been drifting from the black box he had in his hand and his brown eyes.

Peter’s hand moved to the edge of the box, opening it slightly. “This is exactly why I know that I want to spend the rest of my life with you. But right now, I need to ask this very important question that will define our relationship for the next days to come. Y/N, will you. . .”

Peter finally opened the box.

You could’ve almost screamed when you saw what’s inside. It was a breathtaking rose corsage. Peter was full on grinning by this point, a few snorts coming out. A flurry of emotions ran through your head but you were beyond happy.

“Will you be my date for the Homecoming Dance?”

(marvel tag list: @not-jk-rowling, @hydraliciousbarnes, @thewhinersoldier, @the-crime-fighting-spider)

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misseri68 · 2 years ago

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Regarding the “every time you reblog this wolf post JKRowling dies a day sooner” post...

Hi! I’m posting this here because I’m legit scared of people’s reaction if I post it somewhere else.

I hate terfs, I wish they’d stop talking about things they don’t understand, but here’s the thing about this post:

First of all, I agree (seriously, I do), that JK Rowling is a terf, and that she shouldn’t go around saying the shit she does. I’m sure we all agree here. But.

But!

As shitty as she is, as shitty as anyone ever can be, wishing their death isn’t going to change anything. In fact, having someone die for what their beliefs are (even if they’re extremely harmful and, in my opinion, mistaken,) is wrong.

It’s not likely she’s going to change her opinion and suddenly become lgtbq+ friendly, but everyone can be mistaken. Even if, again, they’re a shitty person. You can’t just take their life, even if the other person would do so. And I know she’s done so much harm to the lgtbq+ community, I know she would do less harm if she couldn’t speak, but having her dead won’t solve shit. If anything, it would make lgtbq+ people look like we’re the shitty ones. We should be better than a terf, you know? Not because we owe the rest anything, but because as a community, I think it’s important to be respectful.

And if you’ve reblogged this post, please, think of it again. If you don’t agree with me, that’s okay. If you think I’m wrong and you’re up to it, we can respectfully discuss this and I’m open for debate. The only thing I’m saying is that I don’t think wishing someone’s death is positive at all. In the end, you’re spreading hate.

Second: The person who created this post openly shames other people and even asked someone to kill themself in the comments:

And reblogging their post feels like supporting them, yknow? I just wanted to let y’all know. I’m sorry if I’m making someone feel attacked, that’s not my intention at all. As I said, if you think I’m wrong, we can discuss this, I’m open to new opinions as long as they’re respectful.

That’s all I wanted to say. Sorry to be a downer but I thought this was important.

#if this hurts you in any way i deeply apologise #i hope i expressed myself correctly #this is what i think #but i'm open to opinions as long as they're respectful #fuck JKRowling #but the fact that she's a shit doesn't mean it's ok to wish her death #(wishing for that isnt going to change much anyway)#(i honestly think it does more harm than good)#(and it makes our community look bad in general)

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bughead-fic-request · 7 years ago

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I would like to thank @leaalda for making these amazing banners.

This is an effort to spread the word about all fan fiction writers in our little fandom. If you would like to be featured or nominate a writer, please contact me. Please reblog this post if you can and check out some of @findingbetty work!

1. First things first, if someone wanted to read your stories where can they find them.

Find findingbetty on AO3.

2. Tell us a little about yourself.

My name is Annabel and I'm in the twenties club. I hail from the far reaches of New Zealand, a place every bit as green and beautiful they tell you. I’m technically a lawyer, though recently I retired at the ripe old age of 24 and ran away to Australia. Beyond examining the intricacies of my existential crisis, I’m a competitive rower. I also really like bagels.

3. What do you never leave home without?

I suppose my phone...depressing though that is. I wish I could at least say, like, my keys - if only to imply I can live a fulfilling life without my phone - but I locked myself out of my apartment twice last week. So that would be a lie.

4. Are you an early bird or a night owl?

Extra early bird. The kind that loves to hate getting up at 6am every morning to do a 20km training row before second breakfast.

5. If you could live in any fictional world which one would you choose and why?

I’m still waiting for my letter. I remain convinced my Owl just got a little lost on the way to New Zealand. There’s still time, though.

6. Who is the most famous person you’ve ever met.

Lorde. In the supermarket, back when she was still New Zealand’s best kept secret.

7. What are some of your favorite movies/TV?

I will never get tired of watching Friends. It’s the ultimate comfort for me. I also have a high level of appreciation for Girls, and I do like some Parks and Rec.

I really like the familiarity and continuity of watching a series. As such, I don’t watch very many movies, but some favourites include Mistress America and Silver Linings Playbook.

I just like things that feel real.

8. What are some of your favorite bands/musicians?

Haim ❤️ Fleetwood Mac and John Mayer. Drake! I also like Kodaline, particularly their album In a Perfect World. I went to see Adele in March. It was the very last night of her tour and it rained torrentially. I was probably the least dry I have ever been in my entire life, but setting fire to the rain in a downpour was a glorious thing.

9. Favorite Books?

From a place of nostalgia, Harry Potter. Such a quintessential part of my childhood. Beyond that, I try to read quite broadly. I have one particular favourite that isn’t really representative of my preferred genre, but caters well to my particularly dry sense of humour - How to Be Good, by Nick Hornby.

10. Favorite Food?

Pancakes.

11. Biggest pet peeve?

When people walk extra slowly and take up the entire footpath and won’t let me pass.

12. What did you want to be when you were little? What do you want to be now?

As a child, I apparently professed wanting to be a writer. I used to think that was because some well-meaning adult told me that was what I wanted and I just believed them. But of late, I’ve wondered if perhaps I did actually dream that up myself.

I have since learned an affinity for writing can easily translate to a career in law, be that accidental or intentional. What is less easy is working out a more enjoyable alternative - I’m conscious running away to Australia is not a long term solution.

13. What are your biggest fears? Do you have any strange fears?

Failure. Regression toward the mean. Refreshing websites everyday for the rest of my life! Talking on the phone. All of these are the kind of inconvenient fears that will infiltrate and taint every aspect of your life if you let them.

More tangibly speaking, e a r t h q u a k e s. I feel like, statistically speaking, one is not likely to experience more than one major seismic event in a lifetime, but that doesn’t make going back to what’s left of my hometown any easier.

14. When you are on your deathbed what would be the one thing you’d regret not doing?

Anything I avoided out of fear of failure. See, it’s a vicious cycle!

For anyone else suffering this particular plight, I recommend reading/viewing The Fringe Benefits of Failure and the Importance of Imagination by JK Rowling.

Okay… lets talk about your writing!

15. Which is your favorite of the fics you've written for the Bughead fandom?

I’ve only written one story thus far, and it’s called Something to Tell You.

16. Which was the hardest to write, in terms of plot?

Well I have nothing to compare it to, but did struggle with writing Something to Tell You. Looking back, I kind of attribute that to the lack of plot. I wanted the characters to undergo reasonable change, but not in an especially dramatic way, and I didn't want it to be overshadowed by their circumstances. It was a hard balance to find.

I received mixed feedback about this particular aspect of the story. Many people liked the simplicity, but equally there were those that thought I rambled on for 20 chapters and that “nothing happened”. I appreciate there is no such thing as universal popularity, and having overcome the struggle of actually writing it I am now content with how everything unfolded.

17. How do you come up with the ideas for you fic(s)? Do you people watch? Listen to music? Get inspired by TV/movies?

Something to Tell You was founded heavily in experiences I had living with a group of friends who were every bit as quirky and interesting as the characters I tried to portray. I suppose I tend to write about what I know. I’ve largely made peace with that, but do worry it is fairly limiting and a somewhat insular approach.

18. Idea that you always wanted to write but could never make work?

Anything from Something to Tell You Jughead’s point of view. The entire story revolves around Betty not really knowing quite what to make of him, and his character is a construct of that to the extent that I just cannot find his voice.

19. Least favorite plot point/chapter/moment you’ve written?

Clunky chapters. There were a few of them, but I’m not going to go back and look for them because it’s bad for my #complexes.

20. Favorite plot point/chapter/moment you’ve written?

The Flowers and The Cheesecakes, and that’s largely because it was fun for me to write. It was also based on true events, memories of which evoke the best kind of nostalgia.

21.Favorite character to write?

Betty Cooper. It’s not too much of a stretch for me to see the world through her eyes.

22. Favorite line or lines of dialogue that you've written?

“He trades in intellect and wit.”

23. Best comment/review you’ve ever received?

When I started writing, it never really occurred to me that people would a) read it, b) like it or c) tell me so. Honestly, all your kind words make my heart sing. I've never been able to bring myself to actually read Something to Tell You in full, but I do go back and read your comments!

Those who reached out via private message to tell me how much Betty’s struggles meant to them were really special. I never expected that kind of a response, and was somewhat overwhelmed by it.

More specifically, I still remember and refer back to a comment by the lovely @village-skeptic, who I remain convinced understands my characters far better than I do. Below is an extract -

“Your version of this character is so multi-layered and distinctive, and yet it makes me think - this is what "I'm weird; I'm a weirdo" looks like without canon-Jughead's precise complications of self-loathing, trauma, deprivation, and precarity (or maybe with other off-setting factors?). It's just being quirky af, but also forthrightly kind, confident, ambitious, perceptive, and also part of a community.”

Sometimes I wish @village-skeptic was my high school English teacher.

24. How do you handle bad reviews or comments?

By refusing to ‘reblog Bughead’ and rearranging all of Veronica’s furniture.

25. If you could change anything in any of your stories, what would it be?

I try not to think this way, again because #complexes… but the first chapter of Something to Tell You. The one where nothing of substance really happened, because I truly didn’t think anyone was going to read it. Thanks to everyone who set aside that very obvious flaw and persisted.

26. What is your favorite story you’ve ever written? Any fandom?

I’m going to be optimistic and say I hope it will be something I write in the future. My magnum opus, or something.

27. What are you reading right now? Both fan fiction and general fiction?

I’m heavily invested in Vespertine by @yavannies, it’s absolutely wonderful. Please go and read it and leave a comment - I’m a big believer in always thanking the author for their efforts.

Out in the real world, How to Be Both by Ali Smith is sitting on my bedside table.

28. Do you have any advice for writers that want to get into this fandom but might be scared?

What is is that you're scared of?

I don't at all mean that to be dismissive - quite the contrary. I entertained a lifelong fear of writing before sitting down to write Something to Tell You. I was scared of expectations and judgement (be them real or imagined, my own or those of others).

I am still scared of both of these things, but I have also discovered that anonymity is wonderfully liberating. It allows you to write whatever you want, whenever you want. The more you do it, the easier it gets. And as long as you write for yourself, you can’t really go wrong.

Also, believe me when I say that people are wonderfully nice around here.

#bughead author spotlight #fan fiction #fan fiction writers #Bughead #bughead fanfiction #ao3 #betty cooper #jughead jones #jughead x betty #betty x jughead #riverdale #finding betty #something to tell you

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