#originally wanted to include more of Martin in the last line but the drabble was too empty anyway

[theflirtmeister]

2024 Fic Round Up

My beloved @puckdoll tagged me in the fic round up! Unfortunately, I have over 115 works posted from this year alone on my main Ao3 account so I didn’t want to spam the dashboard.

HOWEVER I have chosen my favourites from each month + commentary. (Also let me know if you want to see my beautiful Ao3 spreadsheet)

January:

something tragic about us Saw (Movies) Adam Faulkner-Stanheight/Lawrence Gordon/Mark Hoffman

Started off the year with a gross threesome! I think Adam should suffer <3 This originally started differently with more about Adam walking home, but it was so BORING that I cut the entire thing. The first lines I came up with were Adam not wanting to roll onto his stomach because he was overstimulated, which set up my theme of the fic nicely :)

February:

Hey blondie Saw (Movies) Adam Faulkner-Stanheight/Lawrence Gordon

The fic I’d been wanting to write for MONTHS!! I think young Cary Elwes is gorgeous jailbait, and I couldn’t think of a good enough set-up until the Bulletproof exchange. I miss the era of fandom where people shipped actors as different characters, so it was lovely to picture older Adam ruining young Lawrence’s throat.

March:

kingdom through the wilderness Saw (Movies) Adam Faulkner-Stanheight/Jigsaw Apprentices

A special birthday omegaverse gangbang fic for Monty! Sometimes you just need to destroy Adam and get him all covered in cum as a treat for your bestie. I couldn’t figure out if I wanted Logan to appear in this or not, so he’s technically there, but hidden. Also had to slip in some breeding kink because hnng hot. 

April:

psalm 3 The Locked Tomb Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus

First non Saw fic and shortest of them all! I really love this drabble, and I’m annoyed it didn’t get enough love. I think the kiss description is good, and the contrast between Alecto’s POV and what Gideon is saying works well. 

May:

nothing good starts in a getaway car The Passenger  Benson/Randolph "Randy" Bradley

My first Passenger fic, and it’s a 4k fic about Randy getting railed! I never disappoint. Honestly loved writing this, and I hadn’t realised that other people enjoyed it as well until I realised it was being recced. I tried really hard to “get” Benson’s voice as I was writing this, I found it hard to describe his sing-song way of speaking. I also got really into blowjobs where the cock fucks the side of the mouth so included that in there >:)

June:

call me pretty thing Saw (Movies) Adam Faulkner-Stanheight/Alison Gordon/Lawrence Gordon

I LOVE this stupid femslash poly au that I’ve come up with, and I could write thousands of words based in this universe. I think Alison works perfectly as a mean domme, and I know she and Lauren are the hottest dyke couple in Saw City. I enjoy reading BDSM aus (thanks hockey fandom) but I don’t know how good I am at writing them. 

July:

yield the need A Castle for Christmas (Movie 2021) Myles/Thomas (A Castle for Christmas)

I forced Becky to watch A Castle for Christmas last year, and unfortunately, she thinks it’s the best movie ever made. We came up with a very in-depth backstory for Thomas and Myles’ relationship that hits all our buttons (Scotland, repressed homosexuality, teenagers rutting all over the place) so I had to write a fic for the Battleship Exchange. I loveeee writing older men tackling their sexuality and getting their rocks off.

August:

cherry tree Delicious in Dungeon Senshi/Chilchuck Tims

The fact that there is SO LITTLE Senshi/Chilchuck fic is a crime. I really wanted to hit the fisting tags for Battleship Exchange, along with hitting my own size kink desires. This fic literally spilled out of me - I honestly think I wrote it in about an hour in a fugue state. I also never write about men’s balls and wanted to include it in this fic because I know what the Senshi fuckers want >:)

September:

Selachimorpha Jaws (Movies) Martin Brody/Matt Hooper

Another fic where I had a VIBE in my head that I was really trying to pin down - Hooper sweating in the bar and catching sight of Brody and realising he’s in love. I also think the title works really well, Selachimorpha is the scientific name for sharks and I remember my beloved poetry professor telling me to always use latin/scientific words in my work. Shout out to *REDACTED*, sorry for not replying to your facebook messages.

October: 

scent of you Original Work Stepmother with a huge dick/Teen stepdaughter she impregnates

I only posted two fics in October (damn my full time job!) but I did love this horny Original Work for the RelationShipping exchange. My recip was very into mind control, so this was my first foray into that kink and I think it worked well >:) This fic also got me blocked by some mutuals because they didn’t realise I was a freak!

November:

a softer jigsaw trap Saw (Movies) Lawrence Gordon/John "Jigsaw" Kramer

I wrote SO MUCH for Fic In A Box, but I just had to choose these softer world inspired panels. I feel like I worked the hardest on these - I practised first with some Hoffman panels, did a lot of editing of screenshots to create new scenes between Lawrence and Jill, and dusted off my old Photoshop skills! It was also SO MUCH FUN, I loved picking the quotes for the Lawrence/John relationship.

December:

No official December fic yet! I’ve written fic for several exchanges that will hopefully go live this month, so we’ll have to wait and see. ✌️

[roccinan]

I love myself, but not today

*gasp* Me? Actually writing on a writing blog??? Shocking! 

I don’t really know where I was going with this or if I’ll ever expand it and post to AO3 so for now, this drabble stays here. It’s a character study/backstory exploration for Andres (again, not exactly a headcanon I 100% believe, just an idea with some darker turns). Goes with Alvaro’s “same father” hc and can be read as compliant with Corners and also Hermanito (to a smaller extent) 

Warnings: referenced child abuse, referenced illness and drug abuse, implied sexual abuse, misogyny/sexism, references to child birth, POV 2nd person, intentional vagueness

Relationships: Mostly Andres-centric (asdfasdf no I do not condone whatever’s going on in his head); a side of #hermanos, some berlermo foreshadowing if you squint

Not sure if anyone will read this, but if you do, hope you like this experimental chunk.

I love myself, but not today

Your name is Andrés de Fonollosa. And you’re a son of a bitch. Anyone who knows a lick or two about you will say you’re a fucker from hell. A bullet for a heart and a cock for a brain. They’ll call you a vile, wicked thing that should have died in your mother’s womb. But you know it’s not true. Because the truth is, you are much, much worse.

There is a man inside you (one day you’ll give him a name), festering under skin like the once-swell of your mother’s belly. If you’re in the mood for lying, you can say he was born on a sour day, the exact hour you felt the twitch of Mamá’s nerves in your dying bones. But no, no. This man has lived with you since your first breath. You can say he fed on you until he broke out, a grinning thing of blood and teeth. 

But the truth is-- he fed you. 

Your life is hell. You don’t need anyone to tell you. You learned all about hell before heaven ever crossed your mind. You knew dirt before you thought of clouds. Knew the taste of iron and salt years before sugar touched your tongue. Back then- at least- you can admit, “Andrés de Fonollosa” did nothing for you. He doesn’t stand between you and the cigarette kissing your skin, doesn’t wipe the piss from your mother’s legs, doesn’t stop the hands tugging at your hair. You owe Andrés nothing and you owe (you’ll give him a name one day, this man you nursed since birth) everything.

You love your mother, or so you say. That’s what sons do. But when she looks at you, there’s a message between her dull eyes, one that says, “I wish you were never born.” It’s a silly thought from a feeble thing. Women, you decide, are fragile and weak. (No, a little voice says, they used to be strong, until you looked over the shoulder of her lover and saw her sobbing in a corner, withered bones and wasted salt, doing nothing to stop the blood from leaking off your lip.)

You love your mother, or so you think. You cannot say the same for your father. But in spite of your best efforts, she leaves you in hell. Once, to the powder because it’s all she can procure. And twice, when her eyes glaze over atop wet sheets. You think you should let her die. Think she might as well have died when you dragged yourself out of her womb, a warhead choking on her cord. A stretching, wrinkled piece of flesh, the prune that your father left. You won your fight with her before she even had the chance to strike.

Maybe if you had his face, she would be happier. You don’t know. You’ve never been lucky, but you like to gamble. So even as a babe, you chose to wear her face instead of his. A ghost of who she was, a challenge from your birth.

You don’t cry when Mamá dies. Because she’s not dead, not really, not when her phantom lives in your face, your blood.   

Someone says you look like a woman, but maybe he meant to say you look like your mother. It doesn’t matter. You crush his nose with the flat of your hand. Cartilage crumbles under your palm like clay. It’s not so hard to hold your own after that.

Then you think of crawling out of hell, swimming off when no one’s lurking. Looking. But you’re a spiteful thing. Not a coward, you tell yourself. Only a son of a bitch who finally grew a fucking spine. So you turn back and climb down.

This is your den, your hell. And you are king. 

It won’t be long before you learn of the sanctity of marriage, or so you claim. Before you dip your toes into the power of vows and a whiff of luxury always at the tip of your brain, you almost settle for a vapid face and cheap lipstick. Between your girl and the widow who offered to teach you French, you don’t really care who kisses you so long as there’s someone to hold your dick. (A woman, though, always a woman. Never a man. Never again.)

Until she traces the scar- one among many- on your hip one night, whispering her hand down the jagged edge. She says she likes it, “sexy, manly, a battle scar.” It’s a wakeup call. You end things there, and you don’t care if she cries and screams and calls you a bastard fucked in the head (what else is new?). You’re not going to waste any more time on the smell of cigarettes and dust on the road.

She called it a battle scar. But you know it’s a sign of defeat, an angry mark on skin that tells the world you’re nothing better than a rat on the street. No different from the men that claw at each other’s throats over anything so much as bristled pride. Your pride is of a different sort, a dignity you no longer want to lose.

Some men aim to kill. Others aim to hurt. And you, you aim to prove a point. 

And you’ve wasted enough of your youth on blood and spittle, in some effort to keep the reins of your domain. So you leave without a word. You are a gentleman, or so you say. From now on, you have a goal. You’ll walk up the hill of dirt, even if you have to limp, and pull yourself up to the looming sky. You will wash the blood off with soap and spend the rest of your life with silk and cotton, and preferably a docile, coy bride (or two, three, maybe five) at the altar. You dream of Dulcinea’s arms and a bed in the clouds, the farthest you can fly from the rotting dirt that birthed you.

No one will scar you again. And it doesn’t matter what you do to keep it that way. Better them than you, after all.

Then your father dies. He leaves a boy behind, a boy who until now, you believed grew up with everything you made do without. You see him out of spite, because no matter which pelt you choose, you’ll always be a bastard through and through. You hear that he’s frail, as pitiful as you are strong, and you think it’s mighty funny that your father built him so much worse than he built you. A pungent taste of irony, the gleeful voice says.

But when you finally speak to him, that tart voice dies, and the road shifts beneath your feet. He comes to call you “Andrés,” without a trace of disdain on his tongue. Only “Andrés.” With a needy timbre he tries to hide. His hand too shy to touch yours, even after days, weeks, months. He says, “Andrés” and you can hear the concern floating within, the faint hope that you can love him back. He calls you “Andrés” as if you were always Andrés, not something spat out and told to die.

Your name is Andrés de Fonollosa. And you’re a son of a bitch. You come from hell. But the thread of light that lures you out isn’t a hill of dirt or a sunny sky. It’s the voice of your brother and the shy smile on his lips. The Isaac to your Ishmael.

Sergio Marquina is, you think, the first spot of light in your wretched life. 

----

The second spot of light is an accent from across the sea.