I guess it's time to do that thing called introducing myself. Hello! I'm L.J. Sparks and I am a writer. I'm also on my way to being a published author in the most untraditional way possible. I am 31 years old, I have four cats that are all little heathens, and we're getting ready to get a puppy.
I write a little bit of everything. Currently, my major works in progress are a dark mafia romance ft a plus-sized diabetic FMC. A romantasy ft. a diverse cast of trans and queer characters. An urban fantasy about a witch who can create realms with words. And an urban portal fantasy about a Goddess who repairs broken timelines. If any of these things sound interesting to you, feel free to follow along as I work on these projects via my Patreon account.
For my more fanfiction inclined followers and readers. I am also working on the set up for a request blog that you can find @notyouraveragerequestblog. While it's still a work in progress, I'll be getting fandom lists, character lists, and ship lists up and posted. As well as ask box memes for prompt requests.
Subscribe to my Patreon account and let's work together to make dreams come true. (Click the orange text to read into what's so untraditional about my methods)
I do really love it when women write graphic and fucked up things. I feel like so often people react to fucked up fiction with âof course a disgusting man would write this đâ and it often carries an unspoken (honestly sometimes spoken) message of âa womanâs PURE and DELICATE and FEMININE mind could NEVER think of something this VILEâ. Thank you women in fucked up fiction đŤĄ
when i was a kid i decided that killing people was bad therefore war was bad therefore the military was evil. and adults would tell me it's more nuanced than that and i would understand when i grew up. well i'm a grown up now and idk i still think that killing people is bad and war is bad and the military is evil
Bad writing means you took the time to write something, you, a real human being. It means you created something! And you have the awareness to see that there's room for improvement, too!!!
Bad writing is wonderful!!! Bad writing is a platform from which you can build your masterpiece! Bad writing is the backbone of good writing!
Give yourself permission to write badly. No, actually- give yourself permission to write something TERRIBLE. Give yourself permission to write such drivel that you can barely read it.
Nothing comes out a masterpiece the first time!! You think Isaac Asimov never wrote a total stinker he had to rebuild from the ground up? You think Jules Verne never wrote utter slop for a first draft?
WRITE SOMETHING AWFUL!!! Write something so bad you cringe about it years later!!! And then when that's done, write some more!!!!!
back in the forties it was survivalâscanning rooftops for snipers, reading the twitch in a markâs jaw before he pulled the trigger, noting every exit in a crowded room. hydra sharpened it into something colder, more clinical. the winter soldier didnât just observe; he catalogued. every weakness. every tell. every pretty girl who lingered too long on the dance floor while he waited in the shadows for his next orders.
after the serum, after the nightmares, after years of clawing his way back to something like a person⌠that instinct never left. it just changed.
now it curled low and hungry in his gut whenever you were involved.
it started small.
heâd come home from a mission at 3 a.m., exhausted and wired, and find you asleep in their bed wearing nothing but one of his old henleys. the hem had ridden up just enough to bare the soft curve of your ass and the shadowed line between your thighs. one leg kicked out from under the sheet, your pussy peeking out slightly, still a little puffy from the night before. heâd stand in the doorway for long minutes, barely breathing, cock thickening in his sweats as he memorized every inchâthe faint red marks his stubble had left on your inner thigh, the way your folds glistened faintly even in sleep, the way your lips parted on a sleepy sigh.
he never woke you. not at first. just watched, hand pressing against the hard line of his dick while he imagined sliding his tongue through that slick heat again.
then one night you werenât asleep.
you were on your back in the middle of their bed, legs splayed wide, two fingers buried knuckle-deep in your dripping cunt while you whispered his name like a prayer. the bedside lamp cast warm gold over your skin, highlighting the shiny mess coating your fingers and the inside of your thighs. bucky had slipped in silent as death, still dressed in his tac gear, and stopped dead just outside the bedroom door.
you hadnât noticed him.
he stayed hidden, jaw tight, and watched you fuck yourselfâslow at first, fingers curling lazily against that spongy spot inside you, then faster, hips rolling up to meet every thrust. your free hand pinched and rolled your nipple, tugging hard enough to make you gasp. little breathy moans spilled out every time your thumb brushed your swollen clit. your pussy made wet, obscene sounds around your fingers, slick dripping down to soak the sheets beneath your ass.
when you came, back arching clean off the mattress, thighs shaking violently, his name broke on your lips in a high, desperate cry. your cunt clenched visibly around your fingers, a fresh gush of wetness coating your hand.
bucky had to bite his knuckle bloody to keep from groaning out loud, his own cock leaking steadily into his underwear.
he waited until your breathing evened out, until you curled up satisfied and sleepy with your fingers still tucked loosely between your thighs, before he finally stepped inside. he stripped down in seconds, slid into bed behind you, and woke you with his mouth on your neck and his metal fingers sliding through all that warm, sticky mess to replace yours. youâd moaned sleepily and spread your legs wider without even opening your eyes.
after that, the game changed.
he started leaving the bedroom door cracked on purpose when he knew you were in the mood. heâd come home early from the gym or a briefing and hear the faint buzz of your vibrator or the slick, rhythmic sounds of your fingers working your pussy and instead of announcing himself, heâd lean against the wall just out of sight and listen. sometimes heâd pull his cock out and stroke himself slow and tight, matching your rhythm, thumb smearing the precum over the head while you fell apart with his name on your tongue.
he never let himself come. not until laterâwhen he was buried balls-deep inside your still-fluttering cunt, fucking you slow and deep while you were oversensitive and dazed, growling filthy praise in your ear about how pretty you sounded when you thought you were alone, how your pussy clenched so greedily even after youâd already come.
one evening you caught him.
youâd been in the shower, glass door wide open because the steam made everything useless anyway. bucky had been on the couch pretending to read a mission report. the second he heard the water turn on he gave it five minutes, then padded silently down the hall.
you were facing the tiled wall, one hand braced, water cascading over the arch of your back and the round swell of your ass. your other hand was between your legsâtwo fingers pumping steadily into your soaked hole while your thumb rubbed tight circles over your clit. soft, breathy gasps echoed off the tiles with every thrust. your pussy lips were flushed dark and swollen, slick mixing with the shower water and dripping down your thighs.
bucky stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, eyes locked on every detail.
he didnât hide this time.
when you turned your head and saw him thereâfully dressed, dark eyes burning, the obvious bulge straining against his jeansâyou startled, then smirked, slow and wicked.
âenjoying the show, sergeant?â
buckyâs voice came out rough and low. âalways do, doll. keep going. donât stop on my account.â
you didnât. instead you leaned back against the cool tile, planted one foot on the built-in bench to spread yourself wider, and kept fucking your fingers deeperâeyes locked on his the whole time. he watched every second: the way your tits bounced lightly with each thrust, nipples tight and begging, the flush creeping down your chest and belly, the exact moment your thighs started to tremble and your pussy started making those wet, squelching sounds around your fingers.
when you came, you kept your gaze on his face, moaning his name loud and broken as your cunt pulsed and gushed, a visible spurt of your release mixing with the shower spray.
bucky was on you before the aftershocks even fadedâclothes still on, water soaking through his shirt instantly as he dropped to his knees right there on the wet tile. he yanked your fingers out and replaced them with his tongue, licking broad and filthy through your folds, sucking your swollen clit hard while two metal fingers shoved back inside you, curling ruthlessly against your g-spot. he ate you through a second orgasm, then a third, until you were crying, legs buckling, slapping weakly at his shoulders because your clit was too sensitive and your pussy wouldnât stop fluttering.
later, tangled in damp sheets with your body still twitching, you traced the line of his jaw with your fingertip.
âyou like watching me,â you said softly. not a question.
he didnât deny it. his metal hand slid down to cup your still-throbbing pussy possessively. âyeah. i do.â
âwhy?â
bucky stayed quiet for a long moment, fingers idly stroking through your slick folds, occasionally dipping just inside to feel you clench.
âspent a long time not feeling anything real. everything was orders, targets, pain. when iâm watching you⌠i feel it all. every gasp, every twitch of your hips, every time your pretty cunt drips because youâre thinking about meâitâs mine. i get to keep it. even when iâm not touching you, iâm still part of it.â
you kissed him slow and deep, tasting yourself on his tongue.
âso watch me whenever you want,â you whispered against his mouth, nipping his bottom lip. âbut sometimes⌠i want you to let me watch you too.â
that was how the new rule started.
sometimes heâd come home and find you waiting on the bed wearing nothing but his dog tags, legs spread obscenely wide, three fingers buried in your soaked pussy while you told him exactly what filthy things youâd been thinking aboutâhow youâd imagined his tongue, his cock, his metal hand choking you while he fucked you raw. heâd sit in the chair across the room, fully clothed, legs spread, and just watchâcock straining painfully against his zipper, hands gripping the armrests white-knuckled so he wouldnât touch himself until you were begging, tears in your eyes, pussy visibly clenching around nothing.
other times heâd make you sit on the edge of the bed, knees wide, while he stood in front of you and stroked his thick cock slowlyâfist tight, thumb swiping over the leaking head, veins standing out along the shaft. his eyes never left yours as he worked himself, low groans rumbling in his chest, until you were squirming and dripping onto the sheets just from watching, your own hand sneaking between your thighs until he growled at you to keep them still.
he loved both sides of it. loved the power of seeing you fall apart under his gaze alone. loved the raw vulnerability of letting your eyes devour him while he jerked off thinking about burying himself in your tight, greedy heat.
but his favorite moments were still the stolen onesâwhen you didnât know he was there yet, when he could stand in the shadows and watch you chase your pleasure with his name on your lips, cock throbbing, already planning exactly how he was going to wreck you the second he stepped into the light.
because no matter how many times he watched you come, it was never enough.
⢠A character almost admits they were wrong and then pivots
⢠Two people sitting in a car after an argument, engine off, neither leaving
⢠Someone practicing a speech in the mirror and hating how it sounds
⢠A character lying for someone they resent
⢠An inside joke that no longer feels funny
⢠A public setting where private tension is simmering
⢠Someone seeing their ex unexpectedly and performing indifference
⢠A character giving advice they absolutely do not follow
⢠A confession interrupted by something mundane
⢠A person rereading old messages they shouldnât
⢠A gift that misses the mark completely
⢠A character realizing theyâve outgrown someone mid-conversation
⢠Someone saying âItâs fineâ and meaning âI will remember this foreverâ
⢠A moment where a character notices they are no longer the favorite
⢠Two people who used to be close struggling to find a topic
If your story feels stuck, it likely needs friction. Not explosions. Just a little pressure.
