well. I'd like to hear more about brain damage in d minor and. obviously. silvermiranda revenge sex fic. obviously.
I just talked about brain damage in d minor in the last post so I'm just gonna skip straight to the silvermiranda revenge sex fic lmao
I simply think the most evil thing the writers of black sails ever did was decide that miranda should have ten years of absolutely atrocious sex and then die. she deserves better dick than the g-ddamn pastor.
originally this was going to be a scene in to cross running water, my massive vampire!flint au, but it made more sense as its own thing. it takes place shortly before the end of s1, after flint and miranda have their fight in 107. she's pissed at flint and wants to get back at him and correctly deduces that the most upsetting thing she could do to him would be to fuck his little thief. so she does! because I'm a feminist.
I've only written like 500 words of this fic—for a long time I was considering it "the fic I promised myself I would never write," because at that point I had never written smut before— so below the cut is literally the entirety of this fic as it currently exists:
James never comes when he and Miranda lie together. There’s no blame to be had for it, no resentment, no shame; it’s an understanding they’d come to long ago. He takes care of her, and then he takes care of himself. Most times she offers to finger him, and on occasion he accepts. He certainly enjoys it—she’d not offer if he didn’t—but still it isn’t quite what he needs to get there. Thomas always used to speak of the journey superseding the destination, when it came to sex: an orgasm is lovely, but it’s hardly the only thing that can be accomplished in the act. “They do call it ‘making love,’” he would say, “and love can be found at any point along the way, not merely at the climax.”
So James never comes. Miranda never expects he will.
But he did, recently. James came with three of Miranda’s fingers inside of him, his fist around his cock, a sibilant hiss on his lips.
She’d asked him, afterwards, what he had been thinking about, her curiosity piqued, but he’d simply gone silent. At first she took it to mean that he’d been thinking of Thomas, and that the matter was too tender to withstand her lighthearted teasing, or perhaps that he’d sought to spare her the grief of giving voice to the empty space where once had stood the pillar that kept them stable. And yet it gnawed at her, benignly—Miranda knows the difference between James’ grief and his shame. The two are so entwined that most people cannot discern them, cannot see them at all behind the illusory rage crafted by their combined silhouette, but Miranda knows the difference. She likely knows it better than he does, himself.
She would have been content to keep the theory to herself, to hold onto it until such a time as it could withstand some teasing, until it could draw a flush onto his freckled cheeks rather than venom onto his tongue. She would have held it like a precious thing, a thing to be kept warm and safe until he were ready to care for it himself. She would have sheltered it.
And then James read her fucking letter. And then he besmirched and derided her, condemned her for the crime of wanting anything beyond this vapid, stagnant life. She deserves better than to have sat here for ten years going putrid in the Caribbean heat, and she deserves better than to sit here for ten more, and he had the gall to paint her villainous for it. So this suspicion of hers that the small writhing s trying so valiantly to force its way out through his gritted teeth may have been the aborted beginnings of a name, this suspicion which she had intended to cradle gently in her palms… well, now she intends to grip it the way he would the hilt of a sword: white-knuckled and deliberate. She would have had fun good-naturedly needling him with it. Now she is going to have a very different sort of fun.
he flinches at the words, as if they hurt. and they do, because they’re TRUE in the deepest sense of the word. but dan feels as if the guy before him understands that -- as if he can see. swallowing hard, he nods and tries to play it off. he’s never been terribly convincing. “ aren’t we all. ”
