Write fanfiction guiltlessly. Do it not only because it’s good practice, not only because you don’t feel like putting your energy into original stuff, but because you do feel like putting your energy into fandom. Write fanfics of epic proportions or tiny one-shots; write fluff or angst or cliches or tropes; publish the roughest version or keep the twelfth draft for only yourself. Do it without feeling bad. You owe no one anything; the act of creation is a gift in and of itself, and it doesn’t matter if you’re creating fanfic or original stories or whatever else you want. All that matters is you enjoy it, because why else would you do it at the end of the day?
I sleep in my best friend's bed and suddenly I feel consumed by our past. Of long days spent in summer with a tie around our neck and too many emotions that lay undealt. Of songs that we sing loudly despite the kids who judge us like it's their occupation. Of sweat on our shirts and unanimous tears cascading in empty corridors that she always caught with her tiny thumbs.
She's older now. She seems more grounded than me. Owning a humour that fills the corners of her living room and lightens everyone seated on her mismatched sofa - the foundations of her humour that expect and endure shaking laughs are the same of those ten years ago.
My face is on her pillow. Her smell hasn't changed. I can hear her voice through the walls as she says goodnight to her girlfriend and even though I'm laying down, I am struck by how much pride I feel for her.
We didn't think we would make it this far past eighteen. We couldn't see a day where we wouldn't be pining over boys who ultimately weren't worth our time. We get to hug and be and dance on the landing whilst we brush our teeth and I want to bump into every single teacher who ever tutted at us for exchanging unrelated words over textbooks as I am arm in arm with her and say-
summary: after the disaster at hogan's residence, you're faced with the consequences of a reality you have no role in.
warnings: none. just angst and some pining
authors note: i messed around with the fixing part so doc still hears the voices but they dont make him go insane no more I JUST LIKE MY MEN PATHETIC OK
word count: 1.4k
find this fic on ao3.
New York is the same. In any reality. That’s what he noticed from the moment that he got here.
The streets are laid out the same, the dirt and grime are there in the same corners – and your apartment is still in the same building complex. The only thing that changed is you. You were so different from whoever he knew from back home.
You feel so unfamiliar.
The voices are harsh and unforgiving, humming stronger in the back of his mind each time you pass by him as you’re struggling to keep it together in the small space that you call home. They are still there – but he’s able to drown them out now.
Something he wasn’t able to do before. There are moments now, that feel awfully quiet. He’s alone in his head mostly – and he isn’t quite sure if he likes it just yet.
They were his companions for a while. Life gets lonely. Especially for someone like him. They comforted him in a way. Ignoring them now just seems impolite. But he does it regardless – the fear of what could happen if he listened to them again overrides his need for something else in his life.
You press the wet cloth against your face one more time, cleaning up the blood that’s dripping from your nose. You meet his eyes again, for the millionth time today.
He caught you. Max just threw you out of the fucking window and he caught you. He won’t tell you why. He is going to let you assume that he did it out of kindness. It was the right thing to do. If he starts to explain himself – he fears the words might choke him before they could leave his tongue.
All that mattered was that he got you. He saved your life merely twenty minutes ago. He is himself again, and he started this new chapter of his life by doing something right. He owed it to you. At least this version of yourself, he would save.
He just keeps staring at you as if you’re about to condemn him for something he hasn’t even done yet. He is making you uncomfortable, he can tell – he wishes his presence was less intimidating. The actuators aren’t helping his plea for some trust. They were a curse – just like he always thought.
“I’m sorry that I’m intruding on your space like this.”
He finally offers, eyes peering at you over his green-tinted sunglasses.
“It’s alright.”
There’s something uncanny about you. The way you speak with him like he’s a stranger to you. He places his sunglasses on the kitchen table. The green-tinted glass was broken, they fell earlier when he tumbled over your much smaller body, in hopes of not hurting you more than he already had by grabbing you with the actuators.
You had ushered him upstairs so no one would see him enter your apartment. You hoped no one had heard you two.
There are other things that are off about you – your hair is a shade too light, your ear piercings are an odd number and if he remembered correctly the mark underneath your lower lashes was on the other side. You’re a bit younger as well. It’s been so long since he’s seen you in person. He isn’t quite sure if he is remembering the details correctly.
It’s upsetting to think about.
You try to pass by him one more time, to reach your sink but he catches your arm.
“Can I take a look at that?”
“I’m fine, it’s just a nose bleed.”
You tug your arm back, harsher than you intended to. His hand leaves your arm and you’re free to go. He furrows his brows, and his gaze flickers back to the floor as you turn away from him.
It was his turn to be frustrated now. He bit back whatever remark was forming on his tongue. He couldn’t afford to scare you away.
He watches you move, your hand holding the cloth underneath the lukewarm water in your sink as you wash away the red that stains everything it touches. He is still standing in your kitchen, unsure what to do with himself – the actuators moving around, smoothly – like curious children, taking in the space and things in their way.
“We need to get back to Peter.”
You state, leaving no room for arguing on his side. You look at your phone that’s sitting on the kitchen table – hoping to find a message or even a missed call, but you find nothing.
“There’s no way he’s still at the apartment building.”
Otto states, calm and collected as if this was a technical conversation. You frown, resting both of your hands on the edge of your sink, your back facing him. The nosebleed stopped – only a dull, forgettable ache in place of it as you go over your options.
You either go back to the building – finding god knows what, or you wait. Simple as that. You truly believe you shouldn’t have answered Parker’s call earlier today. You should’ve stayed in bed and called in sick, as you had intended. But there is no way back.
You owe it to the kid. You owe him your help. It was the right thing to do. He was just a kid after all. All of this – the pain, and the hurt – he doesn’t deserve any of it. He doesn’t have to bear the weight of the cross alone.
You turn around finally, facing him now with an expression that he cannot read. He’s seen it before, during other circumstances. On someone who isn’t quite you.
“I don’t know what to do.”
You breathe out – the guilt of the thought alone almost eating you alive. You always know what to do. Usually. That’s why Parker called you – you were the resident fucking problem solver. There wasn’t anything you couldn’t fix.
But this is beyond you. It’s bigger. It’s worse.
You hesitate for a moment – when the man in your kitchen doesn’t speak – and then you sit down at the kitchen table, burying your face in your hands. Mentally you’re going over everything – again, and again.
There had to be something. Anything. But there was nothing you could do. You couldn’t even call Parker’s friends – you didn’t have their fucking phone number.
Otto watches you – your sitting form at the table, trying to come up with anything that might help you. But before he can even offer his opinion, you speak again.
“What’s the matter with you anyway?”
“Excuse me?”
He furrows his brows, the dim light in your kitchen not doing anything to hide the hard stare you’re throwing into his direction.
“You keep looking at me like you’ve seen a ghost.”
So you have noticed. He wasn’t necessarily expecting you to not note the way he keeps searching for your face, but he definitely had been trying to avoid letting his thoughts translate into his expression. He averts his gaze now – focusing on the details in your kitchen. But everything just feels like a fucking memory to him.
Why the fuck was your kitchen exactly the same? The only thing that was missing was the pictures of your family. The last picture of you before you left Oscorp. He remembered that photograph so very well.
But it’s not here. Because you’re not her. Oscorp doesn’t fucking exist. And the only reason why you’re still here – alive and well – is because you never met him. You have no clue who the man in front of you was.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
He huffs at that. The tone in your voice – feels oddly tongue in cheek.
“Sweetheart, you don’t know me.”
“You don’t know me.”
You lean back into your chair, crossing your arms in front of your chest.
He is quiet, for a moment that feels just the wrong amount too long. And then, he fucking speaks.
“When I go back there’s no one waiting for me.”
It’s the last thing you wanted to hear.
You’re good at drawing conclusions – it’s in your line of work. But sometimes you didn’t want to be proven right. This was one of those moments.
Something clicks into place and you can feel the mood physically shifting. It’s like everything makes sense now – the way he felt so oddly familiar as soon as you laid your eyes on him when you arrived at Hogan’s place this afternoon. It’s like coming home in the worst fucking way possible.
He doesn’t trust himself to look at you.
He got her killed. Whoever he sees in you. She’s dead. And her blood is on his hands. No matter how many times he washes them clean.
hi im not dead! just got uninspired. i have a few unfinished things on my laptop, one of which im finishing as we speak. any of yall still into doc ock? because i sure am
writing fanfiction is just. i’m being so creative and original. i’m plagiarizing everyone by accident. i’m a genius. i’m cringe. i’m too angsty. i’m too cheesy. this is not in character. it doesn’t matter that it’s not in character because these are my characters now. i love my hobby. this is the worst possible use of my time. i’m seeking validation. i’m projecting my own personal problems onto this story and i’m barely hiding it. i know so many words and i’m using all of them wrong. im on tumblr posting about it instead of writing it.
it’s so frustrating (and heartbreaking) to see so many writers going on indefinite hiatus / deleting their blogs because they are not motivated to write anymore. worst of all: people would always be like ‘no why are you leaving we don’t want you to do so :(’ but they were nowhere to be seen in our notifications beforehand. the lack of support on this platform is a huge issue and it’s a shame that content consumers don’t get the hint when writers have been waving the red flag for months.
please support creators by rebbloging their posts, interact with them by leaving a few tags, a comment or an ask! if you’re too shy then hit that anon button and you’re good to go. show them that their works matter and you enjoy their blog, because when the decision to leave is made, it’s already too late.
Does this fanfiction make sense? Hold water? Not an ounce! Does that mean I’m going to stop writing it? Not an ounce! I’m a moron with a keyboard and half an idea and that’s your problem now. God couldn’t stop me and neither could my dad, and now I’m on your screen with another thousand words of whatever the fuck this is. Bon appetite bitch!
OK but like… first sentences don’t have to be there forever. I cannot begin to count the number of times I’ve started a story like:
And just write the ideas down until the story starts to shape itself. Then when you’re ready, go back and delete everything before the point where the story actually starts.
Writing yourself into an idea is a time-honoured technique, and it works.
My first paragraph/section is always my notes. Who, what, when, where, how. Snippets of dialogue or the bare bones of scenes I want to include. I colour it red, then refer to it when I get stuck, and cross out bits that I’ve already done (but don’t delete, never delete your notes!)
The next paragraph/section is the start of the story. It might not be the start, but it’s a start.
if anybody wants to request something with a dialogue prompt you‘re welcome too! would love some inspiration. you can find them on my blog under #inspo :)
stormborns
ellievsbear
kianamaiart
prguitarman
