#stuff I wrote | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rs-hawk · 4 months

Note

Do you have any writing tips? Even if it’s not necessarily for smut?

I won’t be touching on tips for smut at all on this post but I can make a separate post for it if y’all want.

My Top 10 Writing Tips

Love all your characters. Yes, even your antagonists. Hell, especially your antagonists. Even if they’re evil for the sake of being evil, if you want a 3 dimensional character, you have to acknowledge that they’re more than just evil to someone. Their mother. Their friends. Their dog. You have to think of their motivations, and honestly?-acknowledge that every character you write has a part of you in them. Maybe just your anger, your fear, your trauma, but love them for that, and it’ll shape them and your works in ways you never thought of.

Don’t reread your work too often! It’s hard (so very very hard) but when you have to crank out 2k words a day every day of the month but 2 it gets easier. Lol. Fr though just keep chugging along. You can reread later. You can edit later. Just get it done.

Don’t edit too much while you’re still actively writing. I know that’s hard, I really do, but if you keep rewriting, you’ll never be able to finish. You’ll keep writing a handful of scenes over and over again until you hate it, your book and yourself for “giving up”. You can edit later.

Write for yourself. It doesn’t matter how good of a writer you are, how beautiful or eloquent your style, if you hate it with every fiber of your being, it’ll turn to dust in your hands. I consider writing work, and when people enjoy themselves at work, not only do they do better, but the consumer enjoys it more. Think about it. If you’re at a restaurant and the workers are laughing and smiling with each other and seem genuinely happy, you’re more likely to go back than if they’re miserable, on the verge of tears and seem to hate being there, right? The same is true for your writing. Readers will enjoy it more if they can feel how much you enjoyed creating it.

Don’t just write. Listen to music. Get up and go for a walk. Text/call a friend. Watch a TV show. Pet your cat. Experience something. It helps you write but it also reminds you that hey, you’ve been here like eight hours. Get something to drink. Take a screen break. Go outside.

Be comfortable while you write. I’m not going to lecture you on posture because I’m currently laying down with my legs drawn up under me, my upper body turned and my phone in the air because I’m trying to put enough pressure on my lower back to pop it. Anyway, even if you can’t stay in one position long, switch. Listen to your body. A “proper” posture can end up hurting you if you don’t ever relax or if you’re putting too much pressure on your lower spine. It’s okay to lean. It’s okay to lay down. It’s okay to sit cross-legged. Just not at the expense of your body. Be aware, and don’t forget to get up and stretch!

Take breaks. Eat. Drink. Stretch. Go to the bathroom. Some people need them scheduled, and that’s fine, but also listen to your body. If you need to use the toilet but you don’t have another break scheduled for an hour, just go. Pause your timer or delay your alarm if you want, but take care of yourself.

Don’t be too rigid with your “starting” plot. We know most of us have that one scene or one character in mind we want to write, so we create a plot around them. That’s fine and I love it, but your writing is like a living creature. You might change while writing it. Your characters and ideas might change while writing it. Let them change. Let you change! You can edit later.

Remember it’s not a race. Just because you see some people dropping 3 novels a year, or 5 Tumblr posts every day doesn’t mean you’re not good enough. No one can write what you write. No one can create what you can create. Your work deserves to exist and be judged on its own merit. Not compared to anyone else’s, even if it’s you five years ago who could crank out multiple posts daily. It’s okay.

Don’t expect anything. Start writing because you love it. It makes you happy. It itches that part of your brain that no other hobby does. That no other love does. I’ve been writing for about 15 years now. I don’t know who I am without it. I have tried giving it up, moving past it, doing other things, but I always come back. Nothing else makes me feel the way writing does. I have gone years without writing, but when I start writing again, it’s like a high. I can go for hours, and I have! I have been lucky to be able to monetize my work, but it took 10+ years and was only because I got goofy about werewolves on a PTR app. You can’t go into the arts and expect to make money right away, or ever. You can hope, and do your best, but don’t only do it because you think you’ll make a living. It’s a sad but real fact. Capitalism makes us think we should only do stuff we can make money off of, but that’s a lie. You can AND SHOULD create just to create. Humans are meant to make art, and if writing is your canvas like it is mine, write to create. Fuck capitalism. Your art existing is enough reason to create it.

67 notes · View notes

novoaa1writes · 1 year

Text

ours

pairing(s): dark!wanda maximoff x f!reader, dark!wanda maximoff x dark!natasha romanoff x f!reader

summary:

You grin, slinging the sodden rag over one shoulder and fixing Wanda with a playfully contemplative look. “Your drink of choice. Vieux Carré—”

“Hold the lemon,” Wanda finishes, the corner of her lips twitching—threatening a smirk.

You nod and dip your chin—by all accounts, seeming quite shy all of a sudden. “Did I get it right?” you ask, wide-eyed and hopeful—desperately searching Wanda’s bemused features for a hint of approval. Her approval.

Gods, she thinks to herself, telltale warmth pooling low in her belly at the sight of you. You’re perfect.

word count: ~4,100

rating: teen

warnings: wanda being kind of unhinged, natasha ALSO being kind of unhinged... generally non-consensual dynamics going on, etc etc. kidnapping for sure!

notes: implied female reader (through russian/bulgarian terminology). and on that note, wanda uses a bulgarian dialect because i say so! i guess! .. idk this has been sitting in my docs for a minute now but it’s here! i figured a little post couldn’t hurt while i continue to work on other stuff (that being the ‘find you again’ series update and the recent request i got about queen ramonda)

— —

Wanda Maximoff has always harbored something of a… possessive streak. Particularly where it concerns the things—people—that she wants.

There’s a certain mania in it, she knows—a type of delirium in allowing something to consume you with such sovereignty. A complete loss of self; a sense of desire so vast, you’ll kill every last part of yourself in a bid to make it stay.

She knows this. She thinks a part of her always has. It used to scare her, once upon a time.

But then… well. Aliens invaded. Scientists happened. High Evolutionary, HYDRA… Her mind is a mess of jumbled recollections—their mess. Ultron, S.W.O.R.D., Erik, Agatha. A flicker of bright electric blue; trails of cobalt mist floating on air, curled around her like the arms of somebody she used to know. Two little boys, wide-eyed and earnest. Twins, just like…

A swift movement in her periphery interrupts her train of thought, yanking her back to the present.

Sound assaults her eardrums on all sides: overlapping chatter, wooden chairs scraping the floors, the faint clinking sounds of cubed ice swirling around in glass tumblers. She blinks—once, twice—and forces herself to relax as a slender figure takes a seat across from her with all the practiced grace of a prima ballerina.

“Couldn’t stay away?” Natalia’s eyes—no longer colored her natural green, but a subtle shade of muted blue—dance with amusement. If Wanda looks intently enough, she can see the edges of each contact lens around her irises. She’s bleached her eyebrows, and toned them, too; they’re now a flaxen platinum hue which makes the blue of her (faux) irises really pop.

Wanda shrugs, eyeing the bar out the corner of her eye. The bar, behind which you scurry tirelessly this way and that, serving mixed drinks and tap beer and the occasional shot of something harder to a never-ending procession of barely-legal college kids, billiards-enthused grad students, and haggard-looking blue-collar workers fresh off a 10-hour shift.

“You’re blonde again,” she remarks instead without bothering to tear her gaze away. You’ve always been such a hard worker—even on days that you have every right to be the opposite. It’s one of the many things she admires about you.

Natalia’s smirk widens, though Wanda hardly catches it. “Figured I’d go for something a little more… subtle,” she responds, tucking an errant lock of strawberry-blonde hair behind her ear. In the same motion, she turns to angle herself just so, such that she too can monitor your diligent movements from out the corner of her eye. “She’s off at 1:00.”

You’re wiping down the bartop with a damp rag now, and chuckling good-naturedly at a joke one particularly greasy-looking patron has (apparently) told. If you take note of the lecherous way he stares down your shirt as you lean in to scrub at a particularly sticky spot on the burnished wood, you do well not to show it.

Wanda does. Wanda notices everything about you.

Her jaw creaks from clenching it so hard.

It’s only Natalia’s voice, clear and calm, which reaches her through the noise—blood rushing, elevated heart rate pounding in her ears. “Easy,” she cautions lowly.

Easy, Wanda repeats internally.

“She’s mine,” Wanda hears herself snarl, fists clenched tightly in her lap as she glares daggers over at the source of her ire. Limp-dicked pervert.

“Ours,” Natalia corrects. There’s a certain edge to her tone, this time—one that Wanda, even as furious as she is, knows better than to disregard.

With some effort, she tears her gaze from you and looks at Natalia, who levels her with a high-browed look in return.

“Sorry,” Wanda mumbles, dipping her chin with genuine contrition. (She’s careful not to lose you in her periphery all the same.)

Natalia analyzes her for a brief moment, then gives a shallow nod. “Be patient,” she murmurs, pitching her voice just over the hubbub and chatter filling the pub. “It won’t be long now.”

“Promise?” she asks—pleads, really; quite suddenly feeling so very, very small.

Natalia has a way of doing that—of making her feel small, and vulnerable, and meek where no one else can, because Wanda swore to herself that she’d never let them. Not again. Not after Stark, and Ultron, and the ever-elusive ghost of a hazel-eyed boy whose name she can’t for the life of her recall.

She’s simply worked too hard, lost far too much to willfully prostrate herself in such a way. There’s nothing to be gained by kneeling at the foot of someone bigger, stronger, meaner ; nothing beyond pain and suffering without end. She knows that better than most.

Natalia is different.

And when Natalia’s lips curve to form a delectably crooked grin, mischief sparking itself alight in her eyes, Wanda is reminded of exactly why that is. And when she says, “Promise,” it doesn’t feel empty, the way it did with everyone else.

It feels like what it is—a promise.

— —

“Let me guess—Vieux Carré, hold the lemon.”

It takes everything within Wanda not to jump out of her skin the moment you—of all people, you—slide into the seat across from her at a pristine table for two. Then, you’re starting a conversational dialogue as though it’s the most ordinary thing on Earth.

Good Lord. Are you trying to kill her? “What?”

You grin, slinging the sodden rag over one shoulder and fixing Wanda with a playfully contemplative look. “Your drink of choice. Vieux Carré—”

“Hold the lemon,” Wanda finishes, the corner of her lips twitching—threatening a smirk.

Gods, she thinks to herself, telltale warmth pooling low in her belly at the sight of you. You’re perfect.

“I’m not much of a drinker, I’m afraid,” she admits, eyeing you intently.

The visible disappointment that flits across your features—though regretful—is damn near as delectable as your naïveté. “Shoot,” you pout, brow furrowed.

A beat passes in silence.

Wait. Silence? That can’t be…

Alarmed, Wanda does a quick visual sweep, logging her surroundings. Head on a swivel. Natalia taught her that.

Chairs flipped up on tables; an empty bar. The neon signs decorating each wall—dark. Lights out; newly-swept floors spotless and bare. Not a soul in sight.

Well, besides the pair of you.

“It’s after 2:00. We closed about a half hour ago,” you offer by way of explanation. There’s an almost… sympathetic look gracing your tawny features; a genuine urge to soothe Wanda’s evident disorientation, strange and unfamiliar though she might be.

“I suppose that… I lost track of the time,” Wanda murmurs more to herself than to you, pinpricks of unease crawling beneath her skin. She can already hear Natalia’s voice in her head—scolding her for losing focus.

You nod, as if this explanation pleases you. “It happens.”

“Not to me,” Wanda refutes before she can think better of it, words imbued with bitterness and longing and grief beyond measure. “Not after…” she trails off, blinking rapidly.

You frown, leaning forth with clasped hands. “After…?” Your voice is gentle—so very gentle; your intonation—probing, yet kind. And that look in your eyes—tender, open… warm. Like she could tell you anything, everything, if she wanted to.

Heaven help her, but Wanda wants to.

It’s only the firm, intent rhythm of boots on wood which stops her from committing any further blunders. Confident footsteps mark the newcomer’s approach, and with them, a rich, intoxicating presence; one ripe with poise and sovereignty.

Saved by the bell.

“I thought I’d find you here,” comes a lofty, languorous intonation. Low, husky; cool and collected as can be.

Natalia.

Her hair is a dark, coffee-stained brown; her eyes a startling shade of hazel. Her brows are penciled in to appear fuller, darker; and, as she draws near, there’s a rather overstated sensuality to her stride—a densely-layered suggestiveness that’s as fantastical as it is distracting.

Yes, Natalia has always been a master of deception. Shedding skins and personas like outerwear; changing seamlessly with the winds of every season. And yet, throughout it all, one thing remains; one thing is constant. She’s in charge, always thinking a step—or ten—ahead. As for the rest of them… well. They’re all just window dressing; side-pieces; extras in her production.

And Wanda surrenders unto it, as she always does. Revels in its close proximity, soaking it up like golden sunlight on a warm summer’s day.

You, for your part, are not left similarly unruffled.

“We’re closed,” you assert, rising unsteadily to your feet with an alarmed expression. “How…” you falter, gaze darting this way and that. “How did you get in?”

If Natalia hears you (and Wanda knows that she does), she does not let on. Rather, she comes to stand directly between the pair of you, peering down at Wanda with a decidedly displeased frown. “I expected you back hours ago.”

Wanda dips her chin in a show of deference, cheeks hot with embarrassment. “I know. I was—”

“Distracted?” Natalia interjects tonelessly. “Yes, I can see that.” Wanda hears her heave a quiet sigh. “You’re forcing my hand here, звезда моя.”

You’re well and truly confused, now; looking from Natalia to Wanda and back again, trying desperately to put the puzzle pieces together. Wanda can practically see the gears turning in your pretty little head. “You guys… know each other?”

Poor thing.

Wanda dares to raise her head, looking up to Natalia with pleading eyes. “I’m sorry,” she professes, her voice small and quiet. “I couldn’t wait any longer.”

Another sigh, though even before she speaks, Wanda can tell she’s won. (This round, at least.) “Fine,” Natalia huffs, turning to appraise you with a harried look. “It’s high time you took a leave of absence, my dear. You work far too much, anyhow.”

— —

You awaken slowly. Your head spins. And your limbs… tingling, yet numb. So very, very numb. It’s like you’re floating and sinking all at once—suspended in viscous amber, lead weighing heavy in your bones… pressure squeezing your lungs in a steel vice.

And, just as quickly as it’s come, it’s gone.

Awareness sparks a lit match in your chest; it burns a fiery trail up your throat as you hack and cough, hot bursts of air leaving you in a blistering rush. You roll over on a whim, wheezing up what meager remains of your burning lungs onto… a bed. Nicely made. Starch-white sheets, all tucked in around the edges.

And the scent—pleasant, mild, clean. Like a hotel.

Bleary-eyed and disoriented, you prop yourself up onto your forearms and peer around.

Polished cement flooring, shadow-grey walls... a flat-screen TV mounted up on the opposite wall. You’re still in your work uniform—slim-fit tee with a generous V-neck (black), jeans (also black), and a pair of ratty hi-top Converse (blue). Your head pounds.

What happened?

For better or worse, you aren’t permitted the time to think about it for too long. At precisely that moment, all the hairs on your body seem to stand on end, and the realization hits (rather belatedly, granted) that you are not alone.

A pretty, red-haired woman stands in the doorway, regarding you intently with an otherwise blank expression. Delicate, diamond-cut jawline; full, rouge-red lips. Average height, with a slender yet shapely build. Unreasonably attractive.

You think you might recognize her.

Hesitantly (and with a not insignificant amount of effort), you wriggle over onto your back, feeling her eyes upon you all the while.

“H-Hi,” you manage awkwardly. Your cheeks feel hot.

Her full, pinkish lips curve up to form a spine-chilling smirk that dimples both pale cheeks. “Hello,” she answers back in kind, forest-green eyes alight with mischief.

“Where am I?”

She shrugs. “Does it matter?”

You blink, taken aback. “... Yes?”

She sucks in her lips, as if trying not to laugh. “Is that a question?”

You fall silent, then, feeling rather foolish and small all of a sudden.

She says nothing, though the amusement remains upon her pretty angular features, causing your skin to heat and itch with mounting discomfort.

“You look familiar,” you say after a moment. You’ve never been one for awkward silences. “Do I know you?”

She shrugs once more. “Do you?”

You don’t roll your eyes, but it’s a close thing. Instead, you shove yourself up into a sitting position and swing your legs over the edge of the bed. Even that meager motion alone is enough to make your head pound and spin and shriek like a banshee on speed, but you’re loath to quit now. “I’m leaving now,” you announce shakily, making to push yourself to your feet—

Only to be intercepted by a deceptively slender body slamming into yours head-on, shoving all the air from your lungs in one fell swoop and jackknifing your upper body violently backward. Instinct allows you to get your elbows behind you in time to stop yourself from tumbling onto your back as she clambers into your lap with all the efficacy and grace of someone who’d done this a thousand times before; steel-wrought thighs clamped around your hips in a bruising grip, an open-faced palm pressed against your sternum.

“I don’t think so, зайка,” she purrs, bearing down on you much like a predator would its prey. And fuck it all, but she’s so much prettier up close. Not only that, but she smells incredible; like honey and pine needles and something indefinable, something entirely her own. “Why don’t you relax, hm? Stay a while.”

You get the feeling she isn’t really asking so much as she is telling.

You gulp, trying your very best to re-gather yourself: your composure, your confusion, your ire. “Who are you?” you try again, suppressing a shudder. “What do you want ?” You give your hips an experimental wiggle—endeavoring to loosen her grip, even if only slightly.

Nothing. If anything, she grips you that much tighter, digs her palm into your chest that much harder until there’s absolutely no question about the impressive bruising you’ll sport come morning.

You bite your lip to hold back a whine, and don’t flinch when you taste blood. Jesus.

“Natasha,” she returns airily. She tacks on something else in a decidedly Slavic-sounding dialect (Russian, perhaps?), followed by… your name.

Your heart skips a beat, your chest beginning to ache beneath her palm. “How do you know my name?” you question dumbfoundedly, ears ringing.

She—Natasha—just chuckles, low and amused. “Oh, зайка,” she muses, cupping your cheek in the palm of her free hand. “I know everything about you.”

You frown, heart thudding double-time against your ribcage. You’re not sure what compels you to test her knowledge, particularly in your current predicament, but, nevertheless—

“When was I born?” you inquire—demand, really. You’ve always been a bit too bold for your own good.

Luckily, though, rather than enraging her, Natasha actually appears… tickled by your impudence. Charmed, even. She rattles off your birthday, complete with the year and time of day—to the minute—without blinking.

“Where was I born?”

She rattles that one off, too, complete with the city, hospital, and cross-streets.

“Where’d I go to school as a child?”

Same deal. Lists the full name of the school, its exact locale (cross-streets and all); even includes the name of your favorite teacher, just to rub it in.

Fuck. You swallow thickly, dread churning low in your gut. “What do you want?” Your voice trembles this time, though you haven’t the presence of mind to be embarrassed about it.

All you can feel is thinly-veiled panic as the reality of your situation hits like a sucker punch to the gut, leaving you lightheaded and dizzy with fear.

“I want a lot of things.”

Again, you don’t roll your eyes, though it’s not for lack of wanting. “None of which includes answering my questions, I see.”

She smiles, all teeth. “Careful, bunny,” she cautions, leaning further in until your faces are centimeters apart and her hair tickles your collarbones. It takes all your willpower to keep from flinching away at her close proximity. “My patience is not limitless,” she informs you, warm breath ghosting across your lips, “and you are testing it.”

Your cheeks burn as you manage a shallow nod, feeling by all accounts properly chastised. “Sorry,” you mumble, however begrudgingly.

“Your obstinacy is endearing, but unacceptable,” Natasha continues, shoving herself back off of you with the palm of her hand—ouch— and dismounting gracefully from your lap in one fluid motion. Your breastbone aches, and your hips aren’t much better—left smarting from the phantom weight of her touch. You don’t dare move an inch. “We’ll work on that.”

You exhale sharply, head still pounding, blood pooling along your lower lip. “I don’t understand,” you tell her, your eyes burning with unshed tears.

“Aw,” she coos, lips pushed out to form a sympathetic (read: condescending) pout. “Poor thing.” As she speaks, another figure enters your tear-blurred vision and—

Wait a minute. Another one?

Your teary-eyed gaze darts over to the new arrival, frantically taking her in. White. Pretty. Long, strawberry-blonde hair, blue-green eyes, and delicate pink lips.

You didn’t even hear her come in.

“Natalia, you’re scaring her,” the strawberry-blonde admonishes, coming to sit directly beside you on the edge of the bed. Her voice is smooth and light, tempered with the faintest hint of Slavic influence. Not only that, but there’s something almost… familiar about her as she urges you to sit upright, begins tucking stray locks of non-existent hair behind your ear with all the tenderness and familiarity of a long-time lover. Have you met her before? “Oh, it’s okay, миличка, don’t cry.”

You shake your head despondently, face hot with embarrassment. You feel like a little kid. “I don’t understand what’s happening,” you whisper hoarsely, willing yourself not to cry.

“Shh, shh, I know, baby,” she soothes, leaning in to place a feather-light kiss upon your temple. “It’s okay, you’re okay.” She nuzzles along your brow with the tip of her nose, leaving kisses upon every inch of skin.

You don’t fight it when she mouths her way down your jaw, tilting your face towards her with an insistent touch beneath your chin.

You—teary-eyed, frustrated, critically overwhelmed—can’t move, can hardly breathe. You’re stock-still, locked in place; looking despondently into her blue-green eyes like you’re drowning, and she might just be the one to save you.

It’s something like a dream when she presses her lips to yours in a feather-light kiss that all too quickly turns open-mouthed and heated; her tongue sliding against yours, teeth nipping at your split lower lip until you whimper.

You don’t mean to. Really, you don’t. It just… it happens so fast.

Your head spins, your lungs burn from lack of oxygen, and God help you, but her kiss is nothing short of intoxicating—warm and solid and there, anchoring you in a moment that feels altogether surreal.

It takes all your grit—and then some—to tear yourself away, but you manage it all the same.

“Shit,” you gasp, chest heaving, head spinning. You damn near tumble off the edge of the bed.

If the woman is at all put off by your sudden retreat, she does not let on. Instead, she merely smirks and licks a smear of blood—your blood—from her upper lip with slow, deliberate movements, as though savoring your taste.

“Delicious,” she murmurs more to herself than anyone else, eyes hooded with lust.

“I-I know you,” you choke out between heaving gasps. And, the moment you’ve said it, you know it to be true. You do recognize her!

She’s something of a regular at the bar, though certainly not in the conventional sense. She’s never ordered anything; not a drink (non-alcoholic or otherwise), nor food. She was just… there. Sitting alone at a table for two, blending seamlessly into the backdrop of every vibrant night.

You aren’t sure when you first noticed her. A few months ago? Maybe longer?

“Wanda,” she offers up, presumably by way of introduction.

“You… You were at the bar,” you say slowly, still quite out of breath. “A lot.”

“Someone had to make sure you did not get into any trouble,” she—Wanda—reasons with a noncommittal shrug.

“You were there every night… because of me ?”

“Of course, миличка,” Wanda enthuses, stroking her thumb in gentle circles beneath your cheekbone. “You’re ours. Where else would I be?”

Ice slithers down your spine. “W-What?” you question, gaze darting briefly over to Natasha, who silently watches the pair of you with interest, before returning back to Wanda. “What does that mean?”

“You’re confused,” she soothes, and perhaps you’re imagining it, but you think you glimpse a flicker of carmine-red arcing through her pupils—here one moment, gone the next.

And in that instant…

Woah.

It’s as if a switch has been flipped.

Time seems to slow. A strange sensation pulses behind your right eye… probing; curious. Inattention glazes over your vision; lead settles heavy in your bones. And that nagging, inquisitive probe… remains.

Oh, does it remain. Creeping its way into your thoughts, coiling its way around the base of your spine… polluting your very bloodstream with red, red, red.

“W-What’s happening?” you hear yourself ask from beneath a sea of molten amber. The words sound tinny to your ears.

“Shh-shh-shh,” the other one—Natalie, Natalia, Natasha—coos from… behind you. When did she get there? Slender arms curl around your ribs, tugging you back into her body, and you… you are like dregs on the ocean’s tide; small, lost, helpless. Where it flows, so, too, do you. “No more talking, зайка,” she murmurs, words wrought with a mirth you don’t understand. “I think you’ve done quite enough of that.”

The distant thought registers that perhaps you should take issue with that… stiffen up, flinch away, make a snappy retort. Something.

But, just as quickly as it’s come, it’s gone, leaving nothing—not even the faintest echo—in its wake.

She’s still pulling you along as she reclines back against the headboard, trading her firm grip on your sides for a looser one around your neck and shoulders. And you… you go willingly. You let her arms pull you back into her chest, tucking your head beneath her chin. You think you might even feel her place a kiss atop your head. Her touch is firm, yet gentle as she holds you against her, and she is so very, very warm…

Wanda joins, too, a half a second later—straddling one of your legs and crawling her way up the length of your body, planting feather-light kisses everywhere she can reach along the way.

“It is better like this, hm?” she hums. “Just the three of us. No arguing, no resistance… No fighting.” Once again, you’re struck by the distinct—and fleeting—impression that you should take offense to that. “How it’s meant to be.”

When she finally comes to rest, it’s with an arm slung around your waist and one of her long, shapely legs tangled with yours. She noses at Natasha’s forearms folded beneath your chin like a brown-nosed puppy, and doesn’t relent until she readjusts her grip with a peevish huff. The moment there’s room, Wanda’s head finds its place against your chest and she lets out a satisfied hum, every warm puff of breath ghosting just so across your sternum. You’re sure she can feel every slow, languorous beat of your heart from there. All at once, it occurs to you to be grateful for your hazy, befuddled state; heaven knows your heart would be thundering out your chest otherwise.

“We care for you, миличка,” Wanda murmurs into your chest, punctuating her statement with a gentle kiss beneath your clavicle. “You don’t understand yet, and that is alright.”

“But you will,” Natasha adds, planting tender kisses along your neck and chuckling whenever a particularly sensitive spot makes you shudder. “No matter how long it takes.”

“This is our promise to you,” Wanda whispers, and though her words sound practiced, in a sense—as though she’s said them many times, and is concentrating quite intently on getting them right—they sound genuine, too. Like she really, really means them.

Moments before you fall asleep, a thought registers—the first rational, clear thought you’ve had since you first saw twin flickers of red flare in Wanda’s pupils: Fuck. What have I gotten myself into?

— —

звезда моя | zvezda moya | my star [russian]

зайка | zaika | bunny (term of endearment) [russian]

миличка | milichka | honey [bulgarian]

end notes: again, this has been sitting in the drafts/docs for a minute, and would love to know what you think! in the meantime, i’m still on that grind for all the shit i need to do that hasn’t yet been completed yet..... heh heh. will probably toss this up on ao3 (but also maybe not?) soon enough. we’ll see </3

link to masterlist

#dark!wanda maximoff x dark!natasha romanoff x f!reader #dark!wanda maximoff x f!reader #dark!natasha romanoff x f!reader #wanda maximoff x natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #dark!wanda maximoff x dark!natasha romanoff x reader #stuff i wrote #f!reader

295 notes · View notes

soriastrider · 9 months

Text

last night i was digging up old pesterlog nonsense i wrote and this one makes me laugh a bit more than it should

#dave strider #dirk strider #homestuck #pesterlogs #stuff i wrote #i love the striders so much lol

96 notes · View notes

monstersinthecosmos · 5 months

Text

VC Kinktober <3

So I didn't have time to create anything new for Kinktober this year, and I also meant to make this post at the end of October and didn't get a chance, so please humbly accept this late offering! Instead of creating anything new I wanted to make a lil directory of the fics I've written already that contain some of these prompts, for everyone's needs!

Day 1: Biting Bartzabel (Marius/Santino) Dust of the Saturn (Armand/Daniel) Gallows Bird (Maruis/Armand) In the Trials of the Heart (Armand/Daniel, Marius/Daniel, Marius/Armand) The Lotus Eater (Armand/Daniel) Minus (Armand/Daniel) the misinterpretation of silence and its disastrous consequences (Lestat/Louis) Moon Above, Sun Below (Armand/Daniel) quinque plus unum (Marius/Daniel, Marius/Armand) Right Where it Belongs (Lestat/Louis) Ruby (Armand/Daniel) Sfaíra Ti̱s Fo̱tiás (Marius/Armand, Santino/Armand) So Falls the World (Marius/Pandora, Akasha/Marius/Pandora) Various Methods of Escape (Louis/Daniel)

Day 2: Masturbation Fall Apart (Armand/Daniel) Sfaíra Ti̱s Fo̱tiás (Marius/Armand, Santino/Armand) Vantablack (Marius/Armand) Where My Holiness Goes (Armand/Daniel)

Day 3: Praise Kink

French Mistake (Nicki/Lestat) Gallows Bird (Marius/Armand) Vantablack (Marius/Armand)

Day 4: Voyeurism/Exhibitionism

Fall Apart (Armand/Daniel) Gallows Bird (Marius/Armand) Minus (Armand/Daniel) Moon Above, Sun Below (Armand/Daniel) So Falls the World (Marius/Pandora, Akasha/Marius/Pandora) Vantablack (Marius/Armand)

Day 5: Bondage

Gallows Bird (Marius/Armand) The Lotus Eater (Armand/Daniel) Moon Above, Sun Below (Armand/Daniel) world coming down (Lestat/Louis)

Day 6: Nipple Play Serrated (Armand/Daniel) Where My Holiness Goes (Armand/Daniel)

Day 8: Blood Play

Bartzabel (Marius/Santino) Clockwise Operetta (Marius/Armand) Gallows Bird (Marius/Armand) In the Trials of the Heart (Armand/Daniel, Marius/Daniel, Marius/Armand) The Lotus Eater (Armand/Daniel) Minus (Armand/Daniel) the misinterpretation of silence and its disastrous consequences (Lestat/Louis) Moon Above, Sun Below (Armand/Daniel) quinque plus unum (Marius/Daniel, Marius/Armand) Right Where it Belongs (Lestat/Louis) Ruby (Armand/Daniel) Sfaíra Ti̱s Fo̱tiás (Marius/Armand, Santino/Armand) So Falls the World (Marius/Pandora, Akasha/Marius/Pandora) Various Methods of Escape (Louis/Daniel) world coming down (Lestat/Louis)

Day 11: Dom/Sub Cauda Pavonis (Marius/Bianca/Armand) Clockwise Operetta (Marius/Armand) Dust of the Saturn (Armand/Daniel) Fall Apart (Armand/Daniel) Gallows Bird (Marius/Armand) The Lotus Eater (Armand/Daniel) the misinterpretation of silence and its disastrous consequences (Lestat/Louis) Moon Above, Sun Below (Armand/Daniel) Pinion (Marius/Daniel) Right Where it Belongs (Lestat/Louis) Ruby (Armand/Daniel) Sfaíra Ti̱s Fo̱tiás (Marius/Armand, Santino/Armand) So Falls the World (Marius/Pandora, Akasha/Marius/Pandora) Vantablack (Marius/Armand) Various Methods of Escape (Louis/Daniel) Where My Holiness Goes (Armand/Daniel) world coming down (Lestat/Louis)

Day 12: Cockwarming

Cauda Pavonis (Marius/Bianca/Armand) Gallows Bird (Marius/Armand)

Day 13: Toys

Cauda Pavonis (Marius/Bianca/Armand) Down Below (Armand/Daniel) Dust of the Saturn (Armand/Daniel) The Lotus Eater (Armand/Daniel) Gallows Bird (Marius/Armand) So Falls the World (Marius/Pandora, Akasha/Marius/Pandora)

Day 14: Roleplay

Cauda Pavonis (Marius/Bianca/Armand) Gallows Bird (Marius/Armand)

Day 17: Body Worship Buried in the Blind Space (Armand/Daniel)

Day 18: Double Penetration

Gallows Bird (Marius/Armand)

Day 19: Threesome/Orgy

Cauda Pavonis (Marius/Bianca/Armand) Gallows Bird (Marius/Armand) Minus (Armand/Daniel) Moon Above, Sun Below (Armand/Daniel) So Falls the World (Marius/Pandora, Akasha/Marius/Pandora)

Day 20: Edging

Clockwise Operetta (Marius/Armand) Gallows Bird (Marius/Armand) The Lotus Eater (Armand/Daniel) Where My Holiness Goes (Armand/Daniel) world coming down (Lestat/Louis)

Day 22: Breathplay Various Methods of Escape (Louis/Daniel)

Day 25: Sensory Play Only Human (Armand/Daniel) world coming down (Lestat/Louis)

Day 26: Impact Play Clockwise Operetta (Marius/Armand) Gallows Bird (Marius/Armand) the misinterpretation of silence and its disastrous consequences (Lestat/Louis) Right Where it Belongs (Lestat/Louis)

Day 27: Religious Play Sfaíra Ti̱s Fo̱tiás (Marius/Armand, Santino/Armand)

Day 29: Clothed Sex

Cauda Pavonis (Marius/Bianca/Armand)

Day 30: Dirty Talk

Cauda Pavonis (Marius/Bianca/Armand) Clockwise Operetta (Marius/Armand) Gallows Bird (Marius/Armand) Sfaíra Ti̱s Fo̱tiás (Marius/Armand, Santino/Armand)

#vfkinktober2023 #stuff i wrote #so i have 2 other tumblr drabbles that never made it to ao3 #for some reason tumblr won't let me add the links or it won't save or post this LMAO OKAY #they're both armand/daniel and one is about lingerie and the other is about glass toys and temperature play #sigh #anyway!#i wrote mostly canon compliant fic so bloodplay/biting is in most of them but i listed the ones where it's like part of the love making hah #anyway ive written a lot of smutfic i hope i didn't forget anything or i did'nt misremember something LOL sorry!

41 notes · View notes

stellarwing · 3 months

Link

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Baldur's Gate (Video Games) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Astarion/Gale (Baldur's Gate) Characters: Astarion (Baldur's Gate), Gale (Baldur's Gate) Additional Tags: Love Confessions, Fluff Summary:

Never mind Cazador or the Netherbrain, Astarion's scariest challenge yet is admitting he has feelings for the resident wizard.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #astarion ancunin #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #bloodweave #stuff i wrote

21 notes · View notes

vampiresbloodx · 6 months

Note

Hi sorry for asking but I read your request thingy and I'm curious if you could do a vanessa(fnaf movie) x female reader smut maybe dubcon or noncon idk but I would appreciate it or even just smut .

thank you for reading this even if u don't write it -▫️

a/n: hhhhhsvshshshsh yes. Wait I also just realized yall signed off with emojis let me know if you want me to tag your asks as that or smth.

Trigger warnings: smut, legal age gap (reader is 20 and Vanessa is 29/early 30s), reader is Mike's little sister, vaginal fingering, dubcon, stalking.

Vanessa told herself to stay away.

You were Mike's little sister, in college from the information she managed to get from the small talk she had with Mike. And you were off limits.

But she couldn't stop thinking about you.

Running her hands all over your body, making you moan and whimper, she'd make you see stars if she wanted to.

But she wasn't allowed anywhere near you.

She couldn't even breath around you without having Mike scold her.

She understands why he's so protective over his two sisters, after all, he did loose his brother when he was 12. That would have definitely been traumatic. And she knows he wouldn't want to let that happen again.

But still.

He was annoying, she couldn't ask you how your day was without feeling Mike's gaze on the back of her head, he knew she was gay, that was no secret she kept, she was open and proud, and made it clear she didn't like men.

It just wasn't fair, she just wanted to talk to you, make you smile and laugh, make sure you're safe, she cares about you too, even abby, she liked all of you three being around the restaurant working late hours. You bad joined your brother in sharing some night shifts together as you had told her you wanted to save up and one day get out of this boring town, she was supportive of that, since she knew how you felt.

She also knows all of your schedules including when your brother is off for the night.

Luckily he had abby to look after since he knew you can take care of yourself.

She watched you say your goodbyes to your siblings as you hugged them and they saw you off in Mike's car, you blasted your music, Fleetwood mac as she smiled, imagining her sitting next to you in the car as she listens to you sing along.

She followed you all the way to the pizzaria, you grabbed your energy drink, a book, your walkman, and you were off to work.

She'd usually visit you when you worked alone, since that was the only time she could see you without him around.

Vanessa got out of her car, shutting the door behind her as she walked inside the pizzeria.

She saw you sitting in the security room, looking at the monitors as she smiled, leaning against the entrance.

"Hey."

You jumped, startled. Letting out a gasp as you looked around only to see a familiar blonde.

"Shit, you scared me!" You said.

"Sorry" Vanessa chuckled, looking amused by your reaction. "I just wanted to check up on you."

"I'm doing okay, it's not that bad" you said, Vanessa stepped into the office, shutting the door behind her as you furrowed your eyebrows in confusion.

"What are you?-"

You were cut off from your words as you felt her grab you by the arms, pushing you up against the wall as she pressed her lips to yours, knocking the air out of you.

"Just shut up" She mumbled, you froze, unsure of what to do. Sure, you felt attraction towards her, but your brother said to stay away from her, you didn't understand why since she was always kind towards you and your sister and even him. You wanted to get to know her better, maybe even become friends. "Stop talking."

You felt her hands roam your body, touching you as you felt your cheeks heat up, you wasn't sure if you should scream or try to push her off because you didn't even feel that uncomfortable.

She was pretty after all.

You were a sucker for pretty blondes.

Ans she happend to be one.

You just kept your mouth shut, letting her touch you as you could hear her breathing turn ragged.

"God that annoying brother of yours" She muttered, moving her hands to get rid of your belt on your jeans. "So fucking nosy, always around you. I just wanted to talk to you. See you."

You gasped, feeling her cold fingers rub against your clit, you bit back a moan, as you gripped onto her.

"I know you like me to" She moaned, feeling how wet you are, "always looking at me when you think I'm not watching. I'm always watching."

You bucked your hips onto her hand, chasing your high as you were desperate.

Vanessa grabbed you by the chin, forcing you to stare at her.

"Now I've got you all to myself" She smiled.

#fnaf x you #fnaf x y/n #fnaf x reader #fnaf smut #fnaf vanessa x reader #vanessa shelly x reader #stuff i wrote

1K notes · View notes

fistfulofgammarays · 21 days

Text

"Give it to me. I will carry it."

"Tchk. A waste of time." Lae'zel stops nevertheless, and Verrin watches, his heart cold, as she reaches for her pack.

He grasps her wrist before she can complete the motion. She breaks his grip easily, a curse on her breath, but he pulls the map from his pocket before she can retaliate. He is careful to keep his body between it and the rest of the group.

"What-"

"You gave it to me this morning." He says it in gith, conscious of Shadowheart's footsteps behind them. "You don't remember, do you."

During my run, Lae'zel took a permanent hit to her intelligence in the Zaith'isk. I was thinking about that manifesting as difficulty with short-term memory, and wondering how people raised in githyanki society would navigate a "weakness" in someone they cared about.

#ask meme #stuff I wrote

13 notes · View notes

zeldurz · 7 months

Text

A rant about Bacta

For today's long and rambling meta, let’s talk about bacta, aka my least favourite part of Star Wars. The magical space healing goo that solves all your problems for some reason, with no considerations for anything that makes any amount of sense.

Once again, going to preface this with “I am not a medical professional and am by no means an expert in this field”

More happening below the cut:

To start, I will say that from a meta perspective, I understand why bacta is the way it is. We see it first in Episode V, where Luke is being treated for hypothermia and Wampa-related injuries - and I will give the GFFA that one. We often treat hypothermia with Luke-warm (haha) baths to raise the patient’s body temperature back to what it should be, and I could absolutely see a regulated, temperature controlled immersion tank being used for situations like this. I will even give them the “it’s a sterile solution that has antibiotic properties and promotes healing” thing, like it’s a giant vat of space polysporin or something. HOWEVER, it’s everything that came after that that I have an issue with.

You see, dear reader, the next thing that happened after the movies we all know and love was a tabletop RPG - the foundation of which all legends content is built upon. And in a tabletop RPG (like dungeons and dragons, for those who aren’t familiar), you need a system for tracking health (IE hit points, hearts, etc) and a way to quickly restore your character back to “full health”. Since Star Wars doesn’t have clerics or health potions, you get the magical healing goo that solves all your problems instead. And because you need this resource to be limited in order to give the game an element of risk, you make bacta expensive and sometimes challenging to get ahold of, but it has the power to fix any and all problems.

Now don’t get me wrong, I appreciate that in video games or DND I can drink a potion and suddenly my arm isn’t broken and I am no longer on fire, but Star Wars at its core is not an RPG (I do also, for the record, feel this way about healing spells and similar abilities in fantasy settings, but that’s for another time). I also want to make clear that I, an angst gremlin who thrives on fake science and making characters suffer, am not the average audience for this type of thing, and that narratively, action adventures like Star Wars would suffer tremendously with long, drawn out recovery times. With that being said, the gap between ‘I’m skipping over this because it doesn’t have a place in my story’ and ‘I throw the character in the goo (or have them ingest the goo?? Or inject it?????) and everything is fine now” is substantial, and I for one am really not a fan.

“But Zeds!” you cry, “what about suspension of disbelief? Star Wars has impossible laser swords and impossible galactic travel and-”

I know. And obviously bacta isn’t a make or break it thing for me, because my one and only brain cell is devoted at all times to my poor little meow meows who have committed so many war crimes - but the thing about suspension of disbelief for me personally is it has to be logically consistent within the universe, and for me, bacta makes no fucking sense whatsoever.

(if you are bothered by potential injury/medical stuff and non-graphic discussion of bodily fluids, this is probably where you should get off this train of thought)

I have a lot of issues with bacta, but I can lump them into two broad categories: mechanism of action (ie the biology) and the Bacta Economy (ie the wider implications for healthcare and best practices).

Mechanism of Action:

To quote Wookieepedia

Promoting rapid regeneration of organic compounds, bacta could be used in a variety of both critical and noncritical medical situations. Described as being warm to the touch, the bacta liquid could aid in the healing of concussions, internal organs, and broken ribs. Furthermore, it could be placed in small dishes to help regrow fingernails, mend cuts, burns, and other injuries. Due to its "one-size fits all" use in medical applications, it was a highly prized and commonly used medical treatment for most, if not all, injuries. Bacta could also knit together broken bones

Bacta can fix everything, apparently, with the legends page going so far as to state that “it's replaced most conventional medicine.” I am not a medical professional, but the idea that one single substance could fix every ailment ever in every species is ridiculous considering that a) we can’t even treat the same condition in different people with one substance (as anyone who has been on antidepressants can tell you), let alone conditions with widely different symptoms and presentations. I could maybe see if it was some sort of stem cell activator or something like that, but even then it seems far-reaching to assume that things like broken bones or concussions could be healed by the same substance. The fact that bacta is primarily applied topically (ie to the skin either as a gel or in a tank), but can also be administered orally or by injection only makes things weirder. Does it absorb into the bloodstream through the skin? How does it reach the injured organ in order to “promote healing?” Is it entirely unaffected by stomach acid???

Which, speaking of concussions, does that mean bacta can cross the blood-brain barrier? You’re telling me that there is one goo that is perfectly matched to every being in the whole fucking galaxy (considering how many different blood types humans have and how much care has to go into matching organs or stem cells for transplant in humans, I find it a stretch to believe that one size fits all for every human, let alone other alien species), and it can fix bones and nerves and everything else? Without side effects?????? What about longer term treatments? Are we not worried about muscle loss? Nutrition? Dehydration???

Not to mention the implication that it can fix broken bones without setting them - the whole thing reeks of hand-wavey space magic, which would be fine if it wasn’t explained in universe as ‘miracle bacteria fix things and we will not be elaborating further’. This is especially problematic since Legends mentions some people have a bacta allergy (which would leave them functionally without healthcare) and because having only one substance that fixes everything from a paper cut to life-threatening injuries is a huge risk to your civilization (from possible contaminants/shortages) as well as doing a disservice to every individual. Between the implications that there are relatively few other drugs (maybe this is why everyone seems to be awake for surgery all the time and no one uses any painkillers? Because they need the bacta for something else????) and the fact that no one is going to waste their precious goo on your headache, healthcare must really suck in a “we only have the goo” galaxy (even moreso than it already does).

The Bacta economy and the wider implications for healthcare in the GFFA:

Canonically, bacta is extremely valuable and nearly impossible to synthesize. In fact, I seem to recall a scene in one of the legends books where Luke has recovered from an injury, and after being treated in a bacta tank, the practitioner is siphoning the excess bacta out of his ears so it can be reused.

In real life, we are very careful to handle bodily fluids with care to avoid accidental exposure to certain diseases - but you’re telling me that you can just soak someone in some goo for days (or weeks!) at a time while they have open wounds, and then pull them out and drop in the next patient? Is there no concern for bloodborne disease or infection at all?

One of the things I do use bacta for in my fics is recovery after surgery - the antibacterial properties, plus the analgesics and everything else make it a reasonable choice for standard post-op procedure - but the idea of having a patient come out of a sterile operating room and into the goo tank that might have held someone with gangrene a few hours ago is a recipe for disaster imo

And speaking of contamination - how are we deciding which bacta is injected/administered orally and which is topical? Are we injecting people with goo that other people have been sitting in (again, for days or possibly weeks???) Or is only “fresh” bacta used for that purpose? Maybe it’s a class thing, and the rich can afford fresh but the poor have to make do with stuff that’s already had someone in it for a month idk, the whole thing just feels really really grody and like a good way to ensure your entire population is HIV+

And on that note - if every injury and medical condition is treated with one limited, expensive resource, how are hospitals allocating it? If you have broken ribs, for example, would you be evicted from the bacta tank if there was someone who was in a speeder crash whose life is in danger? What about a premature infant? Even if we are assuming that the GFFA operates under capitalist hellscape rules and each patient has to pay for their own bacta treatment, the fact that there’s only one resource to treat every condition must make for an absolute nightmare of triage (I imagine this is only compounded on ships, where the resources are even more limited to stocks on board, and a disaster like an explosion in an engine room could result in massive casualties if the only option for anything is “treat with bacta”)

All of which is to say - bacta works great as a plot device, but as soon as you start looking at it even a little bit, none of it makes any sense at all.

For me personally, I mainly include the use of a tank for post-operative patients - particularly after a major surgery - along with treatment of hypothermia or other conditions with poor circulation or temperature regulation. I also use a gel for wound dressings, but I rarely would have a character receive it orally or by injection. I think it is a useful thing for doctors to have, but I refuse to believe that the entire Galaxy’s healthcare revolves around one substance (no matter how great), and especially that the Galaxy’s physicians have been replaced by it.

#stuff i wrote #star wars meta #i know theres some people i've talked about this with #and if you have your own thoughts id love to hear em

26 notes · View notes

dpsisquared · 6 days

Text

A long wipwed because I crack myself up. As I tend to do, I ignored the results of Byleth's wyvern naming poll. (She does not name it Dimitri or Soup)

"Lady Byleth, do you have plans this afternoon?" asked Mercedes. "Annie and I are having tea, complete with my freshly baked scones!" "I'd love to, but I have to scrub out Dimitri's mouth," Byleth said, "That brat got into the garbage again and ate some of Flayn's failed culinary experiments. I'm sure you can imagine what that would do to someone's breath." She waved her hand in front of her face to mime a terrible smell. There was a clang as several forks dropped down onto plates, and confused looks surrounded them around the table. Dimitri buried his face into his hands. "Byleth, for the hundredth time, will you please reconsider naming your wyvern Dimitri?" he pleaded. Her face scrunched up into an adorable pout, and he could feel his resolve melting away. But no, he had to insist on this. It was so humiliating. "But Cyril said it's Almyran tradition to name a wyvern after a loved one whose spirit you want them to embody." "That's very flattering, but I'm quite sure he meant a deceased loved one." "I don't have any," she said. "Except my mother. But Sitri is a ridiculous name for a wyvern." Well, if all else failed, he could always change his name to Sitri, since that was apparently safe from being co-opted for a pet. "Then perhaps someone admirable from legend?" he suggested desperately. "How about Kyphon?" "Don't you dare," said Felix. "Your girlfriend is not riding around on one of my ancestors. Besides, I think she's picked a perfectly suitable name for a slavering beast." Byleth narrowed her eyes at Felix, and his smirk fell. "Sorry, Dimitri," he mumbled. "Eh?" asked Sylvain. "Do my ears deceive me, or was that an apology to His Majesty I just heard?" Felix jutted out his chin and crossed his arms. "She won't spar with me if I'm mean to him." Sylvain threw back his head and laughed. "How are you whipped by another's man's fiance?" Sensing Felix's anger rising, Dimitri intervened. "I think we're getting a bit off topic. Kyphon is out, apparently. You can't think of anything else, beloved?" She looked down at her bowl, and oh no, he could see where this was going. "I beg of you, do not say Soup."

#wip wednesday #fe3h #fire emblem three houses #dimileth #fire emblem #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #byleth eisner #blue lions #few3h #stuff i wrote

36 notes · View notes

greenokapi · 1 month

Text

Figured I'd post art for the second chapter of my botw fic :3

Not long after waking up from his 100 year slumber, still lacking his memories, Link runs into a vaguely familiar creature, but something about it is different from everything else he's also forgotten...

This is a BOTW/Skyward Sword AU fic involving Link and Ghirahim, there'll be shipping between them and Sidon's gonna be there too so just be aware of that and also please make sure to heed the tags and rating of the fic, (and stay away if you are a minor), thank you~

First chapter art is here

#Legend of Zelda #Breath of the Wild #Skyward Sword #Link #Sidon #Prince Sidon #Fanfic #SidLink #LinkGhira #GhiraLink #Stuff I drew #Stuff I wrote

27 notes · View notes

canmore-elblood · 2 months

Text

The Art of Character Creation: Exploring the Depths of Human Nature

Creating characters is one of the things I enjoy doing as a writer. It is a very interesting and complex process, and you keep learning more and more about people as you become better at creating characters.

Creating characters is not a simple thing. It needs observation to learn more about people and the knowledge to write believable characters and for their reactions to make sense.

I find observing people very intriguing. I believe that at least a part of people’s personalities are displayed in their speech, tone, clothing, and general body language. I believe we can, at some level, determine people’s personalities through their body language and clothing because there is a reason for everything we do, and this reason has to do with our personalities.

Watching people has been very insightful, but so did watching myself. First of all, it is much easier and much less embarrassing than staring at other people. It is also much easier to determine the reason for your actions because you are free to speak your mind without a third party judging you.

Even if you don't intentionally observe yourself and try to use these insights in your characters, there is always a part of you that is embedded in the fictional characters you created whether you try to or not. It almost feels like you are rediscovering yourself and expressing your thoughts in new ways.

As a writer, fiction writing allows you to explore all your thoughts no matter how crazy they are. Whether you had or hadn’t given yourself time to journal about your thoughts and feelings storytelling is always insightful. The way you describe the scenes, the way the characters behave and talk, the places in your story, and the themes. All these things and more have a part of your interests and personality in them.

All stories have a central theme or idea that they revolve around, and this idea is the lesson the reader is going to learn by going on this journey with your characters. This theme could be something very complicated or something very simple and overused. Even though you are the one writing the story, it shouldn’t feel weird if you learn something from your characters as well. These lessons you learned might not be the central theme, but they are still as important. Embracing these lessons is as important as embracing the central theme.

9 notes · View notes

novoaa1writes · 10 months

Text

day 0

image source

pairing(s): softdark!natasha romanoff x gnc!reader, natasha romanoff & tony stark (platonic)

summary:

“I trust they were well-behaved?”

“You know they weren’t,” Stark disputed, letting out a derisive snort. “Honestly, I don’t know why you don’t let me fix that.”

Natasha shrugged. “Chemically-induced submission is all very well and good,” she mused, sounding vaguely preoccupied. You could still feel her gaze upon you, boring through your skull. “But I’d prefer to earn theirs.”

“Your funeral.”

Or: Natasha wants a pet. Lucky for her, she knows a guy who can help with that.

contains: non-con dynamics, pet play, dehumanization

[cross-posted on ao3]

word count: ~3,300

rating: mature

warnings: non-con dynamics, forced pet play, dehumanization, non-con bathing, referenced non-con body modification, referenced non-con medical experimentation/surgery, referenced physical and psychological abuse, discussions of administering post-op painkillers (morphine, oxycodone, anti-inflammatories, etc.)

notes: reader’s gender is not specified here, and as with every reader-insert i write, the reader is intended to be ethnically ambiguous! also, no use of y/n... i don't personally mind it much, but i understand it's typically preferred without

translation for russian terms in the end notes!

(previously named “build-a-pet”)

— —

Natasha had been on mission when she received the call.

Burner #1—professional access. A select handful of people had the means to call it. Phil, Clint, Nick, Maria. Pepper, too.

Burner #2—a separate, off-books agenda. Personal in nature. Accessible to none save for one individual.

It was the second of the two that rang to signal an incoming call.

Eyeing her target—Pavel Mikhailovich Novik, Bratyerstva head and prolific serial killer—intently through the tac scope, she brought the phone up to her ear and answered the call:

“Romanoff.”

“Gah! Always business with you, huh?” Tony Stark’s conversational—if not somewhat indignant—tone filtered through the speaker. “That’s no way to greet a friend.”

Were Natasha not otherwise occupied at the current moment, she might’ve scoffed. As it was: “A little busy, Shellhead,” she muttered, shifting her aim in time with Novik’s uneven stride as he made his way across a municipal street. “Why don’t we skip to the part where you tell me what you’ve got?”

“I’m doing just swell, thanks for asking.”

He was a short, stout man. Novik, that was. Flat-footed gait, the kind that had long since ruined the arches of his well-worn shoes. Broad shoulders; barrel-chested torso. Thick dark hair cut short on his scalp and, in the case of his square-shaped jaw, removed completely—but permitted to grow to damn near cat-whisker length everywhere else.

A wheat-link chain hung loose around his short neck; the chunky watch on his hairy wrist gleamed when it caught the light. Both solid gold.

He was dressed nicely enough in a red button-down that looked soft as satin, and charcoal black trousers with a matching blazer to boot.

Natasha had to bite back a disapproving hum as he strode into the establishment—a pub, no less—and hoisted himself up onto a barstool with little ceremony.

He was armed, of course, but only barely; a pistol in one inner coat pocket, a switchblade in the other. He also wasn’t entirely clueless, as evidenced by his company: a pair of stern-looking men who stood flanking him on either side, the material of their cheap polyester suits straining to contain their hulking figures, jackets bulging with poorly-concealed semi-automatic weapons. They watched the bartender like hawks as he set a clear bottle—Dębowa—and an empty glass in front of Novik before promptly scurrying away.

They turned their matching glowers away from their boss as he began to drink, surveying the small, dimly-lit pub with heavy-browed suspicion.

It was a clear message. A bit garish for Natasha’s tastes; but clear nonetheless.

As it was, she barely had to shift herself any further to catch him in her crosshairs through a series of high, rectangular windows lining the interior of the grimy pub.

All bark, no bite.

A far less jaded woman might have snorted.

A far less jaded woman Natasha was not.

“… Long story short, we’ve made some serious progress. I want to check in, though, if you could swing by for a quick visit. We’ve only got a short window before some of these alterations are irreversible. Plus, I figured you’d want to see them.”

Natasha bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood, her pulse thrumming wild and fast beneath her skin. “You figured right,” she managed to answer, her mouth dry. It was all she could do to keep Novik unharmed in her crosshairs, her finger from squeezing the trigger.

“So, when can we expect you?”

Natasha flit her gaze to the clock face fastened atop a tall, spindly spire on the nearest street corner, then back to Novik. “Give me six hours.”

— —

“Boss, three reports intercepted from secure, heavily-encrypted channels. All high-profile killings, all on European soil.”

Tony Stark, though intrigued, did not look up from the task at hand: himself perched adroitly along the rim of the tub, lathering your naked body in sweet-smelling soaps; you, slumped uncouthly in the cradle of the bath, glaring up at him with defiant eyes and murder in the tick of your jaw.

“Time window?” he questioned after a pause, lowering one sudsy hand to knead at your lower belly and grinning wolfishly when you couldn’t smother a quiet whine.

“Six days.”

“Locales?”

“Qormi, Malta; Kutaisi, Georgia; and Gomel, Belarus.”

Stark hummed in lieu of answer, a vaguely preoccupied look in his narrowed gaze. His large, calloused fingers didn’t cease their humiliating ministrations over your quivering belly, making you pant in an effort to hold back a low, guttural trill.

“In that order?”

“Yes, boss.”

You hated him. You fucking hated him.

“Walks like Natasha, quacks like Natasha…” he trailed off, giving your belly one last squeeze before withdrawing slightly to cup your other hip with his palm. “Probably Natasha.”

You’d only just begun regaining your strength following the latest procedure, though not nearly enough to do anything other than glare.

Stark slanted his gaze back over to you. If he was at all cowed by the force of your glower, he did well not to show it. “You’re adorable when you’re plotting my demise, y’know that?”

It took everything within you not to roll your eyes.

— —

“So, how was White Russia? Eat any draniki?” Stark questioned as he settled bodily into an armchair, gesturing for Natasha to seat herself on the settee across from him.

She did, her features calm and impassive. Her shrewd gaze flit to you once, but was quick to refocus. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“C’mon, give me something,” Stark carped, huffing petulantly. You couldn’t see his face from this angle, only the back of his head and a bit of bearded cheek, but you imagined he was probably pouting like a third grader. “For old times’ sake?”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Guilty as charged,” Stark quipped. “Though, I suppose I can’t say the same for Novik. He didn’t even get a trial.”

Natasha’s placid expression did not falter. “Who?”

“You know what, I’m just gonna give you this one—”

“Generous.”

“—but only because we’ve achieved a mind-blowing amount of progress within the past couple weeks. Like, seriously: mind-blowing.”

You felt yourself shudder at the reminder. Progress, indeed.

“Oh?” Natasha queried lightly, brows raised. Once more, her gaze dipped to you… and stayed there.

You ducked your head and averted your eyes, cheeks aflame. You’d grown accustomed to being naked around Stark—mainly because you didn’t have a choice. But Natasha…

For the first time in years, you found yourself missing your long hair, the way you could cower behind it at a moment’s notice. Now, you were exposed. Vulnerable.

“I trust they were well-behaved?”

“You know they weren’t,” Stark disputed, letting out a derisive snort. “Honestly, I don’t know why you don’t let me fix that.”

“Your funeral.”

Natasha’s lips twitched, though she remained silent. Then, after a beat or two— “Your progress?” she prompted.

“Right, so, here’s the run-down…”

— —

You’d tuned out for the most part as Stark began his long-winded, vainglorious speech to Natasha about his—your—successes since last they’d spoken. Much as you understood it was likely prudent to listen in, acquire a little more knowledge on what exactly he’d done to you, you’d also been there long enough to know that it probably wouldn’t have made a difference anyhow.

Natasha would do with you as she pleased. Stark, too, provided Natasha was the one asking.

In the beginning, that intrigued you. Made you want to learn more about them and their dynamic; to understand why it was what it was. You didn’t get why Stark would run, jump, and heel for the likes of her—intimidation factor notwithstanding.

By this point, that intrigue had since dwindled, if not dissipated entirely. It was what it was; consequently, they were, too.

You were still angry and strong-willed and a far cry from broken, but you weren’t stupid, either. Just because they treated you like a chained-up dog didn’t mean you had to gnaw off your own limbs in a desperate bid to escape like one.

And, besides… it wasn’t often you got moments like these. Moments where you weren’t being poked and prodded and shot up with God knows what. You were collared, sure, your body riddled with all kinds of aches and pains, but none of it held a candle to the agony you’d known in days past.

Lost in your head though you were, months’ worth of training ensured you didn’t miss the moment Natasha called you over.

“Ко мне,” she spoke, pitching her voice just above appropriate speaking volume.

It was like someone lit a fire under your ass. The second you heard it, you shot up on all fours. Pain came fast on its heels, but you grit your teeth and bore it, swallowing down a cry as soreness shot through your hands—you flat-out refused to call them ‘paws’—like wildfire. Every heightened reflex stood on high alert. Your back, too, felt like it was on fire, spinal column alight with tenderness.

Still, it wasn’t nearly so bad as it’d been a week back, when you awoke in observation all bandaged up and so acutely in pain, you feared it might kill you. You also knew better than to dawdle. Clenching your jaw tight, you shuffled forth on sore palms and bruised knees. Your muscles burned.

You were grateful to feel the tip of your nose graze Natasha’s jean-clad knee, signaling a justifiable stopping point.

“Молодец,” she praised, her voice pitched an octave (or two) higher, and you felt like singing.

You even arched your poor, aching back in a shameless effort to attract… well, something, you supposed. Head pats, perhaps. An open-handed stroke down your spine, even.

Damn that animal, desire-seeking hindbrain.

Fortunately, Natasha seemed to understand. Her palm met the nape of your neck, slender fingers curling their way into the mess of hair at the back of your scalp—God, but that felt divine. A mounting hum in the back of your throat was all the warning you got before—

Fuck. Immediately, you clamped your mouth shut, and the sound—along with the pleasurable vibrations—stopped altogether.

Not again.

“Ah-ah-ah, puppy,” Natasha tutted, her free hand descending to squeeze your nose tight—effectively cutting off your air supply. And still, the other remained; combing through freshly-washed hair at the base of your skull, occasionally scritching your scalp with the tips of her blunt nails until the insides of your throat quivered and your jaw hurt from clenching it so hard. It was all you could do to keep from opening right back up and giving her a nice long purr. (Which, you’d deduced, was exactly what she wanted.) “None of that.”

She was using English now, you noticed.

And, just like that, the realization hit that she hadn’t been before.

Now, you could… you could hear her words and understand them, and from that understanding know their meaning. Before, it was like… like hearing the words and knowing what they were supposed to mean, then acting accordingly. You couldn’t take apart the syllables, the letters in your head, not like you could with English.

P-u-p-p-y. That spelled ‘puppy.’ When you tried to conjure the word she’d used to summon you over, there was just… nothing. A blank space. A short one, telling you you knew the approximate length of the word you were looking for, but… empty.

Your gaze darted to Stark, who just slouched back in his cushy armchair looking immeasurably pleased with himself. At any other time, the mere sight would’ve been enough to spark some measure of annoyance within you.

Now… Now, all you could feel was fear.

He didn’t do that, did he? He… he couldn’t’ve.

All the rest of it: the obedience, the meekness—that? That was conditioning, plain and simple. You weren’t exactly a PhD, but it didn’t take a genius to note down from the very start that some behaviors got you alone time in a small, dark room without food or water or sunlight for days on end, and others got you… well, not that. By a certain point, you would beg him to yell at you, choke you out, take you over his knee and spank your ass raw when you misbehaved; something, anything, so long as it wasn’t that. 2 times out of 10, he’d take you up on that. As for the other 8… well.

But this—implanting knowledge in your subconscious, tuning it to mimic compulsory behavioral urges, all while you remained none the wiser? That was a hell of a lot more complicated than reworking your spine, or tweaking sensory receptors, or even altering your vocal tract to make that obnoxious purr.

It was like he’d rewired your brain.

You didn’t even notice that you’d since relented: gasped out what little breath remained and began wheezing, all doubled-over, sucking in new breaths of air like a half-drowned cat. Though, you sure as hell noticed how that rattling, restless, vibrating sensation arose in your throat with every shuddering inhale; how, on every exhale came exactly what you’d feared—that pathetic, trilling purr. The one that warmed your body from head to toe while simultaneously making you wish you had never been fucking born.

God, but Natasha’s hands were like magic…

Your head still spun. Was it from the oxygen deprivation, or the realization that Stark had been inside your head? Probably both.

Terrified, dazed, and overwhelmingly confused, it took you some time to re-center; tuning back into Stark and Natasha’s conversation, if only to posture yourself accordingly. You could figure out the rest later, you reasoned.

“… The spinal alterations don’t inhibit their ability to stand upright, by any means, which is the exciting thing,” Stark was saying, damn near perched at the edge of his seat—almost vibrating with renewed vigor. Weirdo. “They just enhance their natural capacity to remain down on all fours and go about their day for extended periods of time: a day, a week… hell, indefinitely! Which, for humans, would be pretty much unthinkable. I mean, can you imagine?”

Without allowing a moment’s pause for Natasha to respond (which you’d come to understand was quite typical), Stark wasted no time in steamrolling on. “‘Course, the process of transplanting new bones was rather tricky, and we had to do a couple of them more than once. Dr. Cho estimates a week—at most—before they’ve healed enough to allow for more… strenuous physical activity.”

Natasha snorted. Her hand had long stilled its pleasant ministrations in favor of resting inert at the base of your skull, slender fingers curled loosely around your nape. You felt how they twitched and tightened their grip ever-so-slightly when Stark spoke of what he’d done to your spine. “Are they in pain?”

Funny. If you didn’t know any better, you might’ve thought she cared.

Stark raised a brow. “Ballpark?”

Natasha must’ve nodded, or dipped her chin in confirmation, because a beat later, Stark spoke again.

“Imagine you got ripped open, rearranged, then stitched back up,” he summed up. “Twice.”

Dimly, it registered within you to be struck by his forthrightness, though you did not dare mistake it for empathy.

Natasha was quiet for a beat. “Sounds about right,” she said eventually.

“It doesn’t have to be this bad,” Stark offered, though there was a curious shift in his intonation, this time; a knowing and almost resigned look in his eye that made you wonder if he and Natasha had had this conversation before.

The way Natasha’s hand twitched, blunt nails digging into the skin of your nape, was answer enough.

“Were I their doctor, I’d be prescribing some serious pain meds,” Stark continued on dryly, making a show of tilting his head and gazing off into the distance as though he was deep in thought. “Morphine, oxycodone—“

“No.”

“—maybe a local anesthetic or two,” he mused, beginning to count them out on his fingers. “Anti-inflammatories. Anticonvulsants. Something for the anxiety, even—”

“I wanted a pet, not a vegetable.”

Stark’s lips twitched—though with exasperation or humor, you could not tell. “Do you realize how quickly even the most powerful anesthetics will metabolize through their system? They’re not human anymore, Red. At least, not entirely.”

Now, that piqued your interest.

“Neither am I.”

“It’s different for them. You know that. You got Erskine’s serum. Some unrefined bootleg variant, granted, but that man was nothing if not brilliant. Everything he touched, he turned to gold.” Stark spoke of him—this ‘Erskine’—as though he put the very stars in the sky. You wondered if he was truly brilliant, or just insane. You wondered if for Stark, there was any difference. “As for them… well.” He gestured vaguely towards you. “They got some anthropomorphic whack job’s bone marrow.”

You blinked. You got what now?

“He has a name, you know,” Natasha commented archly, the earlier indignation having dissipated from her tone.

“Point being—I’ve met the guy. He’s seriously unhinged.” He paused there, as if expecting Natasha to argue. When she didn’t, he steamrolled on: “I had F.R.I.D.A.Y. scavenge some digitized medical reports and psych evals from his time at the facility, along with anything else they could piece together after he escaped. Violently, I might add.”

“I won’t say he’s devoid of empathy, or a moral compass, because we both know that that’s not true,” Stark explained, then muttered under his breath: “Even if his senses of both concepts are seriously skewed.”

“Tony,” Natasha interjected, a note of warning in her voice.

“Just listen, alright? I’m getting there.” Stark huffed out a sigh, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “My point is that he wasn’t like that, at the start. He was no saint, to be sure, but he wasn’t like that. It wasn’t until they started a particularly ill-inspired series of ‘tests’—though I’d argue a better term would be ‘torture sessions’—to assess his healing capabilities that he really started losing his marbles.”

You head was beginning to spin. Your jaw ached from clenching it so hard. Who were they talking about?

“See, because his capabilities—extraordinary as they were—weren’t superhuman. They didn’t transcend healing itself, let alone make it any less painful to endure. In fact, I think they actually concluded that it was made more painful by his body’s ability to undertake those processes at such an expeditious rate.” Stark breathed out another heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as though he could feel a headache brewing.

He wasn’t the only one.

“He nearly went insane, Natasha. Joking aside, it almost beggars belief that he’s as high-functioning as he is,” Stark asserted, no longer pulling his punches. “I know you don’t want that for them.”

It was silent for a beat… Then two.

“Fine.”

Stark promptly quieted, renewed interest sparking itself alight in his gaze. “What was that now?”

“I said, ‘Fine.’”

A slow grin spread across his clean-shaven features.

“No opioids,” Natasha was quick to amend. “Nothing addictive. Just… anything that’ll help more than it’ll hurt.”

Silence for a beat. Then two.

Stark squinted at her. “You sure you and that bleeding heart of yours are up for this?”

Natasha’s grip around your nape tightened even further. “Shellhead,” she gritted out, her tone hard as weathered steel. Even the sound of it was enough to send chills down your spine.

Stark, in contrast, was not at all similarly affected. He simply tilted his head to one side and made a show of continuing to appraise her with shrewd, assessing eyes. Then, finally: “You should try yoga.”

— —

end notes: L O fucking L

also the anthropomorphic whack job they’re talking about is logan (wolverine) from x-men, in case you’re wondering

edit: i’ve since written a continuation of this, linked below!

translation of russian terms (with stresses bolded):

ко мне | ko mnye | “come”

молодец | molodyets | excellent, good

sources:

“organized crime in eastern europe” | to be so clear, i just made up “bratyerstva” from the term “братство” (bratstvo) which means “brotherhood” or “fraternity” in bulgarian, macedonian, russian, and serbo-croatian dialects. it is also the name of a ukrainian political party (ukrainian: братство, romanized: bratstvo), but it is not an actual belarusian word. it also bears some resemblance to братва, a slang term used to refer to criminal gangs in russia and other ex-ussr states. honestly, the closest you’d probably get to an actual word with this would be the polish “braterstwo” (brahterstvo) which also means “brotherhood” or “fraternity.” (however, in some informal contexts, the term “братерство” has been used in ukrainian dialects to convey synonymous meanings.) anyway, this is a brief snippet (~10 pages) from an academic article about organized crime in eastern europe, if the precedent behind all that intrigues you. i thought it was pretty informative!

white russia | another name for belarus, though there’s some controversy/nuance to that (and big surprise, it’s got everything to do with russia). this links to an article from euronews talking about... all of that

draniki | an immensely popular dish in belarus. they’re basically potato pancakes. several other european countries have close equivalents.

— —

next part: come, sit, stay

link to masterlist

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x gnc!reader #dark!natasha romanoff #softdark!natasha romanoff x reader #stuff i wrote

175 notes · View notes