novoaa1writes

[novoaa1writes]

hiya!! just wanted to say i am absolutely losing my mind over your writing, genuinely its a masterclass in writing. i aspire to your level of creating a scene and wonder if you have any tips on writing for the things you enjoy / in general? any and all tips are so so appreciated. thank you again for sharing your talents with us. - <3

omg omggg i love it when people ask me things, and yes absolutely, i have some tips that (i hope) are helpful to you

i got a bit long-winded with it, so i'll put it under the cut.

without further ado:

the thesaurus is your friend. any time i'm writing—whether it's an essay for school, or fanfiction, or occasionally even an e-mail to someone i don't know terribly well—you best believe i'm switching from one tab (google docs, e-mail, etc.) to the other (thesaurus.com) like it's a professional sport. it's a quick, easy, and effective way to switch up your writing by avoiding redundancies in word choice.

read, read, read, and then go read some more. ever since i was quite young, i've done quite well at written assignments of all kinds—fiction writing, research papers, etc. i don't say that to brag; i say that to set up the following point: i truly believe that so much of what makes writing come somewhat naturally to me now is a credit to the many hours, days, years i spent with my nose so far into the spine of a book, it's a wonder i ever got it back out again. i look at my writing now, and i'm able to pinpoint a number of patterns that can be traced directly back to the writing styles of authors i admire. reading the work of others—whether it be fanfiction or a published novel—will give you a better sense for what flows and what doesn't, what evokes emotion in readers and what merely provides filler, what you wish to emulate and what you wish to do differently.

be experimental! don't be afraid to switch around word order, or utilize dialogue in lieu of descriptive text, or alter the flow of the narrative from the typical linear plot convention. especially when we speak of fanfiction, there are a lot of exceedingly common "-ism"s (phrases, word choice, etc.) that appear again and again across the board in a large majority of works—which isn't necessarily a bad thing, to be clear. that said, it does sometimes complicate matters if a goal of yours is to make your writing stick out. and honestly, if you try something and it doesn't work, who cares? writing is a continual exercise in learning. but if you try something, and it does work? hoooly shit. it's a great feeling.

proper grammar, spelling, and formatting are not the be-all and end-all. sure, when i'm reading a fic, it doesn't escape my notice if the grammar is wrong, or a word is used incorrectly, or the formatting choices do not match up with what i might've opted for. but guess what? i'm not the author, i'm not their beta reader, and unless they specifically asked for that feedback, it's not my place to give it. what's more: good writing is not synonymous with quote-unquote "proper" writing. (see: prescriptivism.) for me, barring the case in which the prevalence of writing errors renders the work completely unreadable (which has literally never happened), i don't actually give a shit if the author wrote "your" when it should've been "you're." phonetically, it's the same. plus, english is hard, even for native speakers! (this goes for any language, mind you.) if the concept of the story is good, and it's compelling enough to keep me clicking that "next chapter" button, you best believe i'll continue doing exactly that—and enjoy the hell out of it.

proper grammar, spelling, and formatting are not the be-all and end-all—to a point. i know, i know, i just said they weren't- look, i'll explain. and, as a brief caveat: this is highly dependent on how much the breadth of the audience you're trying to reach matters to you. that said, let's get into it. on numerous occasions, i've seen fanfiction readers (particularly on tumblr) post about instances where the formatting of certain fics has actively discouraged them from reading. especially paragraph breaks. and, in the case of the tumblr site itself, including a "read more" for fic posting. although i have and continue to read fics that make minimal use of paragraph breaks, and/or don't include a "read more," there have been occasions where i've seen these formatting choices and have elected to simply not read the fic. if it's on ao3, i'll often mark it for later, but at this point, my "marked for later" list has surpassed a mile wide, and there's no telling when i'll return to it—if i ever do. proper grammar and spelling are less of an issue, it seems, but formatting can prove to be a deciding factor in whether or not people take the time to read what you've written.

write for you, not for anyone else. if you're a fic writer, requests are a great way to engage with your readers. however, you shouldn't write them for the sole purpose of appeasing said readers—especially not at your own expense. i've seen a number of writers who, after starting an intensive schedule to fulfill requests from their followers/readers on a consistent basis (weekly, daily, etc.), eventually burn out, deactivate their account, and go on hiatus—sometimes indefinitely. so, take care of yourself. never forget why you started writing and, if applicable, publishing your works. to this day, i have yet to meet a single writer whose motivations for writing have simply been recognition and renown. sure, that can certainly constitute some part of it, but above all else, we do this shit because we love it. so, take your breaks. pace yourself. write what you want to write. you, and the writing you produce, will be better for it.

alright, those are all the points i could think up for now. again, i did get slightly long-winded with it, as i'm wont to do, but i did my best to not ramble. also, most of the examples i used had to do more with fanfiction than any other type of writing, so i hope that was okay. you're welcome to message me if you wanna chat any more about this (or anything else, really)!

anyway, thank you for this absolutely lovely ask. it made my week <3

#thesaurus.com my beloved #i had a wonderful time making this list thank you again anon #ask #answered #writing

[novoaa1writes]

Supercorp bodyswap where Kara is immediately miserable because of how many back issues Lena has from sitting at a computer all day

They’re all standing in a very restricted, very awkward section of the DEO lab, sealed for all intents and purposes from outside view. Alex has a clipboard in hand, her pen hovering, like she can’t quite decide what to record.

“Lena,” Lena whines out loud, very obviously not to herself. She bounces on her feet. “Do you know how many blisters you have? It’s so uncomfortable in these shoes!”

“I mean, yes, Kara,” Kara responds in a clip, looking extremely stiff in her Supergirl regalia. Even her voice seems lower, aloof, and trained. “You’re in my body.”

Alex lifts her eyebrows, an expression she’s clearly made at least a dozen times since entering this room, and she makes a few notes.

“I’m so tired. My eyes are burning.”

Kara scoffs. “Please, it is not that bad. I’m starving, and I just ate. I feel like a bottomless black hole.”

“You’re not wrong,” Alex mutters to herself.

“You’re starving? I’m starving. Kale salads are not enough, I told you!”

Kara scoffs, but Lena continues, rubbing a hand to the small of her back.

“And my back is killing me.”

Her hands run around her own waist, and up. As if feeling, testing for other injuries. But they keep going up. And up. Kara stares at her intently as Lena lightly cups her own breasts, not thinking. Kara’s mouth falls slightly open.

“Do you not wear enough support?”

"Excuse me!” Kara yelps, high-pitched. “I--I wear enough support! You’re not--you’re not even wearing a bra! Under this!”

She motions to the super suit, blushing furiously.

Kara’s hands roam to slightly under her pencil skirt, lifting delicately to look.

“Is this a thong? I hate it!”

“You wear men’s boxers!”

“Hm,” Alex makes a note on her clipboard.

“DO NOT PUT THAT IN THE REPORT!” they both yell in tandem.

#SDKLF #this is brilliant #hilarious and in-character and the dialogue work is top notch #thank you for this op #user: hrwinter #not mine #lena luthor #kara danvers #kara danvers x lena luthor

[novoaa1writes]

I’ve been on your Ao3 a lot bc I’ve just been back on it and just wanted to say ily and you’re amazing😍

THANK YOU!!!! lately, i’ve been reviewing comments i’ve received on fics in an effort to encourage me to continue writing. it’s slow going, i’ll admit, but it’s working. and that’s all thanks to wonderful individuals such as yourself, who take time out of their day to drop some positivity in my inbox! i appreciate it more than words can say, and hope life is treating you well (it better be. that is a threat) 🫶🏼☺️

#:') #yesterday i wrote two (2) whole sentences. get fucked writer’s block #anon #answered

[novoaa1writes]

omg omgggg i’ve been checking my inbox and i’ve got messages!! i have completely missed these but i will try to be replying to them over the next few days

also it inspired me to write thirteen (13) whole sentences. literally sobbing shitting throwing up etc etc

anons, i am kissing you all gently on the forehead with prior consent 🫶🏼

#no seriously #i am #my heart!!! my fucking chest!!!!! #i talk

[novoaa1writes]

#art #user: bluejay757

[novoaa1writes]

Bish :3

#user: thecosmicrap

[novoaa1writes]

everyone hate my loquacious swag. its always "why did you make this sentence so long" and "why do you use so many commas and em dashes" and never "how did you come up with run on sentence" or "writing that run on sentence looked fun"

#user: kimclitsuragi

[novoaa1writes]

Sevika deserves long soft cuddles. May we please get that with reader ?

soft touches // sevika

warning: fluff

pairing: sevika x fem reader

“you’re so warm.”

you wedged yourself behind sevika briskly running your hands over every inch of her defined muscles, like clockwork. she was asleep for the most part but you could feel her stir beside you, shifting in her spot.

“you okay?” she mumbled, her voice heavily laced with fatigue.

she turned so that she was facing you, lightly brushing her skin against yours in the process. which settled some of the growing urge you had to feel her, yet you maintained the distance.

from what you could tell sevika preferred her space. although you were unsure if it was because she didn’t want to be touched, or if she hadn’t been. at least not in the way you imagined, without care or love.

“i’m cold.”

which wasn’t entirely due to the weather but more so the lack of contact between you and sevika. you needed to hold her, even if it was just for a while.

“want me to hold you?” she asked.

“no, i wanna hold you.”

she tilted her head to the side, examining you with narrowed eyes that bore deep holes. it wasn’t an expression of anger but confusion that etched onto her face. it was a simple request, really, but it left her speechless.

“why?”

“i don’t know—“ you stammered, “i just wanna touch you, can i?”

she contemplated once more before silently nodding, turning around on her side giving you the perfect opportunity to.

you leaned in closer to spoon her, allowing your arms to wrap sevika into a soft embrace. you nuzzled into her, placing a light kiss onto the nape of her neck.

the immediate response was tense, however it wasn’t purposeful. she wasn’t used to being handled with this level of care and it almost surprised her just how deprived she’d been of it.

when she felt your arm snake around her waist and onto her stomach sevika couldn’t help but freeze—it was all foreign to her. the idea of gentle, caressing touches simply because was something she was slowly learning to come to terms with, but she liked it.

“i can stop if you want…?” you whispered, quickly taking notice of her hesitance. the last thing you wanted was to make her uncomfortable. you just wanted to show her that she deserved to be loved— she deserved to be held this way. but it would take a while to get there.

she shook her head softly, reassuring you, “no, keep going. i’m just not used to this.” you were careful not to pressure sevika, give her time to adjust. she slowly eased into your touch allowing her body to melt into you, releasing some of the tension.

“we can go slow then, let’s just stay like this,” you hummed, settling behind her as your hands roamed her body.

she adored the feeling of someone finally taking care of her for once. the warmth of your skin pressed against hers brought her the utmost sense of security and love. it allowed her to forget and only exist right here, in your arms.

#oh my god oh my god oh my GOD #i am not over this i will never be over this i need her so bad #i’m shaking crying screaming because DUDE #WE CAN GO SLOW THEN LET’S JUST STAY LIKE THIS IM FUCKING SOBBING #THANK YOU FOR THIS OP #this is beautiful #user: novacqnes #sevika #not mine #fic recs #sevika x reader #sevika (arcane)

[novoaa1writes]

I fucking love your writing so much. You deserve more credit.

ME READING THIS LIKE

IM FUCKING EMOTIONAL i-

thank you thank you a thousand times thank you, this is such a lovely message to receive 🥹🥹🥹 i hope you’re doing well, wherever you’re at, and please know that you’ve made my entire day in sending this :')))

#i think i worry especially sometimes that i don’t write fast enough or often enough #but i also know better than to try to force myself to do it if my heart’s not totally in it! #nevertheless. the reassurance is lovely and much appreciated and so are you 🥹🥹🥹 #ask #answered #anon

[novoaa1writes]

HIIIII I’m the one that asked about build a pet last time!!

i just wanted to say thank you so much for actually writing a second part to the fic, I love it so much you’re so amazing!!

i don’t know if asking for a part 3 is too much, but thank you you’re the best writer I know!!!

much love 💗💗💗you’re amazing!!!

hello hello hello!!!! I'M SO GLAD to hear you were vibing with that second part, and honestly, i had a lot of fun writing it! and thank YOU for showing the interest to begin with and inspiring me to have another go at it :')

aaaaand well. the way i've already started a part 3 because i have absolutely no self control and am also in love with the concept </3 so as always, i'm busy as hell and can't make any guarantees for *when* that'll be finished, i can tell you it's currently in the works!

thank you thank you thank you again x10000 for the messages and your kind words. they are a huge part of what motivates me to continue putting my writing out there 💓💓💓

#ask #answered #anon

[novoaa1writes]

#no literally. #user: youwouldneverbreakthechain #ao3

[novoaa1writes]

#DONT START #user: aye-write

[novoaa1writes]

come, sit, stay

image source

pairing(s): softdark!natasha romanoff x gnc!reader

summary:

You have to resist the urge to shrink away when she lowers herself to a crouch. All at once, she’s close, too close, close enough that you could reach through the bars and touch her if you wanted. 

“Look at me, pup.”

You do. The expression on her face is neither malicious nor lustful; rather, devoid of emotionality. Utterly unreadable. 

No matter. Lost though you may be, you harbor no illusions about the vulnerability of your current state. She holds your leash; she has since she caught you. You know it, and she does, too. 

Or: You haven't the faintest clue what it's like to have an owner—much less someone like her.

contains: non-con dynamics, forced pet play, dehumanization

[cross-posted on ao3]

word count: ~1,400

rating: mature

warnings: non-con dynamics, forced pet play, dehumanization, referenced non-con body modification, referenced non-con medical experimentation/surgery, minor blood, power imbalance, light bondage (cage)

notes: continuation of/companion to a recent work! (link below) i’ve decided to rename the first work and file this under the series name “build-a-pet” ‘cause i mean. that’s kinda what’s happening here and all, ya dig

also, i’m not doing tag lists anymore (with the exception of the ongoing “find you again” series), because i suck at them. sorryyy

see end notes for translation of russian terms!

— —

previous part: day 0

— —

You awake to aching limbs, a dry throat, and curious smells. 

Consciousness comes gradually. A rare mercy, but the pounding in your skull tells you you’ve already slept far too long to bask in it. 

Prying open one eyelid, then two, you scan your surroundings with bleary eyes. You’re curled on your side, bare-ass naked, both knees folded to your chest inside… a rectangular cage. A quick glance finds its dimensions larger than you’re used to, with ample room to sit up and crawl on all fours. The bars are thinner, too, but you’ve no doubt they’re quite secure; and the door…

The door. Panic grips you. 

It’s open. No lock in sight. 

What kind of cage doesn’t lock?

Where the hell are you?

You’re quick to rise to all fours as your search turns frantic, adrenaline and fear eclipsing all tearing aches from inactivity and injury until it’s all you can do to keep from vibrating with the force of it. Your heartbeat thuds double-time in your chest, wide-eyed gaze darting this way and that. 

You don’t see much—tall ceilings, a well-lit fireplace, twin lounge chairs complete with matching ottomans—before a pair of startling green eyes meet your own, effectively nailing you to the spot. 

Natasha leans casually against the nearby wall wearing a lazy smirk that broadens when your gaze catches hers. She hasn’t changed since last you saw her; donning black jeans, a wife beater, and a well-worn leather jacket. Scarlet-red hair is pulled back and woven into twin braids that tickle her shoulders. Her face is devoid of makeup, though it does nothing to dull her beauty. 

She could have been there for hours or minutes; you’ve no way of telling. 

As you watch, she cocks a single, well-manicured brow. 

At that, you realize you’re staring. Cheeks burning, you hasten to lower your gaze to the floor.

“Finally awake, then,” she rumbles in a low, contralto drawl. It’s not a question. “How’d you sleep?”

Her voice comes from much closer, this time, causing you to flinch like you’ve been struck. 

If you strain your downcast gaze, you can just glimpse the scuffed toes of her boots in your periphery. Christ. You hadn’t even heard her move. 

“Okay, thank you,” you murmur politely. The words feel like gravel in your throat. 

Whatever Stark did to you, it’s made speaking a nuisance. It scrapes your throat, burns your lungs. It feels unnatural, period. Who wants a talking pet, anyhow? 

You have to resist the urge to shrink away when she lowers herself to a crouch. All at once, she’s close, too close, close enough that you could reach through the bars and touch her if you wanted. 

“Look at me, pup.”

You do. The expression on her face is neither malicious nor lustful; rather, devoid of emotionality. Utterly unreadable. 

No matter. 

Lost though you may be, you harbor no illusions about the vulnerability of your current state. She holds your leash; she has since she caught you. You know it, and she does, too. 

“Does it hurt to talk?”

Your cheeks burn. Biting your lip hard, you nod. 

Natasha nods, as though this answer pleases her. “Are you in any pain?”

That gives you pause. Of course you’re in pain. Is this a trick?

The tick in her jaw suggests she’s displeased by your reticence. Slowly, carefully, you chance another nod. 

“Can you crawl?”

You almost huff, but think better of it at the last second. You nod once more.

Her lips twitch. With amusement or satisfaction, you can’t tell. “Молодец,” she murmurs, rising to her feet and turning on her heel. She does not spare a backwards glance as she strides over to the crackling fireplace, then settles into a cross-legged position in the center of the rug, her back to you. “Ко мне,” she calls, little more than an afterthought. 

Regardless, the effect is the same.

You shoot up on all fours with a speed that makes you wince, biting your lip hard to smother the pained whimper that follows. It’s a reflex, a mistake. You should know better, but realization doesn’t hit until it’s too late, until small fangs have broken skin, and it’s all you can do to bite back a hiss. You don’t need a mirror to know you’re bleeding. 

Your lapse costs you. You spring forth perhaps a bit too hastily, trading the padded floor of the crate for gleaming marble. Pain traverses your veins like wildfire. 

Your knees smart as you clamber over, fingertips curled beneath knuckles in that paw-esque fashion that now comes as naturally to you as breathing. Stark and his stupid, infernal experiments. 

Blood, warm and wet, wells up along your lower lip. Reflexively, your tongue flicks out to lap it up. The metallic taste is a comfort, however fleeting. 

You couldn’t sneak up on her if you tried, but you don’t dare expect that to mean she’d permit being approached from behind. Circling ‘round, you give her a wide berth. The heat of the fire sears your skin, yet the carpet lining proves a welcome comfort. As you reach Natasha, the acuity of sensation fades and you slow to a wary crawl, uncertainty thumping in your chest. 

You imagine her gaze boring into you—through you. Blood stains your lips anew, its coppery scent tickling your nostrils. 

“Ближе,” she murmurs. You don’t understand this one, and she must know it, for she’s quick to translate: “Closer.”

Dutifully, you shuffle forth until your knuckles graze her folded legs.

“Сидеть.”

This one, evidently, you know. 

You fall back on your heels at once, muscles deflating in a dizzying rush. Gnarled hands pull themselves into your lap, and your chin dips lower toward your chest—a show of deference.

When her fingers brush your jaw, you don’t dare flinch back. You hold still, perfectly still as they travel down and forth, coming to rest beneath your chin. When they urge you up, you go without protest, tilting your jaw up until you have to strain to keep your own kneecaps in sight. At this angle, you could look her in the eye if you dared. 

You’re not that dumb. 

“Глаза,” she murmurs. “Eyes.”

You oblige. 

Her gaze burns where it meets yours. 

You clench your jaw and bear it. 

It’s a relief when it flickers down to your lips… and stays there. 

“You’re bleeding,” she observes, sounding perhaps awed, or engrossed, or something else entirely. Her eyes are darker now, no longer such a lurid jade-green hue. A trick of the light, perhaps? 

You swallow. 

Gently, deliberately, she swipes at pooling copper with the pad of her thumb. 

The slight touch sends a shudder down your spine, but you pay it little mind. Seconds later, the warmth of her touch leaves your chin; you hardly notice that, either. 

You’re possessed, spellbound as she brings her thumb to parted lips, engulfs the tip and then some—suckles at the taste of you with slightly hollowed-out cheeks and a groan that cleaves to the marrow of your bones. 

Your thighs tremble, making you clench in an effort to hold still. 

She eyes you with interest when she’s finished, thumb pressed idly against pouted lips. “Sweet,” she hums. 

Were your complexion about three shades lighter, you’d be blushing pink to the roots of your hair. As it is, you can’t help wishing the ground would open up and swallow you whole. 

Her next command takes you by surprise. “Лежать.” Lie down. 

You hate the disappointment that blooms in your chest even as your body does not hesitate to follow. You’re in position before you understand what’s happened, all curled up and ball-shaped on the rug like a housecat settling in for an afternoon nap. 

It’s as though a switch has been flipped.

Fatigue follows fast on its heels, dousing you like a tidal wave. Is it conditioning, or is it you? 

Is there a difference? 

It’s humiliating. It’s wonderful. Your limbs assume the position like they’re made for it. You suppose, now, they kind of are.

The crackling fire is warm along your back. You almost preen when a familiar touch parts bedraggled strands of hair, blunt nails grazing along your scalp in a soothing rhythm. The rumbling purr that follows is no surprise. Sleep tugs at you, and you are tired of fighting it. You’re tired, period. 

“Sleep, котёнок. I’m here.”

It’s the last thing you hear before unconsciousness swallows you whole. 

— —

end notes: right so.... me when there’s.... right. yes. you all understand, i’m sure... .....

no idea if i wanna continue this (like ideally, yes, but as always, i’m pressed for time, so this is what i’ve got right now), but uhhhh yeah. lemme know what you think?

translation for russian terms (stresses marked in bold):

молодец | molodyets | excellent, good

ко мне | ko mnye | “come” (to me)

ближе | blizhe | comparative degree of близко (adverb) and близкий (adjective) meaning “closer”

сидеть | sidyet’ | infinitive form of the verb “to sit.” used when telling a pet (a dog, specifically) to sit

глаза | glaza | eyes (nominative plural form)

лежать | lyezhat’ | infinitive form of the verb “to lie (down).” used when telling a pet (read: dog) to lie down

котёнок | kotyonok | kitten

— —

link to masterlist

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

[novoaa1writes]

How are you?

i’m okay, thanks for asking! life’s a little crazy right now between summer classes + moving into a new place, but it’s all exciting stuff! hope you’re also doing alright on your end 😌

#less time to write recently ofc but that’ll happen #our apartment has 0 furniture im so serious #also summer courses are expedited asf #we’ve got homework and projects like every 2-3 days #hopefully though i can settle into a routine and get back on that grind! #thank you for this ask though; i really do appreciate it a whole bunch!! <3 #answered #ask

[novoaa1writes]

i am begging and pleading you to please make a part 2 of build a pet with nat and her pet settling in i will genuinely commit mass war crimes to make this a reality i beg and plead anything

NOT WAR CRIMES 💀💀

okay heard heard for sure… i’d originally tossed around some ideas for a continuation, even drafted a few, but ended up scrapping them eventually

that said, since it’s being received so well, i’m not opposed to giving it another shot! no promises at all, but this idea HAS been living rent free in my head for a hot minute now

so, thank you for this ask, and i’ll plan to reblog this with updates of any kind!

#i’m going to nyc pride this weekend so i’ll do my best to get something drafted before then #but once more—no promises! i tried at least two different continuation arcs and kept just being displeased with how they turned out #but it’s also a great exercise to write something on the side while working on continuations for other pieces (mainly find you again) #ion know man! #anon #ask #answered

[novoaa1writes]

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.”

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.”

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

[novoaa1writes]

(half) anniversary

img source

pairing(s): ramonda x reader, shuri x riri williams (background), shuri & ramonda (familial), shuri & reader (platonic)

summary:

“Oh. Um,” you pause, sounding taken aback. “Our six-month anniversary. Y’know, since we started dating?”

“That’s not an anniversary,” Shuri protests. 

“I guess not technically,” you concede, “but to me, it kind of is?”

“That’s the gayest shit I’ve ever heard.”

contains: fluff

(cross-posted on ao3.)

word count: ~1,900

rating: teen

warnings: cursing, fluff, reader being super moony-eyed and in love... i tried to limit the use of ‘y/n’ but there is one (1) instance of it in this

notes: reader is referred to with they/them pronouns, but they aren’t referred to too much in the third person in this... this was a request i got post-ruth e. carter’s oscar win. and—look here; i actually wrote it! miracles DO happen! never give up, kids

— —

Shuri’s holed up in the lab on a Thursday afternoon, puzzling over improvements for Riri’s suit when she gets your call. 

Without looking up from her work, she tells Griot to accept it. “What’s good?” she greets.

“Shuri!” your voice, bright with contagious enthusiasm, filters seamlessly through. “How are you?” 

“Busy with work, as always. You?”

“A little stressed, but good. Did you eat today?”

Shuri rolls her eyes. “You sound like Riri.”

“Riri cares for you,” you correct with only the gentlest note of reproof in your tone. “I do, too.” A short pause. “Granted, somewhat less than she does—”

A flush threatens to heat her cheeks. “Yes, thank you.”  Riri and her are… new, still. Your relentless teasing is less so. (She’ll never admit it to you, but it warms her to the core.) “What do you want?”

“Oh, you’re no fun.”

“I’m plenty fun,” Shuri grumbles, closing out the schematic on her screen in favor of another. 

“Uh-huh. Anyway, listen. I called ‘cause I wanted to ask you about something.”

“Mm?”

“Ramonda and I have plans in Wakanda this weekend. It’ll be our six month anniversary!!”

Shuri nearly chokes on air. “What ?”

“Oh. Um,” you pause, sounding taken aback. “Six months since we started dating?”

“That’s not an anniversary,” she protests weakly. She has finally looked up from her work to give her full attention, staring incredulously up at the screen display as though she’ll be able to see you if she looks hard enough. 

“I guess not technically,” you concede, “but to me, it kind of is?”

“That’s the gayest shit I’ve ever heard.”

“I want to do something nice for her. I want it to be a surprise,” you prattle on as though you didn’t hear. “So I’ve got a gift and everything, but I need your help.”

Shuri blinks. “Right…”

“I know she’s got her schedule cleared for Friday at least, but could you move some things around to clear up her Saturday, too? Without telling her, that is. I want her to have as relaxing a weekend as possible. She’s earned it!”

Well. Shuri can’t very well argue with that. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“God, you’re the best,” you enthuse. “I owe you one.”

“Nah.” Shuri waves the comment away, feeling a fond grin tug at her lips in spite of herself. “We’re straight.”

A snicker from the other end. “Good one.” Then: “Alright, I’ve gotta run. Don’t work yourself too hard, yeah?”

“No promises.”

“See you this weekend!”

“See you.”

The line disconnects with a gentle noise, leaving Shuri alone in her laboratory, her brain working a hundred miles a minute. 

“‘Six-month anniversary’?” she mutters to herself incredulously, then heaves a quiet sigh. “Lesbians.”

— —

Shuri goes straight to her mother’s quarters.

“Mother!” she calls upon entering the royal wing. 

“Yes?”

The curtains are open when Shuri arrives, allowing her to stroll right in. Mother sits at her vanity, reading through a document projected onto the mirror in glowing blue script. 

Mother has just barely disabled the projection with a tap to the beads encircling her wrist when Shuri announces, “Clear your schedule. And start working on a gift, while you’re at it. It’s your anniversary this weekend.” 

Mother turns to look at her, features mild but incredulous. “My what?”

“Your anniversary. With Y/N.”

Mother blinks. “It has not been a year.”

“It’s your six-month anniversary.”

“The whole point of an anniversary is that it happens annually,” Mother articulates slowly, like Shuri’s an imbecile. 

Shuri sighs. “This is just what gay people are like, Mother,” she explains dismissively. “They called me just now. They have plans, a gift, the whole deal.”

Silent panic flits across Mother’s face, though she’s quick to smother it—there one moment, gone the next. “Bast,” she murmurs to herself quietly, so quietly that Shuri nearly misses it. 

“It’s not too late. We can still make this work,” Shuri assures her, beginning to pace. “Now. I’ve got Griot compiling all activity on their Etsy, Depop, and favorite shopping sites over the past three months. If they’ve so much as looked at anything, we’ll know. Also—” She cuts herself off at Mother’s raised hand. 

“Thank you, Shuri, but no thank you,” she defers, an inscrutable look on her face. Shuri hasn’t the faintest clue what she’s thinking. “I will handle it.”

Shuri stops mid-step and turns to give her a look. “What does that mean, you’ll ‘handle it’?”

Mother doesn’t waver. “It means that I will handle it.”

“You are very confident all of a sudden,” Shuri observes, gaze narrowed. “Is it jewelry?”

“Thank you for the offer,” she reiterates firmly, turning back to her vanity and appraising her reflection with renewed (read: feigned) interest. “But I am more than capable on my own.”

As cues to leave go, this one’s not terribly overt, but Shuri gets it. She begins inching towards the door, eyeing the woman up and down all the while. “You are not the best team player, you know?”

Mother slants her a stern look. “It’s my anniversary.”

Shuri smirks. “I thought you said it wasn’t an anniversary.” She’s nearly halfway out the door now, which she thinks is probably for the best. She’s pushed her luck enough for today. 

(Or has she? )

“It’s not,” Mother calls back without looking. 

Shuri lingers for a moment longer, long enough to say, “If you’re thinking engagement beads, I’d dial it back a notch.”

“Shuri.”

(There. Now she’s done. )

— — 

Time seems to flow as molasses, making you feel like a fly encased in amber until Friday. You go through the motions of everyday living, barely present, and heaven help you but it’s not for a lack of wanting to be. 

But, well—you can’t help it. You’re so very excited. And nervous. And excited. 

But eventually, finally, Friday arrives. 

When you clock out from work, Shuri’s waiting at the curb in front of a sleek black car with gold rims. You stop by the kitchens to grab the groceries you’d prepared over the weekend and bid your coworkers adieu before heading out. Bags in hand, you manage a wave, which Shuri returns with a shallow nod even as she continues speaking to someone in her ear. Riri, probably. 

It’s a short drive to the warehouse, where you’ll board a Talon Fighter to fly the rest of the way. You know the drill; you’ve done it quite enough over the past 6 months. You’re content to tune out Shuri’s end of her conversation as she speeds down the freeway, wind in your hair and the sun on your face.

— —

When you arrive in Birnin Zana, it’s mid-afternoon.

You’re early. Ramonda will be in meetings for the next couple hours, but that’s all according to plan. You accompany Shuri to her lab to drop your things, chatting mindlessly all the while, before making your way over towards the kitchens.

The plan is clear in your thoughts, the recipes practically burned into your brain. You’ve been practicing for weeks, now—madombi and chicken groundnut stew. Ramonda’s favorite entrée alongside the flavorful stew she’s always professed to love. You’re no slouch at cooking, but you want it to be perfect. Only the best for her. 

As you wash and rinse your hands thoroughly in preparation, you hail Griot. “Griot, bud, will you put my playlist on? The cooking one?”

Griot—bless him—obliges. 

Falling into the motions is a pleasantly diverting task—browning the chicken, sautéeing the vegetables, kneading the fresh dough. The music is a constant aid, and the scents that permeate the air are immensely comforting in their familiarity. Minutes turn to an hour, then two; you hardly notice. You’re laser-focused on the task at hand, intent on making it all perfect—or as perfect as perfect gets, anyhow.

You don’t notice the clock striking 6:00pm, or the way Griot’s speakers lower their volume to accommodate—

A yelp leaves your throat as sure arms curl ‘round your waist and warmth presses into you from behind.

“S’thandwa,” Ramonda murmurs into your neck, her lips warm where they brush your thrumming pulse point. Gods above. “I’m sorry. Did I scare you?”

Willing your thundering heart rate to slow, you let out a breathy huff and allow yourself to melt in the familiar embrace. “A bit,” you divulge, inhaling deeply to catch her scent—shea butter and lavender incense and her, her, her. “I suppose I lost track of time.”

Ramonda’s arms tighten ever-so-slightly at that, her thumbs stroking the juts of your hipbones in something like apology. “Mm,” she hums. “You’ve been busy.”

Affection blooms in your chest, warm and big and true. “I wanted to do something special.” Your breath catches in your throat as you turn to face her. 

She’s divested her isicholo for the evening, leaving springy, short-trimmed strands of platinum-blonde on display. A deep purple halter gown frames her elegant figure, its corset clinging to her like a second skin. Her makeup is light today—lips painted a deep, rosewood red; eyelids accentuated with black liner and dusky eyeshadow. It’s a simpler ensemble than those she’ll don on any other day; the diminished tension in her shoulders is evidence of that. 

It matters not; the effect is the same. You are absolutely enamored of her. 

“Darling,” Ramonda’s low, bemused voice draws your attention. “You’re staring,” she admonishes, guiding your gaping mouth shut with a gentle touch. The twitch in painted lips betrays her amusement. 

You don’t have an answer for that—no witty retort, no comeback, nothing. You lace your arms around her shoulders until you can clasp your hands at her nape, voicing, “Can I kiss you?” 

Ramonda presses her lips to yours in lieu of answer, all slow and gentle and mild until it’s not—until her kiss turns insistent and you’re parting your mouth to let her in, dragging your tongue against hers, nipping at her lower lip to coax forth a shuddering exhale. Arousal sparks a lit match in your belly, burning a fiery trail from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. 

It takes all your will (and then some) to pull away, but you manage it. Heat prickles along your skin. “Right, so…” you trail off breathlessly, chest heaving. “I made dinner.”

Ramonda chuckles, dark eyes alight with mischief and want. Her lipstick is barely smudged, but you’ll take what you can get. “Is that madombi I smell?”

A broad, bashful grin splits your features at the hopeful lilt to her tone. “Maybe.”

— —

Dinner is everything you hoped it would be. The madombi comes out perfect; the stew is even better. With the table set, candles lit, you usher Ramonda over. She brushes a kiss to your cheek when you pull out the chair for her, murmuring a quiet, “Thank you, baby” that makes you choke on air. 

Flustered beyond belief, you scurry back into the kitchen to whip up mojitos—one of two cocktails you can actually make—for the pair of you before taking them to the table. Ramonda accepts hers with a pleased hum. 

With steam rising from both dishes and nothing left to fuss over, you take your seat, too. 

“Shall we?”

— —

end notes:

i enjoyed writing the dynamic between shuri and ramonda, and also shuri and reader. did my lil heart some good

anyways. love to receive requests and then just vibe with them for months before actually sort of doing them... like to be clear, mostly, requests end up going unfulfilled due to my selective writing preferences and ever-limited time. but i stand by my mission to populate the ramonda x reader tag—singlehandedly, if need be! 

s’thandwa | love, sweetheart

sources:

queen ramonda | an additional source to inform upon ramonda’s character and canonical background... it seems she comes from south africa in the comics, and considering the use of isiXhosa in the cinematic ‘verse, i’ve decided to write her using the corresponding terminology when necessary

traditional south african dress | i used this in my previous ramonda fic in order to determine the implications of the traditional south african headpieces, as i understand the isicholo worn by queen ramonda is typically worn by married women in south africa, and i didn’t know if i wanted to have her be married or not in this. but as i understand it, her headdresses (in the 2nd film in particular) are also worn to indicate her queenly status, so i kept it

royal talon fighter (wakandan aircraft) | the wakandan aircraft in which shuri and reader travel to wakanda. appears in black panther, avengers: endgame, and black panther: wakanda forever.

“illuminated signs: style and meaning in the beadwork of the xhosa- and zulu-speaking peoples” | an article from african arts (vol. 36, issue 3) by gary van wyk. an interesting insight into exactly what it says on the tin!

chicken groundnut stew | typically attributed to west africa, though several variations exist across the continent. ingredients often include chicken legs, peanut butter, sweet potato, garlic, and ginger, among others.

madombi | traditional african steamed dumplings. the link leads to a youtube video demonstrating the process!

— —

link to masterlist

#queen ramonda x reader #ramonda x reader #marvel fic #reader-insert #stuff i wrote