Nonya

@tazedpanda.bsky.social

199 Followers 254 Following

My pronouns are a mess. 40. Writer of erotic fiction. Will get this book finished 🔞 Wip: Coming of midlife-crisis-age, raw poly bisexual bondage smut Sometimes sf/f shorts Often slice of life Always pretty dirty #audhd

“What makes me different from Shane?” she asked. Her voice somewhat more of a slight to the park's doctrine than his. It might have been a silly question. But it weighed on her mind. Shane had the Polaroids. Shane had the full experience. The sprained tit. Sure, only the single night, but so very different from Kate's two. So much grander. More abrasive. Raw.
A screenshot of writing progress for a manuscript called "rope". last 12 days showing an average of 1182 words per day to end up at 42743.
Snippet of a wip reading: You want a song written about you, and played while you were quartered? We have a *guy* for that. Want to be beheaded wearing a Commodore's attire? Done. Hanged with a fresh tattoo of your favorite whore on you chest? If time allows, we got you covered! Yet another reason - some would argue the *main* reason - why people around these parts almost never chose clergy as their final companion: you chose God, you'll get beheaded. You chose a *Wensa*, you'll still get beheaded, but it will be while fireworks explodes your name into the sky in 10-meter high, sparkling black thunderbolt letters. The choice is pretty obvious.
Dutch text, reading: "Achter me, het massieve geheel van de continentale landmassa. Voor me, het even kolossale volume water. Daartussen, als een krijtlijn, zo ver het oog reikt, de witte rand die deze twee entiteiten van elkaar gescheiden houdt. Grillig en variabel, maar ogenschijnlijk voor de eeuwigheid vastgelegd." It loosely translates to: "Behind me, the massive whole of the continental landmass. In front of me, the equally colossal volume of water. Between them, like a chalk line as far as the eye can reach, the white border that keeps these two entities separate. Erratic and changeable, yet apparently fixed for eternity."
A graphic from a writing tracker. Showing 38414 words total in a story called 'rope'. 3185 words written today. It shows 6 days of tracking at 1644 words per day.
Naked back of a person, ropes around their body. Not symmetrical. Not extremely clean. Just wrapping how it flowed
And with that, he turned around and continued upwards, turning out of sight. And Kate followed. The shirt folding away around her hips. Exposing her chest. Exposing her breasts. Unapologetic. Naked. The stairs groaned. And she rose through the floor of the attic, and into a fantasy. Feeling perfectly dressed for the occasion.
A view of a digital bookshelf of 9 wip manuscripts ranging from 7k words to 28k.
Hair wet, hanging down, drying on her T-shirt. She stepped back into the living room, Shane was on the couch, poking at her phone. "The world is exceptionally shit today," she frowned. "Classic Saturday vibes. I brought coffee. That guy last night not here?" She went fast, which meant hangover. Maybe worse than Kate's. "I ditched mine and went home. Threw up halfway. When the fuck did I eat fries last night?" Worse than Kate's. Kate took the coffee and sipped. It was coffee. With its coffee taste. Coffee smell. She didn't get it. People would erect churches in its pitch black honor. Epistels were written. Whole industries in search of perfect taste. Kate found it bitter. In need of a lot of sugar. This one had sugar. Lots. Shane was an angel. Her brain was still muddled. But the caffeine helped. Shane drank from her own cup and looked up from her screen for the first time since Kate entered. "Looking hot, I hate you". Hungover Shane was horny Shane. Sometimes that hormonal milkshake hit Kate as well after a night like yesterday's. But not this morning, she didn't think so. She let herself crash into the couch next to Shane. Not spilling a drop. The cold wet hair and the coffee helped. So did the paracetamol. Kate drank and swallowed and dried, and slowly recovered. In silence next to Shane, shoulder to shoulder. Just being. Healing. Their coffees slowly disappearing. The medication battling the headache. Drifting off side by side. An hour or so. A perfect nap.
Four more steps, ten. The wooden staircase groaning and squeaking under their feet. A mature, robust sound. As if it was agreeing with the burden. Like it had done for centuries, would do for centuries to come. The sound echoed in all directions as Kate moved upwards, carrying her, until it shifted tone and lifted her through the floor of the attic, where everything lost its echo in the sheets that were covering the entire inside of the roof structure. Perfect muffle. Good to keep the screams inside.
She bent close to him. Whispered like he had done but with a bit less magic, "is this a date then, Warden?" His grin was enough. Started to unpack his little round lunch. "I certainly hope so," and took a bite. The smell unleashed from its previously airtight wrapper reached Kate. Actually making her mouth water. Unpacking her own bun and shutting up for a while.
She rushed inside while a waiter rushed out. Dustpan and brush in hand. Don't let clientele clean up broken glass. Good way to get sued. Clientele was clumsy. Personnel was insured. The restroom was in the back of the place. Single stall, but a roomy affair. Unisex. Empty, thank god. She ran in, closed the door and crashed down on the seat. The sounds from inside the place being muffled by the door and drowned out by the noise of blood pumping trough her neck and cheeks and ears. She felt like throwing up. Still needed to wee. It would have to wait for a minute longer.
She should be worried. But all she was was tired. And distracted. Through the open window the sound of city summer drifted in to chip away at her resilience. She ought to be working. Ought to plow through episode 232 of Some British Web Series Trash. Button it up to perfection. Ought to be a productive worker bee. But all she could think of was the summer. Summer breeze. Summer cocktail. Summer dress. Summer skies. Summer sun. Summer... Fuck it.
Everything about the situation is threatening. You should be screaming or pissing yourself. But you're just looking at that mouth. That smiling mouth. Opening and closing. Forming words and sounds. Your ears and brain still ringing from noise and panic. You understand not a word of it. So he repeats. This time you focus. "Please," he says, "calm down. Our time alone is probably limited". The words crystallize out of the panicky haze that seemed to have enveloped you during the last few moments. The blurriness evaporates in an instant, delivering clarity. And with it comes your courage. With it comes your anger. With it comes your attitude, bruised for a second, ever since that scream of his, but now back, ready for a rematch. You look up. Look him dead in the eyes. His irises brown with lightning bolts inside. Yeah. Fascinating. Who gives a shit? "Then maybe you should stop choking me with the fucking chain, asshole," you rasp with the little breath you can muster.
Stats screen showing progress of writing 50k words in a month. Currently at 4232 words, should actually be 10k+ already but turns out I'm lazy
An excerpt of Rope. Draft of a wip of a first version of an attempt at a prototype for a novel
Novnov / nanowrimo tracker. Boom called Rope, written 1,431 words out of 50k