#i don't know. i have a really difficult time with processing this shit

[kikis-writing-service]

— easy to love; izuku midoriya x reader

content warnings: hurt/comfort, panic attack, brief self-harm attempt, mentions of family trauma reader is intended to be autistic, but its not explicitly stated

You were picking at the label on your water bottle, not really watching the TV. The adhesive came off in strips, giving your fingers something to do while your mind circled endlessly around that morning's conversation. Izuku was sprawled next to you on the couch, occasionally laughing at the comedy movie he'd put on, but the sound felt distant.

The words your sister had said kept replaying with relentless precision. "I don't know how Izuku puts up with you sometimes. You're lucky he's so patient."

She hadn't meant it cruelly—she never did. That was what made it cut deeper: the casual delivery, like stating an obvious fact everyone already understood about the fundamental burden of your existence.

"You're quiet tonight," Izuku observed during a quieter scene, his voice carrying that gentle attention that always made something in your chest pull tight.

"Just tired." You shredded another piece of the label, the motion automatic. "Talked to my sister," you added quietly.

"Ah." He knew that tone—knew what conversations with your family could excavate from the carefully buried places inside you. "What'd she say?"

"Nothing really." The lie tasted stale. "Just...she was asking about us. Said I'm lucky you're so patient with me." The words came out carefully neutral, like you were trying to drain all the hurt from them before they reached the air.

You kept your eyes on the water bottle. Even obvious truths about yourself still stung to say out loud.

You felt him go still beside you—the way his casual sprawl shifted into something more rigid. His breathing changed too, and you weren't sure why he seemed upset when this was just basic reality.

"Patient with what?" His voice carried an edge you rarely heard, carefully controlled but sharp underneath.

"You know. Me being difficult." The words emerged with practiced casualness, a shield you'd perfected over years of deflecting this particular truth. You waved a hand vaguely, still unable to meet his eyes. "I know I'm difficult to love. It's fine."

The silence that followed stretched endlessly. You could feel Izuku staring, could practically hear his mind working to process what you'd just said.

When you finally risked a glance, his expression had transformed completely. Mouth slightly open, green eyes wide with something between horror and heartbreak.

"What?" you asked.

"You just said—did you just say you're difficult to love?" he asked, his voice quiet and strained.

"Yeah?" you asked.

Something flickered across his face. His fingers dug into his thighs.

"Baby, that's not—" He stopped. His hand settled gently on your knee. "You're not difficult to love."

The words slammed into your chest, stealing your breath for a moment, but it was his touch that really undid you—warm and careful and so achingly tender. You forced yourself to push the feeling down before it could take root, pulling away from his touch. Hope felt too dangerous.

You let out a short laugh. "Come on, Izuku. We both know I'm a lot to handle."

"You're not 'a lot to handle,'" he said firmly.

Izuku's jaw was tight, his usually gentle expression hardened in a way you rarely saw.

"I need basic directions explained to me like three different times," you said, ticking things off on your fingers. "I need to make plans and rehearse everything before we go places. I have really strong opinions about stuff that doesn't matter. I interrupt people all the time. I can't deal with changes in plans without freaking out. I lose it over stupid shit."

Your voice got smaller as you cataloged each failing.

Izuku's expression grew tighter with each item you listed, like he was physically restraining himself from interrupting.

"Those things don't make you difficult to love," he said gently.

"They make me high maintenance," you insisted.

"No, they don't," he said firmly.

You raised your eyebrows at him. "Izuku, be realistic. I know what I am."

His expression tightened at that. "I don't think you do. I think other people have told you what you are, and you believed them."

That hit closer to home than you wanted to admit. You shifted on the couch, pulling your legs up defensively, and his hand fell away to rest on the cushion between you.

"It's not about what other people have told me. It's just...observable fact."

"What's an observable fact?" he asked carefully.

"That I'm more work than most people want to deal with long-term," you said quietly.

The words tasted bitter. You hated having to say it out loud, hated that he was making you state something he already knew.

But something vulnerable flickered in his expression, and you didn't understand why he seemed so upset when this was just what you were.

"Says who?" he asked, his voice tight.

"Says everyone who's ever tried. Says my family. Says experience."

"Your family is wrong." His jaw was tight, hands clenched at his sides.

The simple certainty in his voice made something crack inside your chest. But the crack it opened felt dangerous.

"My family knows me better than anyone," you said defensively.

"Your family has spent your entire life making you feel like you need to apologize for existing," he said quietly but firmly.

That stung because it was true.

"They're not trying to be mean. They're just...honest," you said, but your voice wavered.

"There's a difference between honesty and cruelty," he said softly, shifting closer and gently settling his hand back on your knee with a reassuring rub.

"It's not cruelty to acknowledge reality," you said stubbornly.

"And what reality is that?"

The question caught you off guard. "That I'm...that some people are just harder to love than others. That I require more patience, more understanding. That I'm difficult."

"Baby." His voice dropped to something infinitely gentle, his hand moving from your knee to gently cup your face. "You are so easy to love."

The words stopped you cold. Something massive shifted inside your chest—not hope, but terror. Terror that he meant it, terror that he didn't, terror that you might actually want to believe him.

You pulled back from his touch and looked away.

"Don't," you said, your voice cracking.

"Don't what?"

"Don't say things like that," you said, trying to steady your voice.

"Why not?"

"Because it's not true," you said, your voice getting smaller. "And you know I require patience most people don't have."

"I'm not most people."

"You're still people. Everyone has limits."

"My limits aren't anywhere near you."

"You don't know that. We haven't been together that long."

"Long enough to know."

"What happens when the honeymoon phase wears off? When you start finding me exhausting?"

The question came out raw, more vulnerable than you'd intended. It was the fear that lived at the center of everything—that this was temporary.

Izuku went very still, like the thought of finding you exhausting was so foreign he couldn't process it.

"That's not going to happen."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I love your brain exactly how it is," he said, his voice getting thicker with emotion. "I love that you ask questions until you really understand something. I love how you think through everything."

The terror in your chest was swelling now, something enormous trying to claw its way out. Your chest felt tight.

"Stop," you said breathlessly.

"I love how passionate you get about things. I love that you care enough to speak up."

"Izuku, stop," you pleaded.

"I love watching your mind work through problems. I love—"

"Stop!" The word tore out of you louder than intended. Your breathing was getting strained. "Just—stop saying that stuff."

You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears.

"Why?" he asked gently.

"Because you don't mean it," you said shakily.

"I absolutely mean it," he said firmly.

"No, you don't," you insisted, your voice getting higher. "You think you do, but you don't really know what you're signing up for."

"I know exactly what I'm signing up for."

"Do you? Do you know how exhausting it'll get?" you asked, the words coming faster. "Having to manage me on top of everything else? When you're stressed and I'm falling apart over something stupid?"

"Yes. And I want to be there for it."

"You say that now—"

"I'll say it tomorrow too. And next month. And next year."

Something in his voice, the absolute certainty of it, made the tightness in your chest worse. The terror was building, pressing against your ribs like it was trying to escape.

"You can't promise that," you said, your voice strained.

"I can promise that."

"People always think they can handle it until they can't."

"I'm not other people."

"Everyone thinks they're different."

"Baby, look at me," he said softly, a note of pleading in his voice.

You didn't want to, but you did anyway. When you turned, his expression was so open, so sure, so full of something that looked dangerously like love that it made your chest ache.

His eyes were bright with unshed tears, his jaw set with determination. He looked like he was preparing for battle, like he was about to fight for something precious. And you realized with growing horror that the something was you.

"I have never had to work to love you," he said quietly, each word carefully chosen and devastating. "Not once. Not even on your worst days. Loving you is the easiest thing I've ever done."

Your breathing hitched, and the tightness in your chest spread, making your stomach twist with sick realization.

Because if loving you was easy, if it was the easiest thing he'd ever done, then why...

"Don't say that," you said, your voice barely audible and shaking.

"It's true," he said gently, his hand hovering near you like he wanted to reach out but wasn't sure if you'd let him.

"It can't be true."

"Why not?"

"Because—" Your voice cracked, broke completely. You could feel something enormous clawing up from your chest, threatening to tear you apart. The realization was building like a tsunami. "Because if it's easy, then why...why didn't anyone else…," you gasped out, struggling to breathe.

You couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't name the thing that was destroying you from the inside because saying it out loud would make it real.

Izuku went very still and his face crumpled.

"What?" His voice was gentle but tight with barely contained emotion, like he was trying to stay calm while watching you fall apart.

"If loving me is so easy," you managed, your voice fracturing with each word, "then why did it take thirty years to find someone who could do it?"

The silence that followed carried the weight of years—every rejection, every moment you'd been made to feel like a burden, every relationship that had ended with you being told you were "too much." All of it crystallizing into this single, terrible question.

"Baby—" His eyes were wide now, panic flickering across his features as he watched you unravel.

"If it's easy, that's—that's worse." The words were pouring out now, desperate and raw, your throat starting to tighten. "If it takes effort—if it's hard work, then at least—" You gasped, struggling to get enough air. "At least there's a reason people gave up. But if it's easy? If it's the—" Your breathing was getting shallow, words breaking apart. "The easiest thing you've ever done?"

Your hands began to shake, and a sick feeling spread through your stomach.

"That's not—" His hands lifted halfway toward you, then stopped, clenching into fists. His whole body was taut with the effort of holding back.

"What was so wrong with me—that made it so easy for people to—" The words came in broken fragments now. "What kind of person do you have to be—for people to choose hatred over—" Your chest was getting tight. "Over something so—" You couldn't finish, couldn't name what should have been easy. "I have to—" The words came out strangled as you pushed yourself up from the couch, legs unsteady beneath you. The room tilted, everything suddenly too much.

Izuku's hand caught your wrist gently, his eyes wide with alarm as he watched you struggle to stand. "Hey, where are you going?"

"I need—" You couldn't breathe properly. The nausea was mixing with the panic and you felt like you might actually be sick. "I need to go to the bathroom."

"Okay." He released your wrist but stood with you. "I'm coming with you."

"I just need a minute—" you managed between ragged breaths.

"I know, baby. But I'm not leaving you alone like this." His voice was firm but gentle, the kind of tone that brooked no argument while still being infinitely caring.

You stumbled toward the hallway, and he followed without question—close enough to catch you if you fell, but not crowding. The bathroom was dimly lit, white tiles stark against the shadows. You dropped to your knees in front of the toilet, the cold porcelain a sharp contrast against your bare legs.

The nausea overwhelmed everything else now. It wasn't just physical sickness, but a bone-deep revulsion at your own existence. Your body trying to purge something that couldn't be vomited up: the terrible knowledge that for thirty years, people had looked at you and chosen cruelty because it felt easier than love.

Izuku settled beside you immediately, his hand finding your back without hesitation. The warmth of his palm seeped through your shirt, grounding and real.

"I'm right here."

His voice was steady and sure, but it just made everything worse. Because he was being everything you'd ever wanted, and the contrast with everyone else was so stark it felt like being flayed alive.

You were hunched over the toilet, but nothing came up. The sick feeling sat in your stomach, heavy and wrong, this desperate need to purge something that couldn't be expelled.

Desperation drove you to stick your fingers down your throat anyway, some primitive need to make the feeling stop. But Izuku's hands were there immediately, gently but firmly pulling your hand away, his own fingers trembling.

"Don't," he said, voice urgent but still infinitely gentle. "Don't hurt yourself, baby."

His fingers wrapped around your wrist, warm and careful, holding your hand away from your face while his other hand resumed its steady circles on your back.

"I can't—" You were sobbing now, the words coming out between gasping breaths. "I feel so sick. I can't—I can't make it stop."

The tears were hot and endless. Your breathing was ragged, each sob tearing through your chest.

"I know. I know it feels awful." His hand moved in steady circles on your back. "But hurting yourself won't make it better."

"I just need it to—to stop. I need this—" You gasped for air. "This feeling to go away."

"What feeling?" His voice was so gentle, so patient.

"Like I'm—like I'm disgusting." The words came out broken between hitching breaths. "Like there's something so—so fundamentally wrong with me that—" You struggled for air. "That even when loving me should be easy, people found it—found it easier to hate me instead. Like I'm poison or—or something."

Your breathing was becoming more erratic, the panic building to a crescendo. Speaking it aloud made it real in a way that threatened to tear you apart completely.

Izuku made a soft, pained sound, and his hand stilled on your back for just a moment before resuming its gentle motion.

"Baby, you're not poison. You're not disgusting."

"Then why—" Your breath hitched violently. "Why was it so easy for them to—to hate me? Why did they pick that over—over something that should have been—" You couldn't finish, gasping desperately for air.

Izuku's breathing went shallow. Tears began sliding down his face.

The question hung in the air like a curse, your breathing so shallow you felt dizzy. Your whole body was shaking now, the panic at its peak.

Izuku was quiet for a long moment, just rubbing your back as you fought for breath. When he spoke, his voice was thick with emotion.

"Nothing's wrong with you."

"There has to—there has to be something wrong with me." The words came out in fragments between desperate gasps.

His free hand came up to gently brush the hair away from your face, and something about the tenderness of the gesture began to anchor you.

"There isn't."

You collapsed into Izuku's arms, seeking the comfort of his embrace. He caught you immediately, pulling you against his chest. "I've got you," he whispered, voice rough and broken. "I've got you."

His arms wrapped around you securely, one hand continuing its gentle circles on your back while the other cradled your head against his shoulder.

"I feel like shit," you whispered.

"I know, baby," he said softly, his voice still rough with emotion.

You looked up at him through blurry eyes and saw tears still streaming down his face, his green eyes bright and wet. Guilt crashed over you like a wave. But underneath the guilt was something warmer, more tender: the realization that he had cried for you. That your pain had moved him to tears.

You reached up with shaky fingers to brush the wetness from his cheeks, your thumb tracing the path his tears had carved through his freckles.

"It's okay," he said gently, catching your hand and pressing a soft kiss to your palm. "Just breathe with me. I've got you."

He moved his hands to cup either side of your head, his thumbs brushing away the tears still streaming down your cheeks with infinite tenderness before he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours.

You tried to match his breathing—in, out, in, out. It took several attempts before your lungs remembered how to cooperate, before the desperate gasping gave way to something steadier.

Izuku's hand never stopped moving on your back, those steady circles that had become your anchor. You focused on the rhythm of it, on the warmth of his palm through your shirt, on the solid reality of his presence.

"That's it," he said quietly. "You're okay. You're safe."

The words settled over you like a blanket. Your heartbeat was finally starting to slow, the frantic pounding easing into something more normal. The sick feeling in your stomach was still there, but duller now, more manageable.

"I don't know why you put up with me," you said quietly.

"Because I love you," he said immediately, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "And this isn't something to 'put up with.'"

Another stretch of quiet. You could feel the trembling in your muscles beginning to subside, exhaustion taking its place. The bathroom floor was cold and hard beneath you, but Izuku's warmth made up for it.

"Can you...can you keep talking?" you asked, voice still shaky. "Your voice helps."

"Of course." His hand moved to gently stroke your hair, voice still rough around the edges. "What do you want me to talk about?"

"Anything. Just...anything."

So he did. He told you about a rescue he'd done earlier that week, about a cat that had gotten stuck in a tree and how the owner had cried when he brought it down safely. About how Kaminari had tried to cook dinner for everyone and nearly set the kitchen on fire. About a new coffee shop that had opened near his agency that he thought you might like.

His voice washed over you, steady and warm and real. With each word, you felt yourself settling back into your own skin, the panic receding like a tide going out.

"Better?" he asked after a while.

You took inventory—your breathing was mostly normal now, your heart rate had settled, the shaking had reduced to occasional tremors. You still felt scraped raw, emotionally exhausted, but the acute crisis had passed.

"Yeah," you said, and meant it. "Better."

For a while, you just sat in comfortable silence, wrapped in his warmth, letting the last traces of panic ebb away completely.

"I'm sorry," you finally whispered.

"For what?"

"For being such a mess. For having a breakdown in your bathroom."

"Hey." His hand moved to tilt your chin up gently. "You're not a mess. You're just human. And humans break sometimes."

You were quiet for a moment, still feeling raw. "I think I'm more fucked up than I realized," you said softly.

"What do you mean?"

"Your kindness makes me feel sick." You rubbed your face tiredly. "Like, physically sick."

He looked confused, concerned. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know. When you're nice to me, I feel like I'm going to throw up." You shrugged, like it was just a fact. "I feel disgusting for receiving it. Like I'm a fraud."

"You're not a fraud," he said firmly. "You deserve kindness. You deserve so much, and I don't know if I'm doing this right, but—you're not taking something that isn't yours. You're worthy of it. You're worthy of everything."

You opened your mouth to argue, then pressed your lips together and said nothing. "I hate that I'm like this," you said simply. "I wish I could just be normal about it."

He was quiet for a moment, and you could see something pained cross his face. "This isn't—none of this is your fault, okay? I don't know if that helps but—"

You shrugged. "Doesn't matter whose fault it is. I'm still the one who has to deal with it."

"It does matter."

"Why? Whether it's my fault or not, I'm still broken." Your voice was matter-of-fact, like you were discussing the weather.

"You're not—you're not broken, okay? You're not."

"Then what am I?"

He was quiet for a moment, searching for the right words. "You're someone who's been hurt. Someone who's learning how to trust kindness again."

You let out a tired sigh. You were quiet for a moment. "What if it takes me a long time to learn to trust it?"

His hand paused on your back. When he spoke, his voice carried a weight that made you pay attention.

"I'll wait."

"What if you get tired of waiting?"

"I won't."

"What if I never learn?"

"Then I'll love you exactly as you are."

"You can't know that."

"I can know that. Because loving you isn't work, remember? Even the hard parts. Even this."

The words settled over you like a blanket, warm and protective and impossible to fully accept.

You wanted to argue, but you were too tired. Too emotionally wrung out to maintain your usual defenses.

"Okay," you whispered.

"Okay?"

"Okay, I'll try to believe you. Eventually."

You could hear the smile in his voice. "That's all I ask."

You closed your eyes and let yourself sink into the quiet comfort of being cared for. It still felt dangerous, trusting this kindness. But right now, in that moment, it was enough to just exist in it.

Even if you couldn't quite believe you deserved it yet.

While I appreciate likes, what really keeps me motivated to share my work is community and conversation! So if you enjoyed this, consider reblogging with tags, leaving a reply, or dropping an ask. I'd love to chat about my faves, anime, writing, or honestly anything else—hearing what you thought or what resonated with you always makes my day. 🖤

[elytrafemme]

(kinda gets 18+ in tags srry. i never know how/where to talk abt it) and honestly it's never like i can pull up and talk about like, emotional abuse either. or like atmospheric triggers and shit. because talking about any of that is hard. but it's specifically fucking impossible to ever talk about sexual trauma to anybody ever, which is fucked because like... i'm trying and i'm doing good at it, i'm proud of myself, but it's so like. idk. when something dominates your entire life for an incredible critical five years of your life and entirely transforms how you approach anything it's like... i don't actually know how to express any of this at all. and i guess it's sometimes hard for people to get it. i dunno.

[fidius]

You know how sometimes the stupidest shit will be happening and you'll suddenly understand something people have been telling you for years?

So yeah (because I have this theory that Cyndi Lauper is awesome enough to redeem even obvious mistakes) I was watching Life with Mikey and this line (and a great read my MJF doing some heavy lifting in a waste of film even Nathan Lane is kinda phoning in) came out and I had to pause the movie and tell you about it. Because that's it, right? That's the other side of the glass that rescues us all from

[sirfrogsworth]

Do you remember that Aussie sword guy who used to talk about medieval weapons?

And, like, he seemed pretty good at talking about swords and shit. He seemed to have a good grasp of the history and tactics. He'd analyze movie weapons for their realism and that was fun. He did demonstrations with real weapons. For a time I really looked forward to his videos popping up in my feed.

He seemed like a harmless sword-fighting aficionado.

But then I guess he wanted to spread his wings. So he started down an anti-woke path. Giving questionable critiques about media and feminism. He started defending boob armor by showing historical examples even though most of those were decorative and not battle ready like in the games.

Then he admitted he was a fan of The Daily Wire.

And that was disappointing.

I missed him nerding out about swords, ya know?

Well, Shad decided to spread his wings again.

He has become...

*bad French accent* An artiste.

You see, he types words into a little box. Then a little robot does a google image search and steals a bunch of art. Then that robot reconfigures that art to be nearly indistinguishable from the source material. Well... aside from the occasional artist watermark.

Whoops!

A.I. art is very difficult. Sometimes when you type words into the box you get a woman with 5 lopsided anime tiddies. Or 20 fingers on one hand. It takes time and effort and experience to type in the perfect magic words so that you get something close to your imagination that doesn't belong in some sort of Lovecraftian horror ripoff.

For example, check out this cool "pirate hat" I asked A.I. to place on my head.

Clearly, I am not skilled enough at typing words into a box to get a proper pirate hat.

It. Is. Not. Easy.

I heard someone say you have to type things in a box for 10,000 hours before you start getting truly masterful generations.

I mean, you can't type "marathon runners" and expect that to actually work.

THIS REQUIRES SKILL, PEOPLE.

And I am a lowly amateur. I can only dream of becoming the box-typist Shad has honed himself into.

The thing is... Shad is very upset.

He is upset that you don't like his "art" and he is ready to die on this hill.

So... before he croaks on a mound of bullshit, he has something to show you. He has created something truly brilliant and when you see it, he is convinced you will validate his considerable efforts.

Before I show you his "Not. Easy." artistic masterpiece I'd like you to sit with what he has said for a second.

Ruminate in the verbiage.

Process the ideas and points of view presented.

Digest his plea for you to accept and love his hard won battle after typing words into a box to manifest his imaginings.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Have you sat?

Ruminated?

Processed?

Digested?

Okay, here it is...

[solelifauna]

So this NOT to imply the writing is bad

But so far the Batfam fic as me genuinely shaking in anger , the fact that dick is convinced that y/n as to prove herself to be "worthy" genuinely got to me to the point I need a pallete cleanser

Could we please get a small drabble of reader growing close with one of the "outside" batfam members?

Like maybe Kate(batwoman) and Luke (batwing) because they are under used

Or hell, maybe to really grind the family gears, reader gets close to azrael

(you know Bruce would've able to do shit if reader got close with Kate, she would fucking eat him alive)

Hey, You're all good bro! I also just want to put out that my fic is based on an au! The portrayals of any characters in my fic are based off of their canon and fanon counterparts, just with my own twist. Since this is a darker universe/au, the Bats along with other heroes are going to be a lot more brutal and jaded.

Also love your idea bro. But, I'll do you one better. Constantine. Bruce absolutely can't stand him and the reader being friends with/getting along with him? Oh, that's bound to grind Bruce's gears. It would also be easier to meet Constantine too.

Let's just say one day the reader gets caught up in some Justice League Dark stuff that Constantine is trying to solve. She gets kidnapped by a cult that wants to use her as a sacrifice. I mean, she is a pretty huge target, being the daughter of a Billionaire after all. Anyways, shes kidnapped, nobody is coming to get her, not from her family at least. Long story short, Constantine arrives too late to stop the ritual, but things don't go according to plan for the cultists anyway. Turns out that the person sacrificed wouldn't be killed, but would instead become a vessel.

Great, now you have some old, eldrich being living rent-free in your mind. The being is old, donning the title "Keeper of Hell", but you'll just call it (they? him? her?), Adam. Yeah, Adam wasn't too happy with the name. When Constantine arrives, however, hes pleasantly surprised to find you alive. When he realizes that you, a 15-year-old, now carry the presence and power of an eldritch being older than Gotham itself, he groans while lighting up a cigarette. Looks like he'd have to deal with you now.

He checks over you making sure you have no internal and external injuries before explaining your situation. He feels a little sorry for you, but he is in no condition to train you. He asks around to other JL dark members, hoping to see if anyone is willing to help you control your new powers. He sighs again when nobody steps up to the plate, too busy with their own sidekicks and quests.

Reluctantly, he tells you he'd help you figure stuff out. And there begins the blossoming of the amazing "Grumpy old man and kid they didn't ask for" troupe. When you tell Constantine your name, he blanks, because of course he gets stuck with one of the bat's kids. However, based on your tone of voice when discussing your family (and the way you begged him not to let Bruce/Batman know of your predicament), he's guessing things aren't all too great between you all. Well, thats not his problem, his only job was to train you and make sure you don't end up accidentally killing someone.

Yeah...like that thought process is going to last. Training sessions start out bleak and professional, he's only doing a job. Then as time continues, he finds himself enjoying your company, your enthusiasm to learn and your rambunctious/sarcastic comebacks always have him fighting off a smile. It's been a while since he's had company like this. Soon, you're both going out on missions, and then ice cream breaks afterward. He lets you fall asleep on his shoulder, drooling all over his trench coat after particularly difficult missions and he can't bring himself to mind.

He's fond of you, although he never admits it out loud. It's okay though, because even though he's never said it out loud, his actions speak louder than words. You could feel his love and pride for you. Although he wasn't exactly your dad per se, he was still something to you, maybe the wine uncle? You don't know, and you don't particularly care to put a label on what Constantine was to you, you're just glad that he's there.

Shit hits the fan, however, when one day you decide to go on a solo mission. It's nothing crazy, just getting rid of some poltergeists and low-level demons and shades. Now, were you given permission to go on this mission alone? No, but in a normal teenage manner, you decide to go anyway. Everything was fine, you got rid of all the poltergeists in the area and even some of the shades too! It's all going well until you realize that the demon mentioned before was not as weak as you were told. You gulped when its blood red eyes turned to you.

"Well shit." Constantine was going to kill you.

It immediately lunges at you, you barely rolling out of its sharp claws. You hit it with a couple of spells, causing the demon to roar out in pain, burn marks now littering its side. Its tail whips at you, colliding with your stomach as you fly into a wall with a loud thud. You groan as you pick yourself up, clutching your ribs, each breath a jagged pain that ripples through your chest. Your arm is slick with blood, the gashes from the demon's claws burning as if its very essence were trying to sear your flesh. You grit your teeth and weave another spell, calling on Adam’s power to knock the demon back. This time, a burst of raw energy slams into it, shattering its leg with a sickening crack.

For a brief moment, you think it's over, ready to strike the final blow. But the demon’s leg snaps back into place, bone and flesh knitting together as if the injury had never happened.

“Of course,” you mutter under your breath. “Why would this be easy?”

The demon lunges again, and you’re just a split second too slow. Burning pain flares through your right arm as its claws tear into you, ripping through your flesh like paper. You scream, the sound involuntary, but you push through the pain, refusing to go down without a fight.

Drawing back, you unleash another spell, a sharp projectile of energy aimed at its neck. The demon flinches, letting out a low growl. That reaction—panic—gives you the first glimmer of hope. Its neck. That's its weak spot.

With renewed determination, you gather every ounce of strength you have left. The cuts across your body throb, and your arm feels like it’s on fire, but you push it all aside. You can do this. You have to do this.

You unleash a volley of cutting spells, each one aimed at the demon’s throat. It fights back viciously, throwing you around the room with a strength that makes your vision blur. Every hit you take feels like your bones are splintering, but you keep going. You keep attacking.

Finally, one of your spells strikes true.

The demon lets out a gurgling screech as your spell cuts deep into its neck. Blood—thick and dark—pours from the wound, and it claws at its own throat, choking. Its body spasms violently, and then, as if collapsing in on itself, it begins to disintegrate. In a few seconds, all that’s left is dust.

You stand there, panting, barely able to process the fact that you did it. You won. A grin spreads across your face, and despite the pain radiating from every part of your body, you let out a weak cheer.

But the celebration is short-lived.

Pain cuts through you like a knife, sharp and sudden, reminding you of just how battered you are. Blood is still oozing from the various gashes across your body, and your arm feels like it’s hanging by a thread. You stumble, nearly falling, but catch yourself at the last second.

“Crap… I’m bleeding out,” you mumble, wincing. “Whoops.”

With what little energy you have left, you remember the spell Constantine taught you, the one that would tether you to him no matter where you were. He warned you not to use it unless it was an emergency—and bleeding out from demon-inflicted wounds definitely qualifies.

You lift your shaking hand and cast the spell, a sluggish flick of your wrist sending out a ripple of energy. A portal forms, shimmering and unstable, but functional enough. Without much grace, you stumble through it, disappearing from the demon’s lair.

What you didn’t know, however, was that Constantine was currently in a Justice League meeting.

The first thing you feel is a sudden drop, like the ground beneath you has vanished. You barely register the sensation of falling before you crash, hard, onto something solid. Groaning, you blink through the haze of pain and find yourself sprawled across a massive table.

You can hear voices—muffled, alarmed—but the world is spinning too much for you to focus. All you know is that you're lying on something cold and hard, and you’re absolutely drenched in blood.

Forcing your eyes open, you see several figures standing around you, staring in shock. Your vision is blurry, but you can make out Superman’s cape and Wonder Woman’s armor. You try to process what's happening, but the pain in your arm and ribs keeps pulling you under.

"Ow, ow, ow, ow. Fuckkkk." You cry out.

Suddenly, the scent of smoke fills the air. You don't even have to look to know who it is. Constantine’s familiar trench coat brushes against your arm as he crouches beside you, cigarette dangling loosely from his lips. His eyes flicker with a dangerous mix of exasperation and barely concealed anger.

“What in the bloody fuck, kid?” he snaps, his tone harsher than usual, but the concern underlies his words.

You wince, the situation hitting you all at once. Crap. Now I've got to deal with this.

You muster a weak, sheepish grin, wincing as you turn your head to face him. “Heyyy Constantine, how are ya?”

His brow furrows deeper, and he’s clearly not amused. “What did you do?”

You swallow hard, trying to think of how to explain yourself without getting ripped to shreds—verbally or otherwise. “I—well, promise you won’t get mad?”

“Too late for that, kid. I’m already halfway there,” he growls, his eyes narrowing as he looks over your wounds. “Now get to it.”

You bite your lip, trying to find the least disastrous way to explain. “So… I sorta… mighta… gone on a solo demon-hunting mission,” you blurt out quickly, hoping he’d just move past it.

The way Constantine’s eyes widen, and the immediate twitch in his jaw tell you that he’s definitely not going to move past it.

“You did what?!” His voice rises as he stands up, rubbing a hand over his face. “Oh bloody— I thought I specifically told you not to go by yourself! And this is what happens!”

“Hey, well, I’m alive, aren’t I?” you say, grinning nervously, trying to play it off.

“That’s besides the point!” He throws his arms up, pacing as he takes a long drag from his cigarette. “Bloody hell, I should’ve known better with you kids. I swear, this is why I never—”

Just then, a dark, grim voice cuts through the chaos, and your heart nearly stops.

“Constantine,” Batman’s tone is low, authoritative. “Why is my daughter bleeding on our table?”

Oh no. No, no, no. Not now.

You freeze, your mind going blank as you feel the weight of Batman’s presence at the end of the table. You slowly, painfully turn your head to see him standing there, cape draped over his shoulders, his gaze icy and locked onto you. His usual stoic expression somehow looks even more intense.

“Ah… shit,” you mutter under your breath, groaning inwardly as you realize you’ve just landed yourself in the absolute worst situation imaginable. “I completely forgot he was still here.” Wait, did you say that out loud?

Constantine gives you a sidelong glance, raising an eyebrow. “Yes, kid, you did. And now we’ve got more than just your wounds to worry about, don’t we?” He sighs deeply, rubbing his temples, already anticipating the fallout.

Batman’s eyes narrow, arms crossed as he takes a step closer to you, his voice low and dangerous. “Care to explain yourself?”

You’re still bleeding, your head is pounding, and you’re pretty sure at least a few bones are broken, but none of that compares to the fear creeping up your spine as you look up at your father. Your mind races for an answer, but every excuse you can think of feels flimsy at best.

Constantine clears his throat, sensing the rising tension in the room. “Right. Let’s get her fixed up before this turns into an interrogation, yeah? Kid’s bleeding all over the place, and she’s already taken a beating. We’ll save the lecture for later.” He waves his hand, muttering something under his breath as he kneels beside you again.

The tension between Constantine and Batman lingers in the air, thick and heavy, but Batman finally relents. His eyes soften—slightly—as he watches Constantine work to stabilize your injuries with magic.

You can feel yourself growing weaker, the adrenaline finally wearing off as the pain becomes unbearable. Constantine mutters a healing spell, one that slows the bleeding and knits some of the less serious cuts together. It's not perfect, but it’s enough for now.

“I think it’s time to get you all fixed up, huh?” Constantine says softly, his earlier anger tempered by concern as he helps you sit up, his hand firm on your back to support you.

You nod weakly, not daring to meet Batman’s eyes again. You’re in deep trouble, but for now, at least, you’re still breathing. As Constantine gets ready to teleport you to a safer place to heal, you hear Batman’s voice, calm but steely.

“We’re not done here.”

And with that ominous promise hanging in the air, Constantine picks you up, and the world around you shifts once again.

Constantine gently carries you through the halls toward the Justice League’s med bay, muttering curses under his breath with every step. You could feel his frustration radiating off him, and now, in the quiet aftermath of the fight, guilt begins to settle in your chest. The adrenaline from the battle has worn off, and now you're left with the consequences of your reckless actions.

“Hey, Constantine… I—I’m sorry for not listening to you. I really am,” you say, your voice soft and heavy with regret.

He sighs, not looking at you, but his tone is stern. “I’m not going to lie and say I’m not mad at you, kid. You didn’t just ignore my warnings—you put yourself in danger. There are rules for a reason. What if you got seriously hurt and couldn’t cast a spell back to me? Even worse, what if you died or got possessed?”

His words hit you hard, and you wither under the weight of them. You know he’s right. All those rules and restrictions aren’t just him being overprotective or controlling, they’re because he cares. He’s seen the kind of darkness that can swallow people whole, and the thought of that happening to you terrifies him, even if he’ll never say it out loud.

By the time you reach the med bay, the guilt feels like it’s pressing down on you as much as the pain in your ribs. Constantine lowers you onto a cot, tucking you in with a gruff gentleness that only he could pull off. He sits down on the side of the bed, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a quick flick of his fingers, his eyes never leaving yours.

“What I’m trying to say, kid,” he starts, exhaling a cloud of smoke, “is that I care. I care about you, I care about what happens to you. I don’t want—” He pauses, his voice softening. “I don’t want to ever have to find your body one day. So please, from now on, let me know before you do something stupid like this.”

His words hang in the air, raw and unfiltered. You nod, trying to process it all, and then something clicks in your mind. Wait… did he just say let him know?

“Let you know? Does this mean—” Your eyes widen as realization hits you. “Does this mean I can go on solo missions?”

Constantine lets out a resigned sigh. “Yes, yes, you can start going on solo missions—”

“Hell yeah!” you exclaim, sitting up a little too quickly. Pain shoots through your ribs, but you can’t help the excitement bubbling inside you.

“—but, only the ones I sanction and authorize,” Constantine finishes, cutting through your excitement with a stern look. You deflate a little at his words, but it’s still a victory in your book.

Without thinking, you throw your arms around him, ignoring the sharp pain it causes in your ribs. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! I promise I won’t let you down!”

He chuckles, patting your back awkwardly before pulling away. “Yeah, yeah, I know you won’t. Now, lay back down and get some rest. You still have dark and brooding to deal with.” He gestures toward the direction of the meeting room, clearly dreading the inevitable confrontation with Batman. “And by extension, I do too,” he adds with a heavy sigh.

You groan, sinking back into the cot, the exhaustion finally catching up with you. “I don’t know why he even cares. If he did, he would’ve figured this out ages ago.”

Constantine glances at you, his expression softening for a moment. He takes a long drag of his cigarette before speaking. “He cares, kid. He just… doesn’t always show it the way you want him to. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it.”

You scoff, though part of you knows he’s right. “Yeah, well, doesn’t feel like it.”

Constantine stands, taking one last drag of his cigarette before flicking it into a nearby ashtray. “Doesn’t matter how it feels right now. The Bat’s going to want answers, and if I know him, he’s going to want to have a very long talk with you. You’re not out of the woods yet.”

You wince at the thought of the upcoming conversation, knowing that Batman’s interrogation will be thorough and far less forgiving than Constantine’s.

“Great,” you mutter, closing your eyes and sinking deeper into the cot. “Just what I need.”

Constantine gives you a small, almost affectionate smile before turning to leave. “Get some rest, kid. You’ve earned it. I’ll deal with the big bad Bat for now.”

And with that, he walks out, leaving you alone in the med bay. As much as you’re dreading what’s to come, you can’t help but feel a sense of relief. Despite the pain and the mistakes you made, you know that Constantine’s got your back. And, maybe, just maybe, Batman does too, even if it’s buried under a mountain of brooding and silence.

For now, though, you let the exhaustion pull you under, trusting that everything else can wait until tomorrow.

-

As you rest, your body finally succumbing to the exhaustion, your breathing evens out and your mind drifts into sleep. The med bay is quiet, sterile, but the tension in the air lingers, waiting for the inevitable. Eventually, a dark, caped figure glides into the room silently, his form casting long shadows across the walls.

Batman—no, Bruce—stands over you, his sharp eyes tracing every bruise, every cut that mars your face. His jaw clenches as a million thoughts swirl in his head, none of them offering any comfort.

What the hell happened to you? Why are you and Constantine so close? How did you even know Constantine? How much had he missed—how little attention had he been paying—to not notice any of this?

Bruce sighs, a deep and frustrated sound. He removes his cowl, setting it on the side table with a weary hand. Without it, he seems less intimidating, less imposing. He stares down at you, seeing the cuts and bruises marking your skin, but what hits him harder is the way your face, in sleep, is still so achingly young. You're his daughter, and yet it feels like you're a stranger to him now.

How did you get so far away?

He knows the answer. The fault lies with him, with the choices he made, the excuses he repeated to himself—telling himself he was too busy, telling himself he would check in later. Later never came, though, and the space between you widened, until it wasn't just him you were drifting away from, but your brothers too.

Bruce noticed the way your brothers treated you, the harsh words, the cold shoulders. He saw the distance, but he justified it, telling himself it was sibling rivalry or something that would pass. He didn't step in. And now, as he looks at you lying there, bruised and battered from a fight he wasn’t even aware of, the reality sinks in: he has no excuse.

With a heavy sigh, Bruce reaches out, his rough but careful hand carding gently through your hair. The gesture is tender, hesitant, as if he's not sure whether he has the right to touch you like this anymore. But as his fingers comb through your hair, you stir in your sleep, a quiet murmur escaping your lips as you unconsciously lean into his touch. It's such a sweet, innocent moment, and for a brief second, Bruce allows himself to feel the warmth of it.

But the moment is fleeting.

He feels the presence before he sees it, the unmistakable smell of cigarette smoke filling the room. His jaw tightens as his hand stills. He doesn’t turn right away, but his voice cuts through the silence.

“Constantine,” Bruce says, his tone gruff even without the cowl to disguise it.

Constantine steps into the room more fully, leaning against the wall, a half-smoked cigarette between his lips. He regards Bruce with that same nonchalance he carries everywhere, though there's a flicker of something else in his eyes—something more cautious.

"Thought you’d still be brooding over in the corner," Constantine says, taking a drag of his cigarette. His eyes drift to you, lying peacefully on the cot. “Didn’t expect to see this version of you.”

Bruce doesn’t respond right away. He pulls his hand back from your hair, his gaze hardening. "What happened?" The question is direct, but underneath it, Constantine can hear the concern, the frustration Bruce doesn't voice aloud.

"She went off on her own," Constantine mutters, taking another drag before blowing out a cloud of smoke. "Went after a demon. Got roughed up pretty bad, but she handled it in the end. Strong kid. Stubborn too. Wonder where she gets that from, eh?"

Bruce's eyes narrow. "And you let her?"

"Let her?" Constantine laughs, a short, sharp sound. "Mate, I didn’t let her. She went behind my back, just like she’s gone behind yours for who knows how long. Difference is, I’m the one she actually came back to.”

That lands like a punch to Bruce's gut. He doesn’t react visibly, but Constantine can see the tension in his posture.

"I didn't know she was…" Bruce starts, then stops, shaking his head. The words feel inadequate. "I didn't know she was involved with this stuff, i didn't even know she was a meta. Or that she knew you."

"Yeah, well, she found her way to me," Constantine says with a shrug, stubbing out his cigarette on the wall. “And she's not a meta by the way, she's a vessel for some eldritch being"

A vague expression of surprise appears on Bruce's face.

"I don't blame you, mate. I was surprised to find her alive afterwards. Not just anyone survives that kind of transformation, she's strong.”

Bruce crosses his arms, his gaze flickering between you and Constantine. “I know she’s strong.”

“Do you?” Constantine raises an eyebrow, the challenge clear in his tone. “Because she’s been running herself ragged trying to prove it. To you. To herself. And, hell, maybe to me too, but at least I see it.”

There’s silence for a moment. Bruce clenches his jaw, turning to look at you again, sleeping soundly despite the tension in the room. He knew Constantine was right. You'd been pushing yourself, fighting to show that you didn’t need them—that you were strong enough on your own. And he had let you. He'd let you because he didn't even care to notice.

Constantine sighs, sensing the weight of the silence. “Look, I didn’t come here to throw stones. But you’ve got to get your shit together with her. She’s tough, but she’s still a kid, and she’s your kid. She needs you.”

Bruce doesn’t answer, but his silence speaks volumes. He watches you, the soft rise and fall of your chest, and feels the regret gnawing at him.

“I’ll handle it,” Bruce finally says, though the words feel hollow.

Constantine gives him a long look, then nods. “You better. Because if you don’t, she’ll be right back with me..”

With that, Constantine pushes off the wall, flicking away the last of his cigarette. “I’ll check in on her later. Try not to fuck this up, mate.” And with one last glance at you, Constantine leaves, the tension in the room ebbing with him.

Bruce remains, standing over you, his mind a whirlwind of regret, guilt, and the desire to fix what’s been broken for far too long. He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead—something he hasn’t done in what feels like years—before stepping back, pulling the chair beside your bed to sit vigil over you.

He’s still not sure how to bridge the gap, but for now, he stays. It’s a start.

Well, thats all folks! I really enjoyed writing this au, so thanks for the idea! Maybe ill even make a pt. 2 to this? Who knows? Anyways, I hope you enjoyed it.

[eggrollforyou]

Research

Law x F!reader

CW: NSFW, MDNI, unprotected sex, sex pollen trope, p in v, pwp, that's all I remember idk 😅

“Y/N-ya,” Law calls out to you, tapping his knuckles as he pushes the door open to your workspace. He crosses his arms in the doorway as he leans against the frame, a small smirk as he admires you. “It's late, let's get to bed.”

You're so immersed in cataloguing the latest round of flora the crew brought you on the last island stop, you don't respond as you work. As the crew's botanist, it was your job to catalogue all the amazing new plants you came across on the Grand Line.

You haven't even registered Law’s calls to you, this batch being particularly difficult to process, as you work on trying to identify the bundle of blood red flowers in your hand. They resemble magnolias, with large red petals, pale yellow stamens and a bright orange pistil.

You jump, startled from your concentration when Law gently places his hand on your shoulder. “SHIT!” you cry out, hand reaching to your beating heart, “Oh my god, Law, you scared me!” Coughing as the pollen on the stamens shake loose, thinking nothing of it, reeling still from being startled.

“It's late, you can finish this tomorrow, let's go to bed,” Law continues as he gently rubs his hands along your arms and shoulders. ‘It must be really late if Law is telling me to go to bed,’ you think to yourself. Clearing your throat again, you finally yawn, leaning back into his chest, “Alright, let's go,” you resign as you put your work into their respective containers.

As you both walk back to Law’s room, now your shared quarters, Law listens to you intently as you gab about your research for the day. He doesn't understand all of it, which amazes you considering his wealth of physiological knowledge, but he listens nonetheless. As you approach your room you begin to feel warmth spread across your chest, your fingertips tingling, and a familiar ache building deep in your lower belly.

Law notices that you've stopped talking suddenly and guides you into the room, his warm hand pressing on your lower back. It almost burns. As you rub your hands on your upper arms, you feel the burning sensation increase and suddenly feel flushed and overheated.

You don't know what's coming over you. It couldn't be exhaustion, it's never felt like this before. Before you can say anything, Law looks at you worriedly. Your face, neck, and chest are flushed red and you have a sheen of sweat growing across your brow. “Y/N-ya,” the back of his hand touches your forehead, “are you ok?” You wince at the touch as it burns and makes your skin crawl. “I-I don’t know. I feel SO hot. My skin burns…a-and I-I feel this ache,” you trail off as the ache you feel in your chest settles in your lower abdomen. No way…there’s no way this is happening.

Suddenly, you feel pulses of desire coursing through you. Your mind is hazy, all you can focus on is Law’s hand as he reaches for your face. You see his fingers, and that ache grows stronger. Your gaze trails up his arms, as you fixate on every vein and muscle on it, moving further up to his chest. Suddenly, you’re wracked with intense pain causing you to double over and all you can think about is where you want those fingers. What the fuck?! Your knees buckle but catching yourself causes you to rub your thighs together. You have to restrain a lewd moan at the feeling.

Law catches you as you fall forward, his touch again, burning your skin as you try to come to terms with what’s happening. “L-Law, I think I know what’s going on…” you say through gritted teeth. Your hand reaches for his pants. He pulls back slightly, confused, trying to figure out what you’re trying to say, “This isn’t the time for that Y/N-ya, we have to get to the med bay so I can figure out what’s going on, properly,” he tells you sternly. As he puts his hand out to Room you both, you grab his wrist first. “It’s the f-flowers I think,” you stammer, as you wriggle in his hold, rubbing your thighs together to get any relief you possibly could.

“The flowers?! What the fuck do the flowers have anything to do with this?” His eyes scanning you for any kind of hint to make sense of what is happening. “T-there are flowers out here…t-that have pollen that acts as an aphrodisiac…I-I think when you startled me, I inhaled that p-pollen.” His eyes widen, “W-what do you need me to do?” he desperately asks. “P-please, just make it stop, m-make me feel good,” you mutter as you pull him to you and kiss him.

Your teeth click against each other as you moan into Law’s mouth. It takes him a moment to process that this may indeed be what you need and he begins to kiss you back, barely able to match your urgency. “Mmmph…..p-please,” you whisper between your pants, “p-please Law,” you plead as you grasp at anything to give yourself relief.

His hand finds you as he presses the heel of his palm on your clothed clit. You gasp and as if a switch flipped and you can no longer contain yourself. You grind helplessly on his palm, whispering praises between labored breaths and you feel your orgasm building up quickly. Your skin still burns and you feel overheated but every press on your clit and every nip on your neck, you feel electric. Suddenly, you shatter, your orgasm washing over you in waves as it radiates out from your core.

Soon, the aching pain returns in another wave. “F-fuck, Law, it hurts, please…I need y-you,” you babble. Surprised you're able to string a sentence together. You push Law to the bed, his eyes widen in surprise at your current state, but he doesn't stop you when you rip open his shirt, buttons flying everywhere. You both undress quickly and without any further prep, you climb onto Law's lap, lining yourself up with him.

Desperately seeking relief from your pain, you lower yourself, taking his length completely in one swift motion as you both moan. You immediately pick up a swift pace, trying to chase whatever feeling was telling you to take what you needed from him. Your mind is hazy, only registering how full you feel. Feeling every vein against your clenching walls as you bounce up on and down on his cock. You feel another orgasm, building up quickly.

He hisses as you begin to roll your hips on him, grabbing your hips so tightly his knuckles are white. “Mmmmm, f-fuck. You feel so fucking good,” you moan, your head thrown back as you chase your high. “Ah! Shit, Y/N-ya,” he growls. With one last roll of your hips, you cum again, just as intensely as the first.

Suddenly, your concentration is broken as Law pulls you toward him so your chest is on his. He reaches around you, wrapping his arms around you so tightly, it starts to restrict your breath. He bends his knees, plants his feet and begins fucking up into you at a relentless pace.

“Fuuuhhhck, Law! Right there, just like that, right there!” You scream as he fucks into you like he'd never get the opportunity again. The sinful sound of skin meeting skin filling the room almost as loud as your cries of praise. You feel the familiar pull deep in your gut as he keeps up his pace. The drag of his cock in your tensing walls. He doesn't relent and with one of his moans in your ear, you snap and cum again.

Pulsing and clenching, forcing a growl out of Law as you are barely able to whisper your praises and thank yous, completely lost in this feeling of utter bliss. Law flips you over without ever leaving your warmth. He pushes up and swirls his tongue around your nipple, biting it as you arch your back into it.

He continues rutting into you, grip tight on your waist as you take everything he gives you, his pupils blown wide. One might think he inhaled some of the pollen too. He's less worried now that he's seen how each of your climaxes have reduced the uncomfortable effects of the pollen.

“Fuck, Y/N-ya, I'm gonna cum,” he grits his teeth, “w-where do you want me?”

“I-inside, p-please, Law!”

“Fuuuhhhhck,” he cries out as he finishes, pulsing inside of you, watching where you are connected. As you both pant, desperately trying to catch your breath.

He stills and rests his forehead on yours. Both of you spent, dripping sweat, and utterly exhausted. You let out a breath of content, finally feeling back to normal. He pulls out of you with a wince and you pull him forward to press a soft kiss to his cheek, “Thank you….for helping me….even though you caused it in the first place!” you tease. He smirks, “I'll be more careful, next time.”

Tags: @shy-writer-999 @dreamcastgirl99

Dividers by: @cafekitsune

Did you like this? I'm flattered! Wanna read more? Here's my Masterlist!

[meanbossart]

On topic of the previous ask about Drow's emotional reactions to Astarion's past:

You see a lot of bad shit in Cazador's palace. The kennels where he was put through every layer of hell, the pleasure chambers, the utterly miserable living situation... DU Drow isn't a stranger to violence and brutality, of course, but being in a place where you know terrible things were done to someone you love as deeply as he loves Astarion has to hit different. He doesn't seem like he would outwardly react, but what was that like for him?

(ask being referenced)

So, something that might be a little challenging to both explain and understand is that while DU drow and Astarion are In love with each other at the point where they finally reach Cazador, I don't think they yet... Love each other in the way two adults might.

Astarion, while able to be more authentically imself (IE: kind of a dick) around DU drow, doesn't really know what exactly that self even is. Not to mention that regardless of the legitimacy of the relationship, his freedom is still dependent on DU drow's willingness to put his entire life on the line for him, something he could fail at - and losing lovers is nothing new to Astarion. One may even say he expects it to happen.

Meanwhile, DU drow's whole life and sense of identity has had to be (re)formed in the few weeks to months since he started, like, existing again. Time is very difficult to conceptualize when it's only been a thing since 60 days ago - he's killed hundreds of creatures to get here and hasn't had the opportunity to process what that means at all. He has no idea how old he is or where he's come from. He has scars that show he may have had it rough at some point but no memory of pain or suffering - and as far as he can tell, he is doing completely fine regardless of it. All of this to say:

DU drow could not wrap his head around what 200 years of enslavement is even if you shoved it up his ass.

So, when he sees a filthy set of bunkbeds, the immaculately kept pleasure-room, a torture chamber - all that he does is think to himself "Good thing I'm here to put an end this". And Astarion, as much enjoyment as he may get from the guy, still can't help but be glad he's here to do the heavy lifting on his behalf. Pity alone won't save him.

You know what does give DU drow pause, though?

It is undeniably self-centered that of all things, the spawn who speak of Astarion like a crossed lover would leave an impression on DU drow, and yet, that's what happened. And of all things he saw that day, this would be the very first that makes his stomach churn - though not the last.

DU drow is an egoistical man. This doesn't mean that he's incapable of caring, loving, nurturing and evolving - but he is an egoistical man nonetheless. Nothing makes him enter a state of desperation and, dare I say, fear, quite as having things taken away from him - or worse, seeing himself mirrored in something much smaller and weaker.

This will change. It will change a lot. When the dust settles and their relationship has the space to evolve into an actual life partnership, those smaller things and crass comments will come back to haunt him. But back, then you really needed to pass a fine thread through a needle-hole to make the guy introspect for even a second.

[unnameablethings]

god not to get into the discourse but like. we gotta discuss the dialectics of Getting Attention For Art. Two things can be true simultaneously.

1. it is TOTALLY NORMAL AND EXPECTED to really want people to give your art attention/notes/love/care. That is a deeply fulfilling and necessary part of the process of creating art.

2. You are not entitled to attention/notes/love/care just because the art exists, and you HAVE to find a way to drive yourself to keep creating in the absence of those things.

Maybe people aren't paying attention because your art is not good. Maybe they're not paying attention because your marketing is not good. Maybe it's just not the right timing Maybe it just got lost in the vast morass of internet content. The only way to fix these things is to persist in creation and improve in the process.

We can discuss the role of the audience in helping art thrive, but I think it's more useful to focus on your own contributions. Are you leaving detailed enthusiastic comments on everything you love? Are you reblogging with tags and commentary? Are you sharing the things you love? You cannot control the behavior of anyone but yourself. You can take your disapproval of art culture as a prompt for your own behavior, but it's pointless to resent Society for your art not doing well.

Wrt writing specifically, am certain you have all heard/read the stories of your favorite authors getting umpteen rejections by publishers before getting published. I feel like in some ways the system of traditional publishing allows for more ego-preservation. You can think "I KNOW people would love it if The Gatekeepers would give it a chance."

But now it's just out there on the internet and nobody's watching or reading it at all. Turns out maybe the gatekeepers were right about this one. And that's genuinely really difficult to deal with, it's something I struggle with frequently.

But oh my god. oh my god. listen to me. if you take anything away from this post. YOU CANNOT BULLY OR GUILT TRIP OR LOGIC PEOPLE INTO READING YOUR SHIT. It either hits or it doesn't. If you can't handle that, DON'T POST YOUR WORK.

[cherryc1nnam0n]

So I had an idea, what about Robin and her girlfriend reader wanting to have a baby so they convince Eddie to breed Y/n while Robin assists on the process 👀

Cw: For anal sex, unprotected P in V, breeding kink, lots of dirty talk, nipple play, boob play, blowjob (m receiving), ass eating (f receiving), voyeurism, masturbation

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~•~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It all started when you guys got baby fever from Nancy and Jonathan's newborn, the soft gurgles and coos of the baby had made your hearts melt

"Robs, we need a baby"

"Yeah we need one"

And the hunt for the bebe had started, finding the right way of having him was difficult, until a certain horny thought popped up in your head

"Eddie?! Really?!"

"Yes! He's perfect, tall, good looking, great hair"

"If you wanna call that rat's nest hair"

"Robiiiin" you whined "I'm serious, he'll say yes"

"I don't know..."

So a few days later there you were, Eddie at you guy's apartment looking baffled at your question

"Would you get me pregnant?"

"W-what, how, why, when, why?!"

"We wanna have a baby, our baby, you would be out of the picture"

Having a baby with no responsibility? The chance to fuck a hot girl and creampie her? With no bounds?! Hell yeah! It's what went through Eddie's mind

"Okay but under two conditions"

"We'll do anything" Robin rushed to say

"One, I want Robin to stay and watch and assist..."

"Done" she replied

"And two, you let me fuck you in the ass first"

That's when you froze, you had never been touched in there, let alone put anything in it, never a dick

"Ummm, I don't know, I've never done that before"

"Come on... It's just one time and then you'll have a cute baby to raise..." he raised his eyebrows "It'll be fun"

You took a deep breath and looked at Robin who squeezed your arm reassuringly, so you nodded at him

"Let's do it"

Fast forward to you on Robin's lap, she's basically worshipping your tits, playing with them, sucking on your sensitive nipples, pulling on them, nursing, you name it, while behind you Eddie is going to town on your puckered hole, licking and kissing all over it

"Fuck I can't wait to fuck this tight lil hole" He went back in to tonguing the insides of your ass while you moaned as Robin kept on massaging your tits

"Okay, I'm going in slow babe"

"O-okay" you said holding onto Robin as she held your ass cheeks open for Eddie to go in easier "Ooooh fuck" your eyes rolled back as he thrusted all the way in

Setting a steady pace you made out with Robin while Eddie watched you intently, your ass was so tight he was gonna cum in any second

"Fuck babe keep your back like that yes fuuuuck" Eddie said holding your lower back down to get your ass perked up to fuck it better

"Fuck, fuck so good babe, gonna cum"

"Don't waste the cum in there, put it inside her"

"Shit fuck"

He quickly pulled out of your ass and thrusted into your pussy, jerking off as he came inside your pussy

"Ooooh fuck Eddie" you moaned

"First load babe, I have plenty more to go"

Now being fingered by your girlfriend while Eddie jerked off in front of you did not have to be so hot, but it sure as hell was

"Come on baby, cum for me babe"

As you were orgasming Eddie pushed his cock inside your clenching pussy, thrusting his hips desperately as your girlfriend held your thighs wide open for the man to fuck you into oblivion

"Oh fuck!"

10 months later...

"She's perfect..." You said holding your newborn baby in your arms

"She's beautiful..." Robin said holding her tiny hand in her finger

"She's... She... She looks just like Eddie" Steve said looking at the baby with a furrowed brow "Right?"

"It might seem crazy what I'm about to say" Eddie said with a shit eating grin

[lynnie-s3all]

Two time x angel!reader maybe one associated with spawn somehow??? Perchance????

SHIT.

( i had to use a bit of chatgpt for some dialogues cause I'm trying to write good. I'm being honest in here.)

In devotion to save my own self...

Two time x Angel reader

Okay first of all, let's talk about respawning.

𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚘𝚛𝚢:

Respawning is somewhat a belief where you can gain immortality from it. Once you die, your body can ressurect itself and gain back another life. Which means, no matter how many times you die, you would always go back to life. The process is painful on each step you die, and it will repeat itself.

This then had people being devoted onto it, making this a cult of believing that if you pray to the gods above, they would give extra lives each time you die. And it's unstoppable.

Well what about you? You're an angel, and you have little bits of knowledge about this belief, well i guess i would say you're associated with that.

Well little did you know that there's someone lurking and being interested towards you...

They looked at you with a smile, trying to say hello to your existence. You would guessed that they would have come from a cult. Which you did noticed that when you saw their shirt.

When they tried to speak themselves out, he would say it in some fancy type of accent. You barely know half of what he was saying but you didn't really understand him that much. Only a bit.

"Forgive my outburst, but I am truly enchanted by your radiant presence. I have never beheld such ethereal loveliness in all my days. Are you indeed real, or am I bewitched by the most splendid illusion known to mortal sight?"

Okay... probably not like that??

Two time: "Wow, I've never seen anything like you before. You're beautiful."

Angel: "Thank you, that's kind of you to say. But I'm just an ordinary angel."

Two time: "Are you real? I mean, I can't quite believe it."

Angel: "It's okay, I understand. Yes, I'm real. Don't worry, I'm not an illusion."

The two of you gradually begin to spend more and more time talking to each other. As the days go by, their conversations become more frequent and consuming until the point where they can no longer break free from one another's company. Their desire to be together becomes so strong that Two time starts to neglect the other cult members and disappears for extended periods just to spend time with you. This obsession with each other has reached a point where it has become risky to both their responsibilities and the cult they are a part of.

They would slowly grew more devoted towards you, such as through prayer, offering gifts, and expressing their loyalty and respect on you.

When they are deeply devoted to you, they might even sacrifice something important to them in order to please the deity or demonstrate their devotion.

And if they were to sacrifice someone to gain another life... They would need a host. Their closest friend.

Two Time: "I did something terrible. I sacrificed my friend to gain another life.

Angel: "I see... and how do you feel about what you've done?"

Two Time: "I feel guilty. I know it was wrong, but I didn't know what else to do."

Angel: "You made a very difficult and morally challenging decision. But there is always a choice, and you made the wrong one."

Two Time: "I know. I just wish I could take it back."

Angel: "Time cannot be reversed. But you can learn from your mistake and make better decisions in the future. Everyone makes mistakes, but it's your actions and choices going forward that define you.

Two Time: "I'll try to do better. I just don't know if I can ever forgive myself for what I did."

He was guilty. He knows that.

I'm not sure if i want to continue this to be honest...

[kowbelll]

Rules on request??

Can you do one where Stiles finds out his girlfriend has a chronic illness like lupus or something and he adjust his life to be there every step for her. Even the time in the hospital he stays and sleeps in the bed with her holding her. He always seemed like he would be the golden retriever type 🩷 and she doesn’t or does know about the pack you choose

This is literally the sweetest request ever and so on brand for him! I decided to "give" her something else because I don't know anything about lupus. I am definitely not a medical expert of any kind and I do not claim to be, but I have a couple family members who have the chronic illness I chose, so I am slightly familiar with it. Everyone should always do their own research though! What I wrote mostly focuses on the events before finding out, but I can continue this and go into more detail on what happens afterwards if people would like me to. Also, I apologize, but the last third, give or take is kind of rushed. I hope you like it though! Thank you for the request!

Also, I will take any request with a grain of salt and tweak things if I need or want to. But I'm open to anything!

Battle Together

Word count: 1,658

His heart was racing and falling at the same time. There was no way this was actually happening, right? Not to her.  

His hands shook as he gripped his phone to his ear. Focusing on Scott’s voice was getting increasingly more difficult as he tried not to spiral. Why didn’t her dad tell him? Why wasn’t he with her right then, holding her hand and sweeping away her worries. Shit, he was so worried, and Scott clearly didn’t know all of what was actually going on.  

“Scott, wait, what are you saying?”  

“She’s here. In the hospital. All my mom told me was that she passed out and now they’re doing brain scans.” His friend was plainly shaken up too. 

Brain scans? Stiles felt sick. Everything he witnessed his mother go through when he was a little boy crashed into him all over again. What if this was the same thing? What if she had what his mom had? What if- 

“I’m on my way.” 

Stiles broke nearly every traffic law in existence as he raced to Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital, to his beloved girlfriend. He needed to get there as fast as possible; he needed to know what was going on. He absolutely despised being out of the loop. 

Frantically sprinting into the building and nearly running into not one, but two nurses who were going home for the night, he arrived at the front desk. But where the hell was Melissa? 

His feet almost left the floor when the sweet voice broke through his rapid breathing, saying, “Oh good, you’re here. Come with me.” 

Stiles turned to look at the curly-haired, soft-eyed woman. He couldn’t help that his voice trembled as soon as he opened his mouth. “What’s going on? Is she ok? Did something happen to her? Have they found anything yet? Why did-” 

“Stiles.” Melissa placed her aged hands on his shoulders in an attempt to ground him. “Breathe. Everything’s going to be fine. She’s going to be fine.” 

“Do you really know that...?” he asked hesitantly. 

She paused for a moment, understandably. There was no way to know anything for sure. Not yet, at least. 

“Let’s just go see her for now, ok?” 

He nodded and let her guide him to his girlfriend’s room. As they walked, Ms. McCall told him everything she knew. She explained that the poor girl had passed out in the kitchen while helping her dad prepare dinner, banging her head on the corner of the granite countertop and burning her forearm with spilled gravy in the process. Her father practically carried her to the car as soon as she hazily woke up and brought her in to the hospital. Her second-degree burn was cleaned and treated before the doctor decided to check for a concussion. Hearing the true explanation for the CT scan relatively eased Stiles’ nerves, but there was still so much to decipher. He needed to see her, preferably immediately. 

They reached the door of the room she was checked into when they moved her from the ER. However, Melissa did not reach for the handle, causing Stiles to give her a look of curiosity. 

“Stiles,” she started, exhaling a deep breath, “I want you to be prepared for whatever this is.” 

His curiosity deepened and twisted as the spires of concern within him sharpened and stood taller. “Wha- what does that mean?” 

“It means that, sometimes, something as small as passing out isn’t always as small as it seems...”  

The woman’s eyes were filled with a specific type of pain, one that Stiles was familiar with, but hadn’t seen in her for years. Since he was so young when his mother was sick, he never truly realized how much agony Melissa experienced as she watched a dear friend (and that friend’s family) of hers suffer. It brought her a horrible aching sensation to see the damage a singular disease could inflict on three good, genuine people, and not be able to do something significant to help. That was her job – to help. But there was really nothing she or anyone was capable of to improve the situation.  

Stiles swallowed in a faulty attempt to soothe his suddenly dry throat. He simply nodded, and in return, the sweet nurse gave him an empathetic smile. Of course, she didn’t want to scare him with what she said, but she had given bad news too many times that week. 

“Are you ready?” 

He sighed, trying to take her advice and finding it incredibly arduous. “Yeah, I think so.” 

As they quietly entered, Stiles’ eyes softened upon seeing the girl who stole his heart sitting up on the hospital bed. She looked incredibly tired, but watching her mouth curve upwards when her gaze met his made him feel like the luckiest man alive. Not because of the situation, obviously, but because that cute little smile was for him.  

“Hey, stranger.” Her raspy voice was surprisingly gleeful, all things considered. Perhaps Stiles just had that effect on her. 

“Hey,” he chuckled. “You feeling ok?” 

She simply shrugged and glanced at her father who was standing next to the bed.  

Begrudgingly, the man cleared his throat and excused himself from the room.  He supposed that giving the lovebirds no more than a couple minutes wouldn’t result in an utter catastrophe, even when Stiles is one of the pair in question, who hastily sat down on the edge of the bed as soon as the door clicked closed.  

“Are you sure you’re ok? Do you need me to get you anything? What can I do?” He took her hands into his. 

Her smile grew as she saw the love and devotion he had for her, not to mention the worry. She didn’t want him to stress himself out, but she had to admit that those wide eyes were adorable.  

“I’m fine, I swear. Just... stay with me for a while?” she said, her voice turning bashful. 

“Absolutely. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be. Got that?” His hands squeezed hers as he leaned forward. 

“Yeah,” she nodded, her face approaching his, “I got that.” 

As if he had a sixth sense for his daughter’s desires, the man swiftly entered the room again, causing both of the teens’ head to lurch backwards. Stiles tried to be sly as he slowly and awkwardly pulled his hands away and stood from the bed, backing away cautiously. A doctor stood in the doorway, along with Melissa. 

“Dr. Vandenberg wants to run a few more tests while we wait for the CT scan results, just in case it’s not a concussion.” Her father began pulling his phone out of his pocket. “I have some things I need to do for work, but I’ll be back in the morning, alright? Is that ok with you?’  

The information that was sprung on her felt like a spear piercing her spine and sending a poison of anxiety rushing through her bloodstream. All she could do was nod. There was no other option, anyway.  

He nodded back at her before his eyes locked onto Stiles. “You’re staying with her.” 

It was more of a command than anything, but the boy would never object to that regardless of whose mouth those words left.  

“Yes, sir.”  

Stiles was by her side for as many tests as he was permitted. He could tell that this was more frightening for her than she was divulging; it was harrowing. Therefore, he desperately desired to bring her some semblance of comfort. And he succeeded, to a degree. 

Afterwards, their time together was briefly ceased while he picked up the closest thing to a couple of “real” burgers Beacon Hills could provide. They contentedly ate their late dinner together, squished against one another once she made room for him next to her. He kissed away the condiment that was smeared on the corner of her mouth, making her giggle.  

Additionally, he held her close and kept his eyes glued to her form, making sure she was snuggly falling asleep without interruption. Without realizing it, he, too, was swept away into a slumber. Their trepidations momentarily fizzled and were replaced by fantasy-filled dreams, and morning rolled in fast. 

When her father returned, the doctor explained the various test results they received. Stiles’ girlfriend was officially diagnosed with Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS), a chronic illness which frequently inflicts dizziness and fainting due to a lower blood volume returning to the heart. It can be managed with an increased intake of salt and water, but will be part of her for the rest of her life.  

Stiles felt a surge of anger at the news – there was nothing he could do to make this nuisance of a disease go away and his girlfriend did nothing to deserve it. However, he swore to himself that he would stay by her side, hold her hand, and keep her safe whenever her body got the best of her.  

He kept his promise throughout the rest of school, their engagement after he proposed, and their marriage. He did whatever he could to help, whether necessary or not. He always went the extra mile for her, even though it wasn’t an illness that would debilitate her from living her life. However, it was definitely inconvenient and dangerous at times. 

There was an instance in which she passed out while driving on the freeway, leaving her car to drift into the guard rails. Thankfully, there was very little traffic, so no one else got hurt. However, she was back in the hospital with a few minor injuries and her husband (for every minute of the stay).  

This battle was never fought alone, and Stiles had a unique talent for making her feel cared for without any semblance of being coddled. He knew how admirably strong she was and exactly when she needed him to step in and hold her. POTS would not break her, nor their bond.  

[that-stone-butch]

Hey I'm in a difficult position and was wondering if you or your followers might have any advice? I need more mature lesbian guidance.

I'm a lesbian and my partner of 2 years just came out as a trans man. I've had this happen before and last time my ex and I tried to make things work but ended up breaking things off (we're still friends, we're just not romatically compatible because I am definitely a lesbian).

Anyway, my current partner's ex was really toxic and incredibly transphobic, so she basically set back his transition by about five years. He has a lot of unhealed trauma from that relationship. As a result, he's basically said that if I end things, I'm as transphobic and toxic as she was. I don't know what to do - I don't want to end things on a bad note (I really care about him) but I am not romantically or sexually attracted to men. He knows this has not worked for me in the past. I feel like I'm in a place where either I confirm to him that everything his ex said was true or I stay in a relationship I do not want to be in.

i think there is a massive gulf between confirming that everything his ex said was true, and staying in a relationship you don't want to be in.

he deserves all the support through what is undoubtedly a difficult time. but he's way out of line telling you that if you break things off you're basically the same as his abusive ex. you can still support him and be a good friend to him while not being his romantic partner. you don't owe him a relationship like that, no matter the circumstances. anyone who says otherwise doesn't have a healthy view of relationships or boundaries.

in your shoes, i'd make that clear to him; that your support of him and his transition is not contingent on a romantic relationship, and isn't going anywhere. he's probably terrified of losing what may be his only lifeline in a really tumultuous point in his life. behavior like this often comes from a place of fear and insecurity,

i'd offer to be there for him in the ways you are able. if like, if he needs a ride to his appointments, that sort of thing. but i would make your boundaries known and tell him that you decide when and how you are in a romantic relationship, and no one else gets to change that. that's how fucking consent works. if he's not in therapy i'd strongly recommend he pursue some third party that isn't a romantic partner to process his relationship anxieties. he clearly has a lot of shit to work through in that area.

fucking...taking him seriously as a man and reiterating your romantic boundaries is the least transphobic thing you can do in this situation. if he's not mature enough to respect you like that, you're not doing him any favors by allowing him to force a relationship. full stop.

it's ironic that you say that this hasn't worked for you in the past, when clearly the most important thing for your trans ex did work, that he still has a supportive friend who cares about him. that's what your partner needs now more than anything.

[lizardsfromspace]

We still think of celebrity callout posts as these sprawling documents with link after link, but increasingly, they involve no citations or links at all. Just people asking "is [name] a bad person?", being told "yes", and saying, wow, I'll make sure not to support them anymore. Which is excusable if they know each other, but people will just ask the screaming void of the internet "can you decide if this person is evil or not for me?" and then accept the yes/no answer they get unquestioningly

This makes it difficult to find The Proof, since it's so often a trail of vagueposts about someone's vagueposts of a discourse they witnessed second hand, and when you get to the source, it's often just embarrassing. "Everyone is doing this" gradually turning into "some people are doing this" until you discover the whole furor was sparked by...some random person's tweet with one or two likes. Days of rage based on something very few people, including most of the people angry about it, ever saw. That's part of why people have gone complete citationless, but also let's face it, when people with a deep parasocial hatred of a celebrity look into them and don't discover anything, they didn't go "ah well, nothing to see here". They would make shit up or take minor incidents out of context to make up a narrative anyway. Fully removing the sourcing and making it purely about vibes really streamlines the process

But I think it's more fundamental since in my experience - both personal and witnessed - people who do this genuinely just seem confused when people ask for sources. They get hostile to the idea that people won't just accept that someone's an irredeemable monster off being told they are with no elaboration. It's nice to think people are so trusting they've naively forgotten that, y'know, people can lie or be wrong, but really, they know, they just don't care. Because these people by and large don't have any real beliefs beyond Disliking The Same Famous Person, and will accept anything said about them into their mythology, and only spend time in a circle of other people obsessed with the same person & don't realize no one knows the mythology but them, and so don't really get why you'd ask for a single citation. What, do you support them? You monster. You're supposed to hear that, yes, they are evil, and then spend time in a bubble of constant dislike of them, where you commiserate with the other obsessive stalkers about how awful it is that pop singers are mad when you obsessively stalk them

[peascrabbles]

So, as I've gotten deeper into writing as a hobby again, all the reasons that made me stop doing it years ago have shown themselves once again. Bafflingly enough, it's way more difficult for me right now than it was as a rusty beginner weeks ago. Something something the learning curve:

I am totally somewhere in the "This is hard!" or "I don't know s***" zones right now (and it's where I stopped last time.) On this second go-around, I won't let it defeat me, though! Been reading little advice tidbits here and there that have been really, really helpful.

A few gems from a great discussion about the purpose of a draft that spoke to me:

Q. What makes you keep writing your first draft even though it's a complete mess?

I. Being a complete mess is the one and only job of the first draft. Proof of life. Keep going. It's like moving, which is the world's single worst activity. You box up every fucking thing in your head, and set it all out in your new space, and it's the worst day of your life when you do. And the satisfaction of moving all those boxes and finishing the laborious work is fleeting because now your new space looks like absolute garbage, and it will keep looking like a cluttered unlivable mess for months and you know it and you wonder why you even bothered moving. But you slowly unpack and organize and hang things on the wall until one day you're living in the home you always imagined.

II. Think of the mess as a puzzle that you get to have fun solving.

III. It's only a mess compared to other things you've read. But other things you've read are finished.

Stop comparing your work in progress to finished works.

It takes months or even years to finish most stories (excepting short stories and maybe novelettes). You're not going to get there on your first draft, or your second, or even your third. So, according to the words of Save the Cat! Writes a Novel, "Don't be afraid to write crap. Crap makes great fertilizer."

IV. Writing anything is an accomplishment. So many people think about, talk about, post about writing… and never do. (shush, I know I'm guilty of that at this moment!!)

Set a daily goal (words, pages, whatever). Hit it each day and take pride in JUST THAT accomplishment. It will get easier each day to reach that goal it as it becomes a habit rather than a chore.

Your story can't just exist in your head, it has to be given form. Writing it will gradually, eventually reveal what you can keep, what you must refine, and what you need to mercilessly cast away. If it's only in your head, it ALL exists, good, bad, and mediocre. Putting it in words starts the process of separating it from your mind and ego, and will start to give you some detachment and perspective for further drafts. It might start as a mewling little lump of words that drools and vomits and shits itself but by GOD you are going to raise… er, revise… that story into a fine figure of a tale.

As the sayings go, all writing is good writing. And all writing is rewriting.

[ofstarsandvibranium]

To Have & To Hold: Part 13

Fandom: Marvel - Moon Knight (Mafia AU)

Pairing: Marc Spector x F!Reader, Steven Grant x F!Reader, Jake Lockley x F!Reader

Summary: To ensure you’re always safe even after his passing, your father, a mob boss, makes you marry his right hand, Marc Spector. You don’t necessarily hate Marc, but you don’t get along either. Therefore, this marriage of convenience may be a bit difficult for you.

Series Masterlist

When Marc wakes up, your side of the bed is empty. He hears the shower on in the en suite bathroom, so he knows you're in there.

He stares up the ceiling and lets out a pained, deep breath. He really can't catch a break. Everything with you has been fucked from the start. He never wanted things to go this way. He knew it was going to be difficult, but he didn't think it'd be this difficult.

He thought he'd have more time. More time to get to know you more, more time to process everything. Just...more.

But Marc's life has never been an easy one. He's never gotten anything easy, never gotten any peace. So he just has to roll with the punches.

But fuck, is he tired of getting beat down.

You step into the bedroom, towel wrapped around your body, "Oh, morning," you say with a hint of surprise, but cover it with a nonchalant.

Marc sits up with a grunt, "Guess we should talk."

You nod, "Yup. Let me change first," you walk into the closet, closing the doors behind you. Marc takes the few minutes to gather his thoughts.

He needs to apologize. He might even beg on his knees for you to believe him. From now on, he has to be completely honest with you from now on.

You exit the closet wearing leggings and a loose fitted t-shirt. You stand there, hip jutted out, and arms crossed over your chest. You're guarding yourself. Marc understands, but hates it nonetheless.

"So?" you ask with a raise of your brow.

He clears his throat, "So, yes, I intentionally didn't tell you certain things. Not because I didn't want to tell you at all, but because I didn't want to worry you. You've already been under a lot of stress and I was just thinking about you." You open your mouth to retort, but he cuts you off with a raise of his hands, "I know. I know. I still should have told you about it all: the arrangement, your dad, my now ex-wife. I fucked up.

"I truly am sorry though. I never want to hurt you, Y/N. I care about you."

You had a feeling the conversation was going to go this way. You thought about various scenarios of it while you took your shower. Despite you wanting to paint Marc to be a villain, you know he truly isn't. Despite his rough exterior and "tough shit" you know he has a soft heart. You've seen it first hand the days following your arranged engagement.

You let your arms, and your internal walls, slowly fall.

"I get it...still fucking hurts that you kept all of it from me. And-And I don't know how I'm supposed to trust you-"

"I won't keep anything from you anymore. I promise. Anything that could put either of us or this arrangement at risk, I'll tell you."

"I'll do the same," you say in agreement.

He slowly nods, "Do you...have questions?"

"Who was she?" you ask as you sit at the corner of the bed.

"Layla El-Fouly. I met her back when I was a mercenary...I was ordered to kill her father. I was supposed to get close to her, kill her too but-"

"But you fell in love."

"Yeah. Then she found out that I was the one who killed her father and she left. Didn't see or hear from her in years."

"Did you try looking for her?"

He shrugs, "Not really. I understand why she left. I lied to her," he lowly chuckles to himself, "Guess I really don't have a good track record when it comes to marriages. Both of mine rooting from deceit." He looks down at his lap in shame.

"But you finally found her."

"When your father came to me about the arrangement, he already knew of my marriage to Layla. He gave me contacts to help me find her so I can serve her the papers. She finally reached out a few days ago. She wanted to talk before signing the papers."

You think about when you saw them at the cafe, how he was holding Layla's hand, looking at her. You felt that twinge of jealousy and insecurity crawling into your heart.

"Do you still love her?"

Marc gives a sigh, "I think a part of me will always have some care for her, but I don't love her. Not anymore."

You feel a weight lifting off your shoulders after that. Because, dammit, you know you've fallen for Marc. Despite everything, you really care for him and you know he'd treat you well in this marriage.

It was your turn to release a deep sigh, "Okay."

"Anymore questions?"

"I should have asked about this earlier on, but how long did you know about the arranged marriage before my dad told me."

"Two weeks."

"Did you help create my dad's plan to take Harrow out?"

He shook his head, "I didn't know a thing. I asked him to let me in, so I can help but he told me my strict orders were to get you out of there. All I knew was that he had a plan and it was probably going to end in his death."

"How has Steven and.."

"Jake."

"How has Steven and Jake taken to this life?"

He snorts, "Steven hates it. He's a pacifist, so he's not around often when I'm out and about. Jake...he's a rare sighting. But he's the kind of guy that doesn't care about what measures you take, all that matters is the outcome."

"Aren't you the same way?" you ask him with a challenging tone.

"I do what has to be done, but I do also try to keep in mind the consequences and who I might be hurting. Jake doesn't care so much for that."

"He sounds dangerous."

Marc snorts, "You have no idea, Sunshine." He looks at you with soft eyes, "Are we going to be okay?"

You reach out, placing your hand on top of his, "I think so. Just, no more secrets. Got it?"

He makes an 'X' over his heart, "Cross my heart and hope to die."

"No dying anytime soon, please," you murmur and crawl over, pecking his lips, "I'm gonna finalize wedding stuff."

"Let me know if you need any help!" he hollers as you exit the bedroom.

"Will do!" you respond, your voice echoing through the halls.

"That went a lot better than expected," Steven says in relief.

"You're telling me, buddy," Marc murmurs back with a scoff.

"So it'll be happily ever after for you after all?"

"We can only hope, Steven," Marc replies back as he stands from the bed, and heads to the bathroom to shower.

[meanbossart]

Oh boy, VaM is kind of a trial and error experience LOL I couldn't really show you how to use the interface and stuff without a whole video or something, but it's not THAT difficult to get a hang of if you just give yourself a day or two to play around, not to mention the number of tutorials you find out there. Luckily, if you only want to use it as a reference software that makes the process far easier (to this day I have no idea how to animate on that thing, since that's not what I use it for)

As for how I use it, it's pretty self explanatory - if there's a complicated pose I want to draw but I'm either having trouble with it, or just want to double-check angles/anatomy, I will use it as a resource! I use for most of my "proper" pieces (y'know, the nicer looking ones) and every once in a while for my silly comics if I'm having trouble with a pose.

Lets use this drawing for example (the character on top of DU drow belongs to @namespara )

I don't draw a lot of mud-wrestling (shocking, I know) but I had an idea of the kind of pose I wanted them to be in. So the very first thing I did was make a rough sketch of what I was envisioning:

I often do a rough sketch first, even If I know I'm going to be pulling the program up because A) It's less tedious than adjusting the models over and over again until I pick a pose and B) because sometimes I'll decide I don't need the reference, after all, and so that's 30 minutes I'll have spared myself of playing around on the software.

Now, this is a pretty complicated pose! It's in a weird angle and the bodies are making contact in ways I'm not used to depicting, so I did choose to whip out VaM for this one. I went into the program and after some messing around, I flopped my little dolls together like this:

Now something really cool about VaM is that you can completely customize your models, and if you have the patience, I would definitely encourage you to do so! Obviously, you don't have to make picture perfect replicas of every single character you have, but as you can see here I have made a DU drow "decoy" to help me better understand some of his features when I draw him: he has a strong brow, a short nose, a square jawline - these are all going to look a very specific way from certain angles, and I might not always be sure of how to draw it right! So it's useful to have models that bear SOME semblance to the character so you can better understand how different viewpoints will affect their bone structure and mass.

Also thank fucking god for the elf-ear slider. Figuring out how to draw those shits from certain angles was a huge pain in the ass when I started drawing DnD races.

So, with the reference in hand, I go over the sketch again:

Now you may notice that I don't stick to the reference 100%. There's three reasons for this:

posing on VaM is tedious as hell. You can get something incredibly natural looking and picture-perfect to reference from if you wish, but it's going to take you hours to do. So, for the most part I just slap guys together until the results are "close enough" and use that.

In my opinion, you should always aim to ENHANCE your reference material, not replicate it exactly!

While VaM is a PRETTY DANG GOOD source of anatomical reference, it isn't perfect, I often supplement it with further reference from real life resources or make tweaks based on my own knowledge where I catch it falling short (and, antithetical to what I just said, I sometimes fuck the anatomy up further on purpose if I think it looks better that way LOL it's all jazz baby).

Then lines, color, yada yada. I don't have a tutorial on that and I don't think I could make one, because my process is chaotic as hell, but I do at times use Virt-a-mate as loose reference for lighting too when coloring - waaaaayyyy less so however, because that process is even more tedious and I feel like I often get better results by just winging it. It is a feature of the program though, and I'm sure it would be helpful for someone who has a difficult time visualizing lights and shadows. I only started using this program a few months ago, so I happened to already have a pretty good understanding of that kind of thing and just don't personally feel like I get much out of that particular mechanic.

Here's a few other examples of pieces that I made reference for (WARNING: Suggestive)

Now, for the question many of you may want to ask:

"Can I trace this junk?"

And to that, I say: Buddy, you can do whatever the hell you want with the reference material you created.

However,

If your goal is to learn and improve your art, and to recreate realistic proportions and anatomy from memory, tracing won't help you.

Developing your own style, your muscle memory, and personal technique will all be hindered by choosing to trace instead of drawing from observation, so I would encourage against it. Hell - even when tracing is employed as a technique, it's usually by high-skill realism & concept artists who are looking to either cut some corners, save time, or just double-check their own proportions in order to improve further - if you try tracing as a beginner, you will most definitely find the result to still look stiff and "off".

So trust me, there is so much more to be gained from drawing from observation. Make note of tangents, compare proportions, use all the elements of the picture to dictate where and how things should go - it will be a far more rewarding experience.

Hopefully this has been helpful! VaM is a really cheap program (you get it on the guys' patreon for I think 8 dollars, just google it!) and it's definitely been worth my money as an artist since I found it. Learning to use it can be a little intimidating at first glance, but as I said above you only really need a day plus one or two tutorials to get a hang of the interface.

A fair warning though, IT IS A SOFTWARE MADE FOR VIRTUAL SEX/ADULT ANIMATION So when looking it up expect to see a some spicy content.