#got the date wrong here before edited to reflect that

[catscr8l]

made a few edits and un-cropped this Link drawing from 2021 instead of drawing a new thing

[moeyynorris]

Do You Wish That You Loved Me?

Let’s Make Trouble In the Dream World - Part 4

Max Verstappen x F!Reader, Charles Leclerc x F!Reader

Warnings: angst (related to unrequainted love and break up), arguing, Google translated Dutch, emotions related to a break up/being abandoned. Oh, and this is horribly edited, so I apologize.

Master List

You tapped the key card against the metal block on the hotel room door and waited for the light to flash green. It was just after 1am, but your mind was on overdrive. You just hoped that Max was asleep, and that you wouldn’t have to discuss your decision to end what little was left of your relationship until morning.

As you opened the door, the bedside lamp flicked on. Your heart sank and every muscle filled with dread.

Shit.

“Oh, hi mijn schat. I’m glad you’re back.” Your stomach sank at his tone. He almost sounded like he did when the two of you first started dating. His voice was honest, a little groggy, but confident. “I was wondering when you would come back to me.” His lips curled into a grin as he slowly slid out from under the covers.

“Yeah, I know it’s late. But, I just took my time. I figured you would be asleep by the time I got back either way.” You gestured to the bed, clutching your phone in your free hand.

“I tried, but it was so lonely here. And I wanted to make sure you were back safe. Now, here you are.” He reached his arms out and wrapped them around you. His grip was tight, almost possessive as he pulled you against his chest. And, for some reason, you just melted into him. Was this what you were planning? Not even close.

Max pulled away a bit, peering down at you with hooded eyes. “Come lay with me, schatje. Tomorrow—uh—today will be a busy day.” The back of Max’s hand travelled slowly down your cheek. Then, he reached for your hand and pulled you to the bed.

“Max, give me a few minutes. I need to change and get ready for bed.” Your voice was stern, which made you wince. Why was it bothering you now to be harsh? He was never like this anymore. Something was up, or maybe it was just his excitement for the race?

Max nodded as he let go of you. “I’ll wait for you, then.”

You turned for the bathroom and closed the door almost all the way. Your eyes met your reflection in the mirror, and you stared for a moment, before sighing. A part of you now thought leaving Max was going to be harder than you originally believed. Sure, you weren’t in love him anymore, but he seemed to be more attentive in the last few minutes than he had been in months.

You shook your head. No. This wasn’t fair. He didn’t get to be distant and make you feel ignored and inferior, then just come snuggling back up to you. That’s not the game you were going to play.

You started brushing your teeth as your mind faded back to just over an hour ago. The feeling of Charles’ lips on yours forced your eyes to flutter close. He was so warm, so soft, so wanting. The way you felt so natural in his grasp was enough to make your body all hot again.

Your eyes shot open as a bare chest pressed against your back. You had almost forgotten Max was there with you while your mind was dwelling on Charles.

Darkened blue eyes captured you in the mirror. Max wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled your back even firmer against him. You quickly finished brushing your teeth and turned to him.

“Um, can I help you?” You barked. Luckily, it came out sounding a bit sarcastic.

“What? Am I not allowed to hold my girlfriend after she gave yet another performance of the year? What’s so wrong with that?” His lips quickly found the nape of your neck and began sprinkling kisses there.

You tried your hardest to relax. You let out a long breath, focusing on the sensation, the warmth of his touch. But, there was no warmth. You felt absolutely nothing.

Suddenly, you mind shifted to Charles, the way you felt under his touch. The soothing warmth from his lips on yours, and his lightly calloused hands finding their natural places.

Natural. That was it. This didn’t feel natural anymore.

And it had to stop.

You pulled back, pressing the small of your back into the bathroom counter behind you. Max tried to follow you, but you put your hands between the two of you. He pulled back, sensing your intention.

“What’s wrong, Y/N?” His eyes widened in confusion as he studied your face. You shook your head.

“Max, this feels wrong!” You blurted. You voice came out louder than you intended, but you didn’t care.

“Why? What’s wrong?” He reached a hand out that you didn’t take.

“What do you mean ‘what’s wrong’?” You squeezed your eyes closed, letting out a huff. “We haven’t been, I dunno, our normal selves in a while. I mean, not like what we were before. You’ve been, well—“ You paused, trying to find the right word. “Neglecting me. You know, emotionally.”

You crossed your arms over your chest. You were trying not to be mean; there was no reason to do that. But, you needed to be honest.

“Neglecting? Y/N, I—“

“Max, this doesn’t feel natural anymore,” you confessed. His face hardened a little as he processed your words.

Max’s face hardened. “You don’t love me anymore, do you?” His tone was low, blunt, almost a snarl. He was hurt, you could see that. A part of you felt guilty for it, but it wasn’t fair to drag this on.

You shook your head. “No, Max. Not the way I used to.”

“What do you mean by that?” He took another step back, a disgusted frown on his face.

“I-I love you, like I care about your wellbeing. But, I’m not in love with you anymore, Max. I’m sorry—“

“Get out,” Max spat. His whole body tensed. His lip snarled as he stared down at the ground, like he was trying not to have to look at you again.

“Max, I have nowhere to—“

“Get. Out!” He roared. You jumped, smacking your back against the counter. You winced, then tried to ignore the pain.

You glared up at him. “Max, where am I supposed to go—“

“I don’t care, Y/N. I don’t give a shit. Go find whoever you were smiling at in the crowd—“ Max’s eyes widened in realization. “I don’t care who it is. I know it’s someone else. Go find them. Maybe they’ll take you in. Either way, you’re on your own.”

Your lower jaw trembled at the thought of being on the streets of a foreign country by yourself. You knew his heart was broken. And sure, he was hurt. But that’s no reason to kick someone out in the middle of the night in a foreign country by themselves. You could sleep in the gathering room of the hotel suite, where he wouldn’t even see you…

“Max, I wasn’t—“ That was a lie. You were staring at someone else in the crowd. Hell, you kissed someone else before coming here. Maybe you deserved to be out on the streets.

No. He wasn’t the victim here. You were unhappy and treated you like a second thought. Was it wrong to kiss Charles before admitting anything to Max? Maybe, but that didn’t mean you deserved to be out on the streets in the middle of the night.

“Y/N, leave. I don’t want you here if you don’t love me.” His eyes were glassy, like he was holding back tears. You looked away.

“Fine. Just let me grab my stuff,” you deadpanned, a hint of anger behind your voice. He nodded, a scowl still clear across his face.

It only took you four minutes to fit everything you brought into your suitcase and walk out the hotel room door. There was no goodbye, not a word between the fight and your departure. But, none of that mattered. What happened needed to happen by morning. And, well, it was technically morning.

You peered down at your phone. Yeah, it was nearly 2:30 in the morning. And you had nowhere to go.

You stared down at your phone, realizing you had 9 text alerts, 3 missed calls, and a voicemail. Squinting, you pressed on the text button.

Charles Leclerc:

1:16pm: Hey, just making sure you got back ok. Maybe it is just taking you a while. Hope you are safe.

Charles Leclerc:

1:20am: Sorry to bother you again, but I just want to make sure you are safe.

There were a few more like that. Each one showing more and more concern for you. The phone call and voicemail were more of the same. But, there was something in Charles’ voice that warmed your heart. There was genuine worry there, a sincerity that you missed. No one had spoken to your like that in a long time.

You stared at your phone for another moment, studying the name of the man whose lips were mingling with yours just a few short hours before. Should you call him? Should you tell him that you were in the scenario you were in? You sucked in a breath. He would care. He does care.

You held your phone to your ear as it began to ring. A soft yet sharp voice answered you after just two rings.

“Y/N?” Charles sounded wide awake.

“Charles—“ Before you could get anything out, you began to cry. No, you sobbed. Every emotion you had been either holding back or denying over the last few hours came rushing out at once. Your chest tightened, your jaw clenched, and your legs began to fail you.

“Y/N, what’s happening?!” Charles shouted. He wasn’t angry, but there was a heavy desperation in his voice. “Y/N, please talk to me.”

You sucked in a gasp, attempting to calm yourself down. Breathe in, then out.

After a few moments, you calmed yourself down enough to get some words out.

“I left Max, and he kicked me out.” Your voice shuddered as you struggled to explain. Charles was silent for a moment before answering.

“He kicked you out? Of the hotel?”

“Yeah,” you sighed.

“Wait, so you are out on the street right now? Where are you?” You could hear him shuffling around, then the jingle of keys.

“I’m down the street from the hotel, next to a little market with a big blue sign.”

“I will be there in ten minutes. Don’t hang up. Just keep talking to me.” Your heart fluttered at the worry in his voice.

“About what?” You sucked in a breath.

“Anything. Just keep talking to me. I’m coming to get you.”

[allwormdiet]

Arc 6: Tangle, Concluding Thoughts

Lotta emotional highs and lows to get through here, so let's not dawdle

Okay, from the top now

Brian Laborn is actively evading all of my attempts to understand him. I will discover what makes him tick no matter how long it takes, and I will know whether the furniture building was meant to be a date or not

Speaking of which, my God 6.3 was fucking awkward. Some of that I'm certain was intentional, and good job at that, but holy shit I was actually uncomfortable with the way Aisha is described on her first appearance. Like I guess that can be chalked up to Taylor being awkward and mean but I'm gonna be real, I'm eyeing Wildbow on this one, if there's ever a fucking Worm Revised Edition that had better be on the rewrite block

Uhhhhh, lessee, what n-ahh. The gallery job.

I'm torn on this one, honestly. The build-up was solid, the entrance was delightful, and in the moment-to-moment stuff the fights were fun, but... the Undersiders went in with like half the Protectorate's numbers, and then proceeded to fight a wholeass PRT squad and then every hero there, and beat almost all of them. The Wards didn't do jack shit before being taken out, Assault and Battery got one cool team move and then were dusted, Triumph got downed by a dog, Velocity... Velocity found out a critical flaw in what gets sacrificed in the name of full power efficiency.

Someone on Discord pointed out that Miss Militia using the machete against Regent was actually a good way to discourage him from making her arms move, which is honestly smarter than I initially gave her credit for, but she still wound up puking inside her own costume so it's not like she's coming away from this smelling like roses.

Armsmaster and Dauntless are the only heroes who come out of 6.5 to 6.7 not looking like complete chumps, and Dauntless doesn't have a whole lot of personality on display so he barely counts as a character.

Overall it feels like the Protectorate heroes lost a lot of their bite with this entire sequence. The Undersiders are getaway specialists, thieves who don't pick fights unless they're sure they can win, and they just challenged like one of the highest-rated heroes in the Protectorate and his entire squad and came out of it in one piece. I'll grant that between the ambush conditions and the functionally unmatched battlefield control provided by Grue and Skitter that they tilted multiple factors in their favor, but that still doesn't feel all the way sufficient.

It should've been a lot closer, I think, and in some places it was already pretty close.

I hate Coil's entire vibe so much, I hate hate hate this dude. Smug motherfucker with his choreographed limo rides and coin tricks and shit. I'm gonna have to put up with this for a while, I can fucking feel it, goddamn him.

Somewhat relatedly, Tattletale... I don't like her less but I'm keeping a closer eye on what she says and does. If she's actually vibing with Coil and not just working with him as a matter of opportunism then that. Doesn't reflect great on her.

Hebert family continuing to break my fucking heart. I swear to god these two are gonna take fucking forever to mend the rift between them, and it's gonna involve at least a half-dozen more near-death experiences, goddammit

Edit: fuck me forgot the interlude

Birdcage scares the shit out of me, I think what makes Dragon’s role as architect and warden even worse is that she clearly takes no joy from the act.

Bakuda died as she lived, with bombast and sudden, violent cruelty.

Ahh, fuck, what even is supposed to be next in the story. Leviathan is close, right? I don't know if he's showing up the very next thing but I've been wrong before. God I hope there's, like, a second to breathe before an Endbringer rolls up.

[physalian]

So you’ve got an idea for a story….

Once again and as always, writing is highly subjective and any writing advice that says you *must* do X or all books *must* include Y or doing Z during your writing process is *wrong* kind of misses the point of the freedom of storytelling and I’m not a fan. This is how I approach writing and one way you could consider doing the same if you’ve got all these ideas and nowhere to put them, not the way you must approach writing.

Cool? Cool.

—

We’ll start with how I write fanfic because that’s a far less intimidating market. I don’t write drabble fics and coffee shop AUs. I grew up writing fix-it fics and in-universe canon divergences. Essentially: Stop the real story right here, now what if this happened instead?

Personally, I just don’t get fulfillment from writing fanfic fluff (though I do love reading it). Even if I’m committing time and effort into something that will never make me money and that people might not even read for fun due to dead fandoms or whatever, I’m still going to use it as writing exercise and give it some substance.

That’s just me, though. I used to write stuff like character studies and deep dives, and the last fic I wrote to date was a “hey what if this villain went to the good side way sooner and it wasn’t just played as a joke on his cowardice?” and its sequel.

So I started that first fic with an idea: What if K joined the good guys earlier? How would that impact the story?

Immediately after that, I was thinking about the ending and what tentpole ideas in the canon I wanted to keep, but the meat of the story I knew I wanted to focus on K’s emotional and existential struggle of switching sides, risking becoming an enemy to both factions, after the inciting incident of his (absolutely canonical) partner’s murder, that, in canon, did not get the justice he deserved. When I wrote my post about beginnings and endings, I said that endings for me are way easier than beginnings—this is why. Before I even start writing, my ending is decided.

Basically: Yes, I’m writing a story using someone else’s fictional characters, as one does when writing fanfic. The story uses cartoon characters, but it’s about one person’s struggle with their identity in the wake of tragedy, and how they take life by the horns to make it out of the story the hero they deserve to be recognized as.

And with that core idea in mind, then I write the story around it. The story, which, outside the canon that I had to keep, I had no plan for. The settings and minutiae of the set pieces weren’t as important as what each scene did for the themes and K’s emotional reaction to them happening. I needed to give him enough alone time with the characters of the hero team to learn something from them, enough time on his own to test his new loyalties, and enough time with his old team so he can juxtapose the two and make sure he’s doing the right thing by deserting.

The last thing on my mind was what tropes I wanted to fulfill. Romantic subplots and the like just kind of happened organically and weren’t planned.

—

For Eternal Night of the Northern Sky the idea I had was this: Most vampire stories are about the drama surrounding vampires that depend on humans to survive. So what if I wrote a story where humans depended on vampires to survive, in the exact same way?

Yes, the story is about vampires and everyone can say what they will about people who write vampire fiction. But it’s really about what it means to be a monster when survival demands some brutal decisions. What does it mean to be a monster if everyone is a monster?

ENNS wasn’t planned, I just started writing and had the first draft done in 31 days and through the entire editing process, the plot didn’t change from draft 1 to draft final, save for a few scenes where I had to fix the surface level problem some characters were facing, but not the reason why they were facing it.

The plot never needed massive rewrites because every scene reflected back on the core themes of the story, and every single scene was necessary to tell it. So even when I had to change the intensity of an argument or flesh out a conversation or change the tone of something here or there, the purpose of whatever was underneath remained.

With that throughline in mind, the rest of the book fell into place around it. My core characters each have a role to answer that thematic question, and side characters around then were created to fill in the world, provide friends, relatives, romances, and the like, each with their own perspectives still on that one big question. My villains, too, all exist to answer that question. Outside of the romances, every single scene is doing at least one thing either for the plot, the protagonist, or the deuteragonist to answer that question. ENNS’ secondary themes were also written into as many scenes as I could (of which I won’t spoil here).

When you write with a theme like this in mind, it gives you these sort of bowling bumper rails to help keep you from straying off into superfluous storylines that bog down the pacing and start to feel messy.

Yes, you’re writing fanfic. But what is it really about? Now maybe it is just a coffee shop AU or 50k words of smut—you do you. Not everything has to be deep and meaningful beyond being entertaining. Themes just provide direction.

For example, I like the idea of slowburn fanfics. The idea. I will happily sit down for a fic that’s half a million words long if the characters and the slowburn are compelling enough. There might not be themes, but the story never forgets its throughline—these two characters eventually coming together.

In practice, though, I see way too many “slowburn” fics out there that are just 90% fluff. The chapters stagnate, trading development for taunting the audience with the will they/won’t they. The plot toddles off to to play around in irrelevant scenes with irrelevant characters. Things that probably wouldn’t bother me if I wasn’t already expecting the romance that was promised, the romance I have to keep waiting for when I could just go read something else that delivers it faster and clearer.

—

Even if your writing process begins with a few scattered sticky notes and a notion of what you kind of want it to be about, you don’t have to hammer out pages of prose to be productive.

If you get stuck halfway through, having your throughline helps you sit back and ask yourself this very important question: What does Character want, how do they get it, and what’s in their way?

[amber-jinx]

Stop Victim-blaming Rachel Amber

I've posted this before but still don't see it being recognised enough. So here is part of an original well-written analysis of Rachel Amber, specifically the parts that got her the most hate:

SO WHY WAS RACHEL MESSING AROUND WITH FRANK AND JEFFERSON IF SHE LOVED CHLOE?? Well, let me lead you to—

Case studies on the way predatory and grooming relationships work in BtS and LiS

Exhibit D 💀💀

**Rachel was an 18 y/o emotionally vulnerable traumatized naive girl with abandonment issues, commitment issues and a father complex who was a victim of predatory grooming.

More often than not, girls like Rachel (yes, I’m calling her a girl at this point) find themselves in the company of questionable older men because of their unresolved personal issues and lack of proper guidance. Just because someone turns 18 doesn’t mean they magically transform into this wise mature grown up who’s achieved clarity in what they want or know. Just because they’re finally legal doesn’t make a 30 something yr old going after a barely legal girl any less wrong than a 30 yr old dating a 16 yr old. Just because a girl is confident and smart doesn’t mean they can’t be exploited.

One can see why an 18 y/o would want to date a 30 y/o. But you can’t possibly fathom why a 30 y/o would want to date an 18 y/o— unless it’s for sex or you enjoy the power imbalance, which again you can’t possibly blame the girl because that's just the adult exploiting the barely legal girl. And that would, SHOULD still earn a side eye. One can easily see why Rachel would be attracted to the prospects of sleeping with Frank if it meant being able to facilitate her drug abuse and him being a possible lead to her birth mother. One can easily see why Rachel would be attracted to a world-renowned photographer who's suddenly taking an interest in her of all people, someone who can essentially give her her shot to stardom and give her dreams on a silver platter. It's hard to run the other way if everything you've ever dreamed of is suddenly being offered right in front of you, harder if you've already been charmed to feel falsely safe with them.

You cannot blame a girl for falling for men that manipulated and took advantage of her vulnerability, exploited her, especially when she had no commitments or obligations to anyone whatsoever, no one telling her ‘stop, this is wrong’— completely no one to warn her that this was a predator and she’s the victim that they’ve been eyeing since she was 15-17.

Still think this wasn’t what was happening to Rachel? Her relationships with Frank (32) and Jefferson (38) were kept in absolute secrecy even though Rachel wanted to tell Chloe (who wasn’t even a student anymore) about Jefferson. I don’t know about you, but that doesn’t sound safe or healthy at all.

EDIT: Even if somehow you dismiss the messed up predatory grooming aspect of this, the thing going on between Rachel and Frank was highly inappropriate and predatory because they were always under the influence of drugs. Consensual or not, Rachel was most likely always high around Frank which means she would've been in a vulnerable state each time and with drugs and alcohol clouding her judgment. A person under the influence— a drunk person CANNOT give consent. One of the letters she wrote to him even suggests that he was abusive at one point which indicates this wasn't a functional, much less healthy relationship at all. Heck, there's even an unused audio line where Max says: "Frank, I actually believe that you do hurt Rachel."— which just screams abuse. No idea why they decided to cut that out (DN is already sus with the way they try to make players sympathize with abusive men), but it still definitely is a reflection to what generally happens when drugs and sleeping with an older man that can facilitate their addiction is involved.

This would be different if Rachel was messing with guys their age, but no. This is specifically a girl who was being taken advantage of and exploited by men twice her age instead; one who was a drug dealer and the other who turned out to basically be a psychopathic drug rapist.

It’s just downright messed up to victim blame and demonize the girl who was being taken advantage of and groomed. Rachel didn't 'choose' Frank or Jefferson. She was victimized.

With all things considered, even if we don’t take BtS into account— we still have all these things to properly analyze what their relationship was.

If we were to include in the words of the developers/writers about the girls’ relationship to make it more credible and not just an analysis of a random fan, from LiS1:

Jean-Maxime Moris: There is ambiguity. (Creative Director)

They never confirmed whether Rachel and Chloe were in an actual relationship despite it not being up to the player like Max and Chloe. And relationships that are described to be ambiguous usually means it was complicated and not the usual standard of a monogamous exclusive relationship.

Read more in this Reddit post:

I hope this clear things up. If you read all the way til here, Thank you. Here are a few art I generated based on Rachel in the comics book cover 🧡

You are free, and you will be missed.

[korgbelmont]

Vengeance

When someone dies, a Crow carries their soul to the land of the dead. But sometimes, something so bad happens that a terrible sadness is carried with it and the soul can't rest. Then sometimes, the Crow can bring that soul back to put the wrong things right. In Westchester, Oregon, many souls fell within one night. Then years later, it happened again in Pine Springs. Too many for otherworldly forces to ignore. And so a Crow is sent to bring back one of the fallen souls to exact vengeance against conduits of the Power.

Written in the present tense

Tagging: @choicesficwriterscreations

Warnings: Death, violence, use of a gun

Word Count: 1945

Notes: I don’t own these characters, they are the property of Pixelberry Studios.

Inspired by this edit I made of my MC as the Crow

This is an AU not connected to my normal series of It Lives In The Woods fics where everyone died in both It Lives In The Woods and It Lives Beneath

WESTCHESTER, OREGON

As rain falls on Westchester, a Crow flies down to the cemetery, cawing as it lands on a headstone. Moments later, someone pushes out of the ground, groaning as he turns to lie on his back.

Nick - Wh...

Getting on his knees, Nick's eyes fill with dread as he sees his own headstone.

Nick - No... I-I can't be... dead...

Nick gets onto his feet and begins looking around the cemetery. The more he does, the more his heart fills with dread as he finds names he recognises; Daniel Pierce, Lucas Thomas, Andy Kang, Ava Cunningham, Lily Ortiz, and finally, Stacy Green. Falling to his knees, he grabs at her headstone, and it's there that he sees flashes in his mind, their memories. The kiss they shared at Britney's party, their date before homecoming, and the moment she lost her life in the cave.

Nick - No...

Despite knowing the suffering it will cause him, he begins looking at the others. Seeing their memories. The moment of peace he and Dan got after helping him be freed of Mr Red's influence, the mock interview he had with Lucas, the celebration with Andy after the basketball game, the talk he and Ava had on the bleachers, dancing with Lily at the party. He closes his hand into a fist as he looks for one more headstone. After some searching, he finds the one he's looking for. Noah Marshall. His headstone defaced. Nick places his hand on the headstone, and one memory comes to the surface. The knife in Nick by Noah's hand. Returning to the present, Nick stumbles back. His breathing intensifies and in that moment, he only feels rage.

Voice - The Power is becoming unstable.

Nick looks around to see a spirit of someone who, like him, should be dead.

Nick - Cora...

Cora - You've been chosen, Nick. After Pine Springs, too many have fallen victim to it. There is someone looking to control it for himself just as Douglas once did.

Nick - Where is he?

Cora - Still in Pine Springs. Follow the Crow and it will guide you.

The Crow lands on Nick's shoulder and he nods.

Nick - No one else.

In the main town of Westchester, Nick walks with his head down, hoping not to be recognised while also looking for a familiar face. Seeing through the eyes of the Crow, Nick finds a familiar face. His vision returning to his own, he looks for the Crow and walks over. Through the window of the bar, Nick sees Britney sat on her own. The Crow flies down, getting her attention before flying away, and she looks in shock as she locks eyes with Nick. Rushing out, she covers her mouth as she realises her eyes weren't deceiving her.

Britney - How?

Nick - If I knew I'd tell you. But the supernatural exists, and I'm here to keep history repeating itself.

Back at Britney's home, Nick looks at his reflection before looking down and finding a few of Britney's makeup stuff. Not wanting anyone to recognise him, he helps himself to it, painting his face white before using lipstick on his mouth and eyes. Stepping out, Britney raises an eyebrow.

Britney - New look?

She hands him some fresh clothes and he changes.

Britney - Where will you go?

Nick - Pine Springs. I heard things went down there.

Britney - And then what? You put this... Power back to how it should be and then just...

Nick - I don't know.

Arriving in Pine Springs the next evening, Nick notices a familiar car and looks around for any sign of Connor or anyone else, but sees no one. Having grasped being able to see memories, Nick walks over to the car, resting his hand on the wing mirror. He sees memories he shared with Connor and soon finds a more recent memory.

NOT TOO LONG AGO

Connor drives with Jocelyn sat in the passenger seat.

Connor - All my digging says this Sutcliffe is the only member of the Society left. Hopefully if we find a way to stop him, it should keep things from happening.

NOW

Nick - Jocelyn's alive?

The Crow lands on the hood of Connor's car and Nick nods.

Nick - Sutcliffe is who I'm here to stop, isn't it?

The Crow caws in response.

Connor - HEY!

Nick looks round before taking off and Connor stops, unsure of what he just saw.

Connor - No way that was him...

Jocelyn - What's going on?

Jocelyn joins him, noticing the shock on his face.

Jocelyn - Well? You going to answer or stand there looking like an idiot?

Connor - I thought I saw... nevermind. You get everything?

Jocelyn - A few bullets in this asshole should do the trick.

Elsewhere, Nick follows the Crow to the Pine Springs cemetery and over to one headstone in particular.

Nick - No...

Seeing Tom's name brings him to his knees and he takes hold of it, needing to know what happened. It's then that he sees everything that happened. Alina Vance, Josephine, the Society, all of it. He also sees the face of the man who he is back to stop; Richard Sutcliffe. Returning to the there and then, Nick stands, angrier than ever.

Nick - I know what I have to do.

Cora - And what is that?

Cora's spirit appears next to him.

Nick - I'm not going to stop him... I'm going to put him in the ground.

As rain starts to fall, Nick walks the streets of Pine Springs, getting looks from a few people due to his makeup. But he doesn't care, he only has one thing on his mind. However, as he walks by the lake, the Crow lands on the railing, getting his attention. He stops to look at the water and senses something. The Crow takes off circling around an particular area and Nick goes over to the harbour, kneeling down, he places his hand in the water and closes his eyes. After a moment, he removes it and stands.

Nick - I understand...

Down below Richard's former home, h Sutcliffe himself sits at the table where the Society once met. Files sit in front of him of cases that are connected to the Power, primarily Westchester and Pine Springs. Hearing the caw of a Crow, he sits up as it lands on the table. The lights then go out, making Richard shoot to his feet. Looking around for any sign of anything or anyone, Richard pulls a gun and starts firing.

Nick - You're afraid, Richard.

Richard - Why are you here?

Nick - Alina Vance, Daniela Asturias, Parker Shaw, Imogen Wescott, Tom Sato.

Richard - So what? They died.

Nick - Andy Kang, Ava Cunningham, Lucas Thomas, Lily Ortiz, Dan Pierce, and Stacy Green.

Richard - They fell to Redfield, to the Power! That was nothing to-- Wait. There was another in Westchester. Nicholas Taylor.

Nick - You're right, we did. But the Power has chosen you as it's conduit since then. I was sent to put the Power back to how it was. Which means you're the one I'm here for.

Richard whirls round, coming face to face with Nick, squatting on the table to be at his eye level and he fires a bullet into his chest. Nick stumbles back, shouting out in pain and annoyance. But he soon stands up straight again, and Richard looks in horror as the wound heals. The Crow lands on his shoulder as he stalks after a now running Richard. Outside, Richard falls as something hits his leg and he looks over to see two people with guns aimed at him.

Richard - Great, just what I need. More of you.

Connor - You're gonna answer for a lot, Sutcliffe.

Nick - Leave him. He's mine.

Nick emerges from the darkness and both Connor and Jocelyn look in shock. Despite the makeup, they can tell it's him.

Connor - How?

Nick ignores them as the Crow takes off from his shoulder as he grabs Richard by the collar of his jacket and throws him the direction they came from.

Nick - You've got a lot waiting for you, Richard.

Richard fires a few more shots at Nick, all of them going through his chest. They stop him for a few moments, but just as quickly heal.

Richard - Why won't you die already?!

Nick - I don't work like that these days.

Richard reloads and fires a few shots at Nick's leg, making the resurrected man fall, giving Richard an opening. Connor and Jocelyn fire a few shots, and a couple graze him.

Thinking himself safe, Richard breathes a sigh of relief as he travels the waters. He pulls a gun as the Crow lands on the boat in front of him, cawing. It's there that his boat is stopped and the water becomes unsettled. Waves bash against the boat and soon tip it, throwing Richard into the water. He tries to swim up for hair, but something grabs his wounded leg, pulling him down. He looks down and freezes as he sees the degraded face of Alina Vance. It's in that moment, he knows his end is at hand as the Power leaves him. Nick watches as the glow fades and a spirit rises from the waters, coming face to face with Nick.

Nick - Hello, Alina.

Alina - Hi, Nick.

She looks down at the holes in his top.

Alina - How?

Almost on queue, the Crow lands on Nick's shoulder.

Nick - I have my ways.

Alina - Thank you for letting me deal with him.

Nick - I understood why. What'll happen to you now?

Alina - The Power seemed to keep me around. But now I already feel it leaving me. I can finally move on.

Nick - Rest well, Alina.

Her spirit fades away, moving on. The Crow caws before taking off and Nick falls to his knees. Connor rushes over, helping him up.

Connor - You okay?

Nick - I think it's my turn. I haven't got much longer left.

Connor - What do you need, pal?

Nick - Get me to Westchester.

Connor - Alright...

Jocelyn puts Nick's other arm around her shoulders.

Nick - Glad to know you're alive, Joss.

Jocelyn - Don't call me that.

It's a quiet drive back as Nick tries to keep conscious and sees the Crow flying by them. Once back, Nick gets out and Connor hugs him before he leaves for his final rest.

Jocelyn - What about the Power. Sutcliffe was the conduit.

Cora - It's at rest as it should be.

They both turn to see Cora's spirit stood before them.

Jocelyn - You're...

Connor - Cora Pritchard. But I still don't get it, why did he come back?

Cora - There are many forces to the world, and they saw what was happening with the Power. And so a Crow was sent to put things right. It chose him.

With Richard dead and the Power seeming to be in slumber, Nick falls and rests against Stacy's headstone, placing his hand on it before closing his eyes as death takes him once more.

When he opens his eyes again, he sees that he is somewhere else with the sun shining on the foot of the bed. Sitting up, he gets out of the bed and heads out to the decking where he finds Stacy on a deck chair enjoying the sun.

Stacy - How'd you sleep?

Nick - I don't understand... Is this real?

She stands and takes his hands in hers.

Stacy - This is our afterlife. The others are around. In a way, it's a second chance at life.

She brings him in for a hug, running her fingers through his hair.

Nick - I love you.

Stacy - I love you too.

Arriving at the cemetery, Connor, Jocelyn, and Britney find Nick's grave back to normal as the Crow lands on it, cawing.

[twoheartswrites]

Hi! I was wondering if you could write the dbh boys helping their boyfriend get ready and celebrating Rosh HaShanah (Jewish new year)? If you’re uncomfortable or don’t want to that’s totally fine!!

Hank Anderson Celebrating Rosh HaShanah with You HCs

Fem aligned people (+ She/Her users) DNI / Minors DNI

(FTM Friendly) Male Reader x Hank Anderson

Detroit Become Human/Short Hcs

Note: I apologize for making this one character and not what the request asked for specifically, but I couldn't really find a way to write this for all the characters.

Also I'm not jewish, though I ended up talking to a friend for a moment about this and how they've celebrated it with their non-jewish partner and some googled research, but if I got any concepts wrong here, messages/PMs are welcome, I wanna be clear on this :)

Additional Note before post: Is anyone else's tumblr editing fucked up rn? Like the bulletpoints just aren't seperating rn..

You and Hank are certainly in an interfaith relationship as he's not someone who's not much of a religious person, but he is respectful in all aspects, and asks questions for his own interest

He had some vague ideas of what each Jewish holiday celebrates, but once you guys started dating, he was learning more and understanding what they truly meant.

He's happy to learn translations of prayers and verses since there's times he won't understand certain aspects

He'll also appreciate learning phrases on how to greet people in that holiday

and as you're getting ready and talking more about Rosh HaShanah coming up, he's offering to help you out and find way where you both can celebrate it.

Once Rosh HaShanah begins, you guys are both clear on how the 2 days will go.

There's a synagogue not too far for you to attend their services. If you offer him to go with you, he's happy to join, but he hopes that you lead him the entire way through as this is something new for him.

He'll use his new knowledge whenever people greet him, though he looks a little silly doing it

Whenever you're praying or reading the Torah at home, he'll make sure that the surroundings are quiet, since he knows you like a quiet room best when you're trying to focus (Though this is just an everyday life thing)

He offers to cook with you so that in the future, he can start doing the cooking himself someday while you clean the house (and to make sure he doesn't burn anything either)

He write down the directions and recipes in a book while learning

He wears reading glasses, end of story

Thankfully, because of the prep, you already have the food necessary for the cooking.

You both try out foods that you were raised with on this holiday, and some new ones you've found off the internet

The Detroit river is a fit place for when you do the "casting off" ceremony, so you take some rice from the kitchen and place it in your pocket in preparation

He'll walk/drive you there, wanting to accompany you and make sure that you don't feel lonely or get into trouble with onlookers.

While you guys sit down by the water, he'll listen to you while you talk about the things you're looking back at, the things you struggled with that year

Though he understands if you choose not to speak openly in that moment either.

It's your moment while you reflect to yourself, but you know that Hank's with you in the process. You aren't going to grow as a person alone, you have your partner to help with you as well.

[fluffmonger]

So.... Here's the thing. While I agree with the spirit of this post it's factually, just wrong, on multiple levels, and this isn't something that's hard to check either.

The original Baldur's Gate released in 1998, long after the height of the Satanic Panic, and before the Columbine Massacre, which shot off a new wave of Video Games are Evil moral panics. Mortal Kombat had released 6 years before, and Doom 5 years before. Demons, devils and dark themes in games weren't new or as shocking by then.

Adding to this, the game wasn't expected to sell well at all. BioWare was a tiny studio at that point, they'd only opened in 1995, which is when development began on Baldur's Gate. The team basically was learning how to develop and release games from scratch, while building an insanely complicated engine that could account for the sheer level of player choice inherently to DND. This was something that was *not* common in 1998, most games had one strict path through, or a handful of paths to choose from. Because of this, they deliberately chose to use more vanilla backgrounds and art to ease the process.

Additionally, 2e was a *very* different beast to 5e. Every option in BG is something that's permitted RAW in 2e, which was a very straightforward heroic fantasy focused story engine. Concepts of what was a hero were very clear cut, morally unambiguous. At the time, tieflings had only existed for ~4 years (and only one before development started). Other stuff just... Wasn't in the public consciousness. There wasn't any romance at all in the original, bc why would you play a fantasy hero game to simulate dating? Why would you go out of your way to diversify the world in text and such when it doesn't matter to the story, and the graphics are still rudimentary enough to allow imagination?

Which.... Of course that points to a lot of societal blind spots of the era and all of that. But at the end of the day, they also weren't expecting it to make any impact. So, there was nothing to stop them from making the game as wild as their imaginations allowed, and heck, they even got player feedback during the course of the relatively short development, which really endeared them to their player base. When it launched, it was *huge* overnight. If it hadn't been such a big hit, we'd never have gotten bg3. Part of the reason for the initial success *was* the DND license.

A year later, a different studio using the same engine released Planescape Torment, a crpg that has options for companions that include a tiefling, a succubus, a pyromaniac, a githerazi, an animated skull, a living suit of armor, and a little modron robot. Which is far far from the conservative naysaying and gloom...

Meanwhile, in the 25 years since that initial release, DND has had two edition updates that completely changed how the physical game is played, with more options and races and styles of play being included from the base game. Video games too, have been developing and changing, and culturally, socially a *lot* of shit has happened globally, so that the idea of a straightforward heroes good story seems... Trite at best. Video games have more and more expanded stories regularly, more choices, more options. Consoles have more power. The things that made the original Baldur's Gate so stunning back in the day, just aren't all that impressive on their own today. So, instead, the studio took the development time, and really dug in, and looked at how to make the game shine *story wise* instead of mechanically. Heck, even in Baldur's Gate 2, released 2 years after the first, the story gets more rich and complex, bc the studio wasn't also building an engine.

Times have changed. The culture is changing, people are changing, and getting better, more open and accepting all the time. DND lives, and thrives, and is being played in incredible new ways that reflect the new world, and will just keep getting better despite the.... Issues. Of the past that still haunt it.

But at the end of the day? Baldur's Gate 3 isn't some radical new take on how people play DND that's more true than Baldur's Gate 1... It's just an example of how the culture surrounding ttrpgs, and the way we engage them has changed in the last 25 years.

Jack Chick and the others wanted us to die... But Baldur's Gate as a franchise has always proved that we're here to stay, that progress and change can't be fought forever. People have always stood up for what's right, have always told interesting stories, and always fought against oppression and tyranny. Our present isn't magically just better than the past, all things have context

You know what, considering that DnD was bashed and rallied against for supposed promotion of demonology, homosexuality, violence, sex, witchcraft, etc. and this led to Baldur’s Gate 1 being pretty tame as far as story and characters go. I think it’s very fitting and poetic that Baldur’s Gate 3 is literally everything that the religious right in America fearmongered about in the 80s and 90s, and it’s absolutely great and compelling. If you showed an evangelical Christian from the 80s any character from Baldur’s Gate 3, they would combust into flames. To me, that’s why the game goes so hard in the thematic and stylistic directions it did because historically, all of these things got DnD bashed and censored. But now, nobody cares and people love it. Oh do times change.

Baldur’s Gate 3 is an victory lap for the DnD franchise because the culture war has moved so far past it that nobody has to walk on eggshells anymore to appease those types.

Jack Chick would implode at the mere existence of this game if he was alive today. And to me, that’s the beauty of Baldur’s Gate 3, it’s DnD saying “yeah we are everything you fearmongered about about and we gon sell a million plus copies while doing it” because in the end, DnD won the culture war against the people who wanted them gone.

[crypt1dcorv1dae]

Edit cus I forgot to put a read more so nobody has to scroll down my MILE of vent post, sorry

I've come to realize that the reason my mom completely failed to socialize me properly as a child or encourage me to make friends was because she genuinely never really wanted or needed friends and didn't understand that I, her child, might have. She genuinely didn't realize how lonely I was growing up, how lonely I still am, with how hard it is to make friends especially now as an adult, especially with my selective mutism (which is a term I fucking hate btw) and the fact that my natural, neutral, resting vocal tone makes me sound like a raging douche canoe because I sound condescending even though i literally never actually am!!!! I also have a bit of a RBF and all this makes it very difficult to meet new people!!!

Most people don't look any deeper than the surface and what they assume about me, and by most people I mean everyone literally all the time. I haven't made a friend irl since I was like 15 and I haven't kept a single one I made before that because nobody ever wants to stick around the guy that sounds like a raging douche canoe even when he's having a perfectly pleasant time.

Like yeah I CAN make myself sound more pleasant, more palatable, but it's a constant, conscious effort to do so and honestly makes my throat fucking hurt after a while, and honestly I'm just fucking sick of having to change a basic fundamental aspect of myself just to not be wrongfully perceived to be an asshole. I'm not being an asshole!!! This is just the way my voice sounds!!!!!!!!!!

Like... All I want is someone who understands that, yeah, the tone of my voice may sound a certain way, but that's not how I actually feel or think and it's in no way indicative of who I am as a person, it's just .. the way air vibrates in my throat to make noise. And look a little deeper and see me for who I am without me having to change myself.

And the only people I hang out with are my family, or my family's significant others, I don't have a single person IRL in my life who's actually.... Here for me. Like. Yeah sure I'm kinda friends with my brothers gf but I'm not the reason she's here. She's not here for me. And my family doesn't fucking count!!! I know I'm closer with them than most people, and I love that, but like... They aren't really mt *friends* at all. I can't really be open or honest or MYSELF with them because at the end of the day they're my family, not friends, and theres boundaries and barriers I don't want to cross there

I just want friends!!! I want people who hang out with me because they like *me*, not because they're dating my sibling, I want people who think I'm funny, who care about me as a whole person, who actively seek me out too, who don't mind that I sound dry and sarcastic and even sometimes harsh sometimes, because nobody can control the tone of their voice ALL THE TIME, that's literally not possible, and they know that its not reflective of how I actually feel and is just how my voice naturally sounds. I want people who care enough to tell me when I've done something wrong, instead of just silently resenting me for not reading their mind and fixing the problem I didn't know existed. I want people who care enough to talk to me even when it's hard, because they know I care too and never want to hurt them. I just want my people. Even just one person who I could call *my* friend would be enough tbh.

Sometimes I wonder if it would be better if I never started talking again at all, and just stayed totally nonverbal, if my life would be easier without my stupid voice getting in the way, but I know it wouldn't be.

Well, maybe I would have been given more accommodations growing up, cus most people didn't even realize I was nonverbal because I talked when I was with my mom and... I was always with my mom. So yeah I would have been treated like shit still, especially by people who assumed I couldn't hear them (I still got plenty of that) and people who thought not talking meant I was developmentally disabled, and talked down to me like I was some kind of idiot (which, yeah, developmentally disabled people don't fucking deserve that either) but maybe at least someone would have told my family about some of the accessibility tools and resources for deaf/HOH/NV/mute people instead of just assuming I would eventually grow out of it and be "normal"

Man being like... Half-verbal fucking sucks. Cus I still need all this help but I feel like a fucking leech for having to ask for it, because yeah physically I should absolutely be able to call my own doctors office but I CANT and I DONT KNOW WHY and I really wish I could cus I would take the 5 minutes of anxiety having a phone call over the lifetime of guilt and shame of not being able to any day!!!!! If I could do it I fucking would!!!! It would make my life so much easier!!!!! But my stupid fucking brain decided Nuh uh that's not allowed!!! Can't talk unless these people are present, can't talk over the phone at all, can't talk over video call, can't say certain words (I still say "doggy" instead of dog, among other things) and I don't even understand WHY. Sure I had some traumatic brain issues cause of some seizures but where the fuck did ALL THIS WEIRD SPECIFIC SHIT come into play???? Why????? What the fuck made it so I'm unable to say my own siblings' actual names and I had to give them all stupid nicknames instead????? What made me unable to say "mom" or "dad" instead of the more diminutive alternatives??????? Why can't I just DO IT????? WHAT IS STOPPING ME??????? CUS I CANT!!!! I CANT!!!!!!!!

And the most frustrating thing??????????

I'm fucking completely fine if I'm alone. But only if I'm alone. And even then doing things. That "breaks the rules" still gives me anxiety but the wall becomes climbable. It's not impossible. But around literally ANYONE??? Right back to square one.

But anyway. Back to my original point. The reason I grew up lonely and sad and friendless was because my parents never actually tried to encourage me to make friends, or at least not to KEEP friends. I MADE friends, briefly, occasionally, I would meet other kids at the playground and sometimes hit it off, I even went to one girl's birthday party!!! But... Nobody ever tried to keep in contact, make any more playdates or anything, I have no clue where that girl is today, I hope she's doing okay, and I wish with all my heart we could have stayed friends at least a little while longer, she seemed really cool!!! I wish I remembered her name atm but unfortunately my brain hurts cus I cried earlier cus I'm lonely and sad and nobody wants to be friends with me. Maybe someday I'll make a post to see if she's out there somewhere lol

Anyway.... I'm gonna maybe find a snack, some aspirin, and go to bed

[illicitlimerence-writes]

my favorite place | d. ricciardo

pairing: daniel ricciardo x journalist!reader word count: 1.8k words. request: yes/no by an anon: "hi, can you do prompt 12 with daniel where reader is a journalism writer and she was so tired that she came home to the living room full of snacks, mcdonalds and disney+" i decided to use another prompt for this, i hope u don't mind! it's still the same plot, though prompt: low on money/homemade date from this prompt list. warnings: language. a/n: you get this one a bit early bc i'm a dumbass and posted it instead of scheduling it. idk if you've noticed from my previous fics but lately i've been loving the nickname 'lovie' and i intend to keep on using it lmao. PLEASE DON'T SEND REQUESTS FROM THE VALENTINE'S PROMPT LIST. i'll tag all the fics as illicitvalentine's so it's easier to keep track of them.

my masterlist / valentine's day masterlist

(plsss i'm so whipped for this man)

"(y/n), paul is out sick, can you cover for him?" your supervisor asks you.

"uhh, what do you need?" you stop typing on your computer, lifting your head to look at him.

"can you finish his article? the one about the politician's scandal?"

"politician? liam, i write about movies, this is way out of my league," you explain, opening the doc your coworker was working on. "this is going to take me hours to finish."

"sorry, kid, i don't have anyone else. tell you what, you focus on this one and i'll let someone else handle your assignments,”

“no! no, i don’t want someone else to finish mine, i’ll get everything done today,” you turn your back to him, spinning in your chair so you are facing your computer.

“that’s why you’re the best, thanks,” he says, leaving you alone to stress over the amount of work you had to do.

first thing, though, is texting your boyfriend to cancel your plans.

‘have to work late today. someone got sick and liam’s making me cover for him. i’m sorry, raincheck?’

since it was valentine's day, you and daniel had decided to stay home and cook dinner together to celebrate. but since you didn't know what time you'd be home, it was better to move it for another day.

you place your phone on the desk, sighing and rubbing the sides of your temples with your fingers. you take a deep breath, saving all your documents and opened tabs. you went to paul’s profile and opened his latest assignment, reading through his notes and the intro of his article, something about a politician denying human rights and people starting a riot in one of his rallies.

you feel sick to your stomach, this was exactly why you didn’t like writing this sort of topic, it was incredibly difficult to remain neutral when all you wanted to do was point out everything they did wrong.

you prefer to share with the world your love of films, of new opportunities and dreams that came true. of course, there was controversy as well, but you were allowed to give your opinion on those. not here, though.

your phone buzzes, and you look down, unlocking it and reading the text daniel wrote.

‘that sucks, darling:( don’t worry, let me know when you’re done and on your way home, x’

‘i will. love you.’

‘love you, so so much more, baby. don’t stress and overwork yourself too much, i need you.’

‘stop, i’m crying. ily.’

you don’t realize you’re smiling until you see your reflection on the black screen of your phone once you lock it. even just texting with dan helps you to clear your mind for a bit before diving back into a world you’re not too excited to know.

you type and type, getting lost in the sick and gruesome reality of the world you live in. you try your hardest to hurry up and finish it, but once you let yourself take a break and eat something, it’s already 4pm and everyone’s sending in their articles and research for approval. you sigh, munch on your food as you read over everything you had so far. it was pretty much done, you just needed to edit it and send it over to your supervisor. after that, you could finally finish your own projects.

it was a hard shift, from human rights to reviewing a film. but you were extremely happy once you finally had the thumbs up that the article was finished and you could go back to your own little bubble of movies and stories.

“hey, (y/n), some of us are heading to the bar down the street, you coming?” a sports journalist, brenda, asks you, smiling.

“thank you, but i’m not finished yet,” you hadn’t even realized that it was 6pm already, everyone was heading home now.

“what do you mean? you’ve been working nonstop all day, the sound of your keyboard is all everyone heard the whole day,” you smile, you loved the typewriter-style keyboard that daniel had gifted you when you started working for this magazine.

“i had to cover for paul,” you explain, “it was a hard piece for me, so it took most of my day. liam offered to hand my assignments to someone else but,” you shake your head.

“no one knows movies quite like you do,” she nods, agreeing with you. “well, good luck. i’ll see you tomorrow, happy valentine’s,” she smiles, waving her hand.

“happy valentine’s,” you whisper, sighing, you turn on your phone screen just so you could see your valentine.

a picture of daniel at the italian gp, covered from head to toe in champagne. he had this huge grin on his face, bright and euphoric as he held his trophy up in his hand.

just a few more hours and you’ll be in his arms, you comfort yourself with that thought to keep you going. you stretch, hearing your back cracking and get back to work, opening your previous tabs and documents, getting back into the groove quickly.

the time ticks by as you fill your doc with words that flow easily out of your mind once you're in your zone. throughout the course of the day you’d been working on this particular piece in the back of your mind, whenever you’d give yourself a little break, your head would travel to this article and build sentences on its own, so it was no surprise once you finally finished it.

you were proud, but you couldn’t give yourself too much time to celebrate because you still had one more to finish.

a little over an hour later, you finally finish. you send them to your higher-ups for approval and turn everything off once it is saved. you make your way to the underground parking lot, typing a message to daniel as you descend in the elevator.

‘just finished. on my way home. love you’

‘drive safely, love you xxxxx’

you smile, turning on your car and leaving the empty parking lot. there’s a headache forming in the back of your head, no doubt from staring at the screen for so many hours, and not getting enough food. your stomach protests at the thought, and you nearly get in line for the drive-through at your favorite fast food place, but your eyes are starting to feel heavy. you decide to be a responsible adult and go home instead.

sleep really starts to take over you as you park your car and grab your bag. you lean against the wall of the elevator as you go up to your floor, closing your eyes until you hear the bell and the doors opening. you step out, fishing your keys out of your bag and opening your front door.

the unmistakable smell of greasy food fills your nose, there’s light music playing from a speaker, the lights are dimmed and your favorite candle is lit, next to the tv. there’s a paused movie playing, showing the old disney logo. right in front, on the coffee table, bags of food from your favorite restaurants. from michelin-award-winning restaurants, to the classic mcdonald’s. as well as different candies, chips, all your favorites.

“dan?” you say, a lump that had been forming on your back throughout the day was disappearing as you dropped your things on the floor.

“darling!” he greets you, his head popping out of your shared bedroom. “how was your day?” he steps out, opening his arms and you immediately take the opportunity to slide your arms around his waist and pull him incredibly close to you.

“like shit. i just wanted to drop everything and come home,” you hide your face in his chest, relishing in the warmth of his arms around your shoulders, the weight of his chin on top of your head is comforting and familiar.

“i’m sorry,” he sighs, “i know this isn’t much but i thought this would make you feel better,” he says, referring to the things on your table.

“daniel, are you kidding? i love it, honestly.” you lift your head from his chest, standing on your tiptoes, and he leans down a bit, connecting your lips. “i love you, thank you. i was feeling horrible all day, but just seeing you makes everything better.”

“come here,” he untangled himself from you, holding your hand and leading you to the comfy sofa. he sat you down, throwing a blanket over your legs as you giggled. “first course, pick,” he smiled, you scanned the bags.

“mcdonald’s,” you pick, making grabby hands at him. he laughs and plops down next to you, “god, there really is nothing like the smell of fast food,”

“yeah, baby,” daniel throws an arm over your shoulder, and you lean your head against his shoulder, biting on a soft fry as he presses play.

“what movie are we watching?” you ask, pressing a kiss to daniel’s cheek.

“can you guess?” he turns to you, raising an eyebrow.

“oh, no,” you laughed, “not the rescuers-”

“the rescuers down under, baby!” he hollers, cupping a hand next to his mouth so even the neighbors can hear him.

“stop, we’ll get another noise complaint,” you threw a hand over his mouth, but he quickly grabbed it and started leaving soft kisses on your skin. “dan,”

“i come from a land down under!” he tries to sing, loudly, “where beer does flow and men chunder-”

“daniel!” you squealed, trying to shut him up between giggles.

“can’t you hear the thunder?” it’s even worse when he tries to hit the high notes. “you better run, you better take cover!” he smiles and you grab his face, thumbs dipping on his dimples, and bring his lips to yours. “hmm, you can shut me up like this all day,” he smiles, knowing his plan worked.

“idiot. i love you,” your heart is pounding in your chest.

“even when i sing these melodic tunes?” he asks, singing the last two words.

“especially then,” you nod, letting him help you up until you’re straddling his lap.

“happy valentine’s, my lovie,” he whispers, pressing soft kisses on your neck, cheeks.

“happy valentine’s, sunshine,” you say, a nickname you usually saved for special occasions. his eyes light up, you saw his smile widening, his eyes nearly disappearing behind the apples of his cheeks.

an hour later, you’re watching another film, now taking spoonfuls of the cookies and cream ice cream daniel bought as well. you’re watching a movie about a girl who has the ability to travel wherever she wants to.

“if you could be anywhere in the world, right now, where would you be?” you ask daniel, resting your chin on his chest, looking up at him.

“hmm… i don’t know,”

“come on, a place, any place, your favorite place,” you tease, poking his cheek with your finger.

“i don’t know, i guess… wherever you are. i don’t care where i am as long as i’m with you. you’re my favorite place.”

“whoa, you know, i was trying to be funny, you didn’t have to destroy me like that,” you giggle, hiding your face in his neck. “you’re my favorite place, too. you’re my home.”

[duckprintspress]

Giving Quality, Motivating Feedback

A guest post by @shealynn88!

The new writer in your writing group just sent out their latest story and it’s...not exciting. You know it needs work, but you’re not sure why, or where they should focus.

This is the blog post for you!

Before we get started, it’s important to note that this post isn’t aimed at people doing paid editing work. In the professional world, there are developmental editors, line editors, and copy editors, who all have a different focus. That is not what we’re covering here. Today, we want to help you informally give quality, detailed, encouraging feedback to your fellow writers.

The Unwritten Rules

Everyone seems to have a different understanding of what it means to beta, edit, or give feedback on a piece, so it’s best to be on the same page with your writer before you get started.

Think about what type of work you’re willing and able to do, how much time you have, and how much emotional labor you’re willing to take on. Then talk to your writer about their expectations.

Responsibilities as an editor/beta may include:

Know what the author’s expectation is and don’t overstep. Different people in different stages of writing are looking for, and will need, different types of support. It’s important to know what pieces of the story they want feedback on. If they tell you they don’t want feedback on dialogue, don’t give them feedback on dialogue. Since many terms are ambiguous or misunderstood, it may help you to use the list of story components in the next section to come to an agreement with your writer on what you’ll review.

Don’t offer expertise you don’t have. If your friend needs advice on their horse book and you know nothing about horses, be clear that your read through will not include any horse fact checking. Don’t offer grammar advice if you’re not good at grammar. It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t give feedback on things you do notice, but don’t misrepresent yourself, and understand your own limits.

Give positive and constructive feedback. It is important for a writer to know when something is working well. Don’t skimp on specific positive feedback — this is how you keep writers motivated. On the other hand, giving constructive feedback indicates where there are issues. Be specific on what you’re seeing and why it’s an issue. It can be hard for someone to improve if they don’t understand what’s wrong.

Be clear about your timing and availability, and provide updates if either changes. Typically, you’ll be doing this for free, as you’re able to fit it in your schedule. But it can be nerve wracking to hand your writing over for feedback and then hear nothing. For everyone’s sanity, keep the writer up to date on your expected timeline and let them know if you’re delayed for some reason. If you cannot complete the project for them, let them know. This could be for any reason — needing to withdraw, whatever the cause, is valid! It could be because working with the writer is tough, you don’t enjoy the story, life got tough, you got tired, etc. All of that is fine; just let them know that you won’t be able to continue working on the project.

Be honest if there are story aspects you can’t be objective about. Nearly all of your feedback is going to be personal opinion. There are some story elements that will evoke strong personal feelings. They can be tropes, styles, specific characterizations, or squicks. In these cases, ask the writer to get another opinion on that particular aspect, or, if you really want to continue, find similar published content to review and see if you can get a better sense of how other writers have handled it.

Don’t get personal. Your feedback should talk about the characters, the narrator, the plotline, the sentence structure, or other aspects of the story. Avoid making ‘you’ statements or judgements, suggested or explicit, in your feedback. Unless you’re looking at grammar or spelling, most of the feedback you’ll have will be your opinion. Don’t present it as fact.

Your expectations of the writer/friend/group member you are working with may include:

Being gracious in accepting feedback. A writer may provide explanations for an issue you noticed or seek to discuss your suggestions. However, if they constantly argue with you, that may be an indicator to step back.

Being responsible for emotional reactions to getting feedback. While getting feedback can be hard on the ego and self esteem, that is something the writer needs to work on themselves. While you can provide reassurance and do emotional labor if you’re comfortable, it is also very reasonable to step back if the writer isn’t ready to do that work.

Making the final choice regarding changes to the work. The writer should have a degree of confidence in accepting or rejecting your feedback based on their own sense of the story. While they may consult you on this, the onus is on them to make changes that preserve the core of the story they want to tell.

Some people aren’t ready for feedback, even though they’re seeking it. You’re not signing up to be a psychologist, a best friend, or an emotional support editor. You can let people know in advance that these are your expectations, or you can just keep them in mind for your own mental health. As stated above, you can always step back from a project, and if writers aren’t able to follow these few guidelines, it might be a good time to do that. (It’s also worth making sure that, as a writer, you’re able to give these things to your beta/editor.)

Specificity is Key

One of the hardest things in editing is pinning down the ‘whys’ of unexciting work, so let’s split the writing into several components and talk about evaluations you can make for each one.

You can also give this list to your writer ahead of time as a checklist, to see which things they want your feedback on.

Generally, your goal is going to be to help people improve incrementally. Each story they write should be better than the previous one, so you don’t need to go through every component for every story you edit. Generally, I wouldn’t suggest more than 3 editing rounds on any single story that isn’t intended for publication. Think of the ‘many pots’ theory — people who are honing their craft will improve more quickly by writing a lot of stories instead of incessantly polishing one.

With this in mind, try addressing issues in the order below, from general to precise. It doesn’t make sense to critique grammar and sentence structure if the plot isn’t solid, and it can be very hard on a writer to get feedback on all these components at once. If a piece is an early or rough draft, try evaluating no more than four components at a time, and give specific feedback on what does and doesn’t work, and why.

High Level Components

Character arc/motivation:

Does each character have a unique voice, or do they all sound the same?

In dialogue, are character voices preserved? Do they make vocabulary and sentence-structure choices that fit with how they’re being portrayed?

Does each character have specific motivations and focuses that are theirs alone?

Does each character move through the plot naturally, or do they seem to be shoehorned/railroaded into situations or decisions for the sake of the plot? Be specific about which character actions work and which don’t. Tell the writer what you see as their motivation/arc and why—and point out specific lines that indicate that motivation to you.

Does each character's motivation seem to come naturally from your knowledge of them?

Are you invested (either positively or negatively) in the characters? If not, why not? Is it that they have nothing in common with you? Do you not understand where they’re coming from? Are they too perfect or too unsympathetic?

Theme:

It’s a good idea to summarize the story and its moral from your point of view and provide that insight to the writer. This can help them understand if the points they were trying to make come through. The theme should tie in closely with the character arcs. If not, provide detailed feedback on where it does and doesn’t tie in.

Plot Structure:

For most issues with plot structure, you can narrow them down to pacing, characterization, logical progression, or unsatisfying resolution. Be specific about the issues you see and, when things are working well, point that out, too.

Is there conflict that interests you? Does it feel real?

Is there a climax? Do you feel drawn into it?

Do the plot points feel like logical steps within the story?

Is the resolution tied to the characters and their growth? Typically this will feel more real and relevant and satisfying than something you could never have seen coming.

Is the end satisfying? If not, is it because you felt the end sooner and the story kept going? Is it because too many threads were left unresolved? Is it just a matter of that last sentence or two being lackluster?

Point Of View:

Is the point of view clear and consistent?

Is the writing style and structure consistent with that point of view? For example, if a writer is working in first person or close third person, the style of the writing should reflect the way the character thinks. This extends to grammar, sentence structure, general vocabulary and profanity outside of the dialogue.

If there is head hopping (where the point of view changes from chapter to chapter or section to section), is it clear in the first few sentences whose point of view you’re now in? Chapter headers can be helpful, but it should be clear using structural, emotional, and stylistic changes that you’re with a new character now.

Are all five senses engaged? Does the character in question interact with their environment in realistic, consistent ways that reflect how people actually interact with the world?

Sometimes the point of view can feel odd if it’s too consistent. Humans don’t typically think logically and linearly all the time, so being in someone’s head may sometimes be contradictory or illogical. If it’s too straightforward, it might not ‘feel’ real.

Be specific about the areas that don’t work and break them down based on the questions above.

Pacing:

Does the story jump around, leaving you confused about what took place when?

Do some scenes move quickly where others drag, and does that make sense within the story?

If pacing isn’t working, often it’s about the level of detail or the sentence structure. Provide detailed feedback about what you care about in a given scene to help a writer focus in.

Setting:

Is the setting clear and specific? Writing with specific place details is typically more rooted, interesting, and unique. If you find the setting vague and/or uninteresting and/or irrelevant, you might suggest replacing vague references — ‘favorite band’, ‘coffee shop on the corner’, ‘the office building’ — with specific names to ground the setting and make it feel more real.

It might also be a lack of specific detail in a scene that provides context beyond the characters themselves. Provide specific suggestions of what you feel like you’re missing. Is it in a specific scene, or throughout the story? Are there scenes that work well within the story, where others feel less grounded? Why?

Low Level Components

Flow/Sentence Structure:

Sentence length and paragraph length should vary. The flow should feel natural.

When finding yourself ‘sticking’ on certain sentences, provide specific feedback on why they aren’t working. Examples are rhythm, vocabulary, subject matter (maybe something is off topic), ‘action’ vs ‘explanation’, passive vs. active voice.

Style/Vocabulary:

Writing style should be consistent with the story — flowery prose works well for mythic or historical pieces and stories that use that type of language are typically slower moving. Quick action and short sentences are a better fit for murder mysteries, suspense, or modern, lighter fiction.

Style should be consistent within the story — it may vary slightly to show how quickly action is happening, but you shouldn’t feel like you’re reading two different stories.

SPAG (Spelling and Grammar):

Consider spelling and grammar in the context of the point of view, style and location of the story (eg, England vs. America vs. Australia).

If a point of view typically uses incorrect grammar, a SPAG check will include making sure that it doesn’t suddenly fall into perfect grammar for a while. In this case, consistency is going to be important to the story feeling authentic.

Word Count Requirements:

If the story has been written for a project, bang, anthology, zine, or other format that involves a required word count minimum or maximum, and the story is significantly over or under the aimed-for word count (30% or more/less), it may not make sense to go through larger edits until the sizing is closer to requirements. But, as a general rule, I’d say word count is one of the last things to worry about.

*

The best thing we can do for another writer is to keep them writing. Every single person will improve if they keep going. Encouragement is the most important feedback of all.

I hope this has helped you think about how you provide feedback. Let us know if you have other tips or tricks! This works best as a collaborative process where we all can support one another!

[hoe-doroki]

steel and lace

minors do not interact

warnings: 18+, anal play, sex toys, voyeuristic fantasy, scratching, creampie

pairing: bakugou x fem!reader

wc: 3.8k

summary: The only one who manages to get Bakugou’s birthday right is you.

a/n: This is my addition to the Bakugou Birthday Bash collab (masterlist). Many thanks to @lady-bakuhoe​ for helping me flesh out the ideas with this story!! You were integral to this idea, love! And additional thanks to @whats-her-quirk​ and @therealvalkyrie​ for beta reading <333

edit: I no longer write x reader but here’s my old masterlist - mobile | desktop

Bakugou never took work off on his birthday.

Never. Why would he? Villains didn’t give a shit that this was the day the old hag had unceremoniously had him evacuated into a hospital room however many years ago. They didn’t give a shit that his friends—who were also heroes who should be fucking working, by the way—wanna come over to his house and surprise him. As though his reconnaissance-trained ears weren’t as fucking fine tuned at hearing idiots on the other side of the door as theirs.

What villains should care about was that he was a year older, wiser, and fucking stronger, and he was going to kick all their asses. That was what he told all his idiot friends every year when they asked him if he was going to take off work.

Every year he regretted it.

The idiots he works with really must not care about hero work, because every year they want to send him out on a field post sugar crash from some store-bought cake with his name on it. Or buy him gifts that he’ll probably toss in the trash on the way home. He’s not being rude; he just doesn’t need junk that he never would have bought himself in the first place.

Everyone is always grinning at him, wishing him a happy birthday—as though he’s any goddamn happier to see their ugly mugs flapping their lips at him—and trying to start stupid-ass conversations. If he doesn’t like small talk normally, why would he want it on his birthday?

And the singing.

If people really wanted to wish him a happy birthday, they’d find a way to do it silently while doing some respectable fucking hero work. Make his day easier.

But no, none of that was what happened. So he should have just stayed home. Let the villains have a fucking field day on April 20th, and he could have his real gift killing them all tomorrow on the 21st.

But, unfortunately, he was a dumbass and had gone to work anyway, like he’d learned nothing from the last many years of antics. And the continued antics had got him a little pissy. And when he was pissed off, his heart rate increased, his breathing grew heavier, and, of course, he sweat.

Well. Guess what happened?

“Bakugou, I am currently paying to treat burns and fractures on three villains. Care to explain?”

Best Jeanist was sitting in his office chair, blinding sunlight streaming in behind him. Late afternoon sun—darker in color but way more resentful towards human eyes, apparently. It was reflecting off of all of the neighboring glass corporate buildings, making Bakugou squint behind his mask.

Bakugou shrugged, petulant as he stood behind his chair instead of sitting in it. “Overkill.”

Best Jeanist nodded. “Did you…lose control?”

“Tch,” Bakugou scoffed. As if he ever lost control. “Villains were weaker than I thought.”

Bakugou felt the stare of that one fucking eye and stood firm. He knew he was looking at a suspension, hopefully just for a day or two. It wasn’t like he’d done anything terrible. Villains got hurt sometimes, just like pros did, and they got their care and then they got their justice. It’s not like Bakugou was violent on purpose. Anymore. And Jeanist sure as hell knew that, so it wouldn’t take Bakugou off the field for more than a slap on the wrist. He probably wouldn’t even be technically suspended. Just chained by the fucking dick to his desk with some paperwork.

“Just…” Bakugou braced for it, narrowing his eyes but keeping his snarl to a minimum. “Just be more careful next time. Shower and go home—see you tomorrow.”

Bakugou’s jaw dropped. He closed it quickly, trying not to look like Dunce Face in front of his boss, but in all that was real and true what? He was just about to say something—he didn’t know what, probably something insubordinate—when Best Jeanist took out his own paperwork and waved him away.

“Happy birthday, Bakugou.”

Oh. So that was it.

Bakugou grit his teeth. Happy fucking birthday indeed.

It was nothing. His brain told him over and over again that it was fucking nothing. He hadn’t been punished, he hadn’t even really done anything wrong; he just hadn’t been squeaky clean up to fucking code. He could still show up for work tomorrow, business as usual. He should be tickled fucking pink.

But he wasn’t. Special treatment for being the birthday boy? What was he? Five years old and given a pass after stealing the chicken nuggets off Deku’s plate? Jesus Christ.

And if he was honest, he was mostly pissed at himself. Sure, he could blame how the weather always seemed to sprint from spring to summer around his birthday every year, strengthening his quirk. He could blame the villains for being weak enough that they had no business even stepping foot in his neighborhood. But losing control of his quirk even a little—and it had been a little—was fucking amateur and he’d have to pencil in some extra time at the gym. Maybe snatch Shitty Hair for some sparring, and, unfortunately, probably nab an extra therapy session and talk about this anger thing again.

At least walking instead of sitting on that stifling, crowded train car was doing him some good. Let him cool off a bit before he got home and you saw that something was wrong. He was nearly entirely relaxed by the time he got to his building’s lobby, even having the grace to nod at the concierge—who didn’t know it was his birthday, thank God—before heading up the elevator.

When he got off on his floor, it suddenly occurred to him that you might have done something truly repulsive, like inviting his friends over. He could imagine Shitty Hair’s shitty fucking hair sticking up from behind your sofa as he tried to hide before leaping up and yelling surprise.

Well, if that was the case, then the surprise was going to be him kicking all his dumb friends out of the apartment with one foot. Ain’t no way he was going to host a party on his birthday.

It turned out his worry was for nothing, though, because when he turned the knob—fully braced to punch out some teeth with his other hand—he was greeted with a totally bare apartment.

Like barren.

For starters, it was perfectly clean. Bakugou kept a tidy house normally, but this was certainly cleaner than he’d left it this morning. But more than that, there was nothing extra lying around. No stupid friends. No presents. No cake or even the smell of one. It was almost disconcerting.

No, it was a relief. A relief because he didn’t want any of that stuff. He’d had the slice of cake at work—and was slightly hangry now to show for it—and wasn’t interested in having another. And even though you’d choose better gifts than the extras at work would, it was nothing he couldn’t buy himself. So no, this was perfect. He was absolutely not disappointed. Maybe a bit confused. But not disappointed.

He took his shoes off and set his things on the small table by the door. Then he wandered into the kitchen, downed some water, and thought about what he might make for dinner. He might have expected that you and he would make dinner together or maybe even that you would have surprised him with something, but he didn’t mind doing it alone. It wasn’t like he’d learned to cook just to find a housewife someday to con into doing it all for him.

He decided to go to the bedroom first to plug in his phone. He was just sliding it out of his pocket when he opened the door, saw you, and stopped short.

You were on the bed—not in bed, but on it—wearing a black zip up with his signature orange x over the chest. You were on your knees with your legs spread wide, looking him dead in the eye with a deadly smirk on your face, painted in bright lipstick.

“New prototype. You like?”

The two of you had met when you were scouted from his parents’ business to design the clothing for his first merchandise line. He’d sworn off dating you from the beginning, because the last thing he wanted was to give the old hag anything to say about, firstly, her being at all responsible for finding  him a girlfriend or secondly, the fact that dating a fashion designer would mean he was dating his parents. He’d said fuck that to anyone who would listen.

But you’d gotten his brain from the beginning. Your designs were all sick from the sketch to mock up to the prototypes you always wore for him. Maybe he was a simple man for falling for a girl dressed in his colors, aiming to please him, but fuck it. You were talented, too smart for your own good, and pretty as hell.

So what? Now he had a dream girlfriend and one more reason to fight with his mom. Net positive for sure.

Still, that jacket wasn’t a prototype. That was from his first official line, no doubt, and he’d seen you wear it hundreds of times. He knew from here how much it would smell like detergent and how much like you.

You caught his eyes, raised your brows once, and then pulled the zip on the sweatshirt.

Underneath was nothing but lace and ribbon, contrasting the black and orange of the sweatshirt with moss green outlining your silhouette. The moss green from his gauntlets and his belt was caged around you in the thinnest strips of fabric, scraps of floral barely covering your breasts and pussy. The lingerie was an all-in-one, with the tiny bra connected to the panties by a few ribbons crossing over your belly. Not hiding a damn thing, but showing it off for all its worth.

“Fuck,” Bakugou groaned when the sweatshirt hit the bed, your arms still in the sleeves, but the look underneath now fully revealed to him. He could feel the blood going to his dick, just seeing you on display like that getting him up to half mast in seconds.

“Not a lot of coverage on this version,” you mused, sticking your thumb under a bra strap. “Maybe an edit for the second try?”

Bakugou growled, taking a step forward, but you weren’t done just yet.

“I was also thinking maybe full panties next time,” you said, turning around, sitting on your heels. The sweatshirt hung just below your ass, framing round cheeks that were caged by thin elastic crosses, and that was it. Not so much as a triangle of fabric to speak of. “Maybe write: Property of Dynamight on them? Or is that too much text?”

That was all it took for Bakugou to pounce. One arc of his fist had his shirt thrown with a smack to the floor and then his hands were on your shoulders, spinning you face up as he pushed you flat on the bed.

“You know I don’t like unnecessary words,” he growled.

And then he was kissing you, a hand running up the falke stockings pinned on your thighs as you pulled your arms out of the sweatshirt. One leg came up automatically to wrap around his hip, and Bakugou began rutting against your center, fully hard already. On his second grinding thrust, his pants snagged on the scrap of lace you were wearing. Wetness was already glistening on his trousers and he moved his thumb down to your core, groaning at what he felt.

“Crotchless panties?” he mumbled against your mouth. “You’re making this too easy, sweetheart.”

“Shouldn’t have to work so hard on your birthday,” you mewled.

There was a rumble in Bakugou’s throat, half scoff, half chuckle. “Yeah, remind me of that next year, will you?”

You were soaked already—the swipe of his thumb told you that much. Either you’d gotten really excited when he’d texted you that he was coming home early, or you’d…gotten yourself excited at some point after. Either way, it meant that foreplay could wait for round two.

He pulled his thumb away from your core and pressed it against your lip, smudging what lipstick had survived the kisses down your chin. You were half ruined already. You stuck your tongue out and licked at essence on his thumb before sucking it into your mouth, eyes wide as you looked up at him. Fuck, he could feel himself straining against his pants, grinding circles against your half-bare cunt for a spot of relief.

After you licked him clean, he took his hand back, leaving your mouth open and wanting as he began to fuss with the front of his pants. He caught your smudged lips again, holding your jaw with one hand as he pushed his pants down with the other. He pulled his lower half away from you, kicking off the pants—hadn’t bothered with boxers for the commute home—and let them slide off the edge of the bed.

“Ready?” he asked.

Your smile was big and you bit the tip of your tongue, nodding your head twice. That was all he needed. He grabbed his cock in his fist and slid it through your wetness just once, and then he pushed himself in.

Immediately, he felt the drag of something hard and angled against your lower wall right along his cock, pressing from tip to base as he slid home inside of you.

“Woah,” he groaned. “What the fuck?”

You giggled, the action making your walls flutter against him.

“Got myself a new toy,” you said coyly, wrapping your legs around his hips. “Promise you can get yourself something pretty on my birthday too.”

Bakugou reach a hand around your thigh, feeling the elastic garter pulled taut against the stockings that were rubbing so deliciously against his back and his hips. He grabbed a handful of your ass, and the tips of his fingers felt a rounded edge of warm metal slid just between your ass cheeks.

“You fucking naughty minx.” Bakugou grinned, showing all his teeth, rearing back out of you before thrusting back in, feeling the novel pressure of the toy on the way out and back.

No wonder you had been so wet to begin with. You must have lubed yourself up before putting in that butt plug—which wasn’t small, from what he could feel of it. He could imagine you, one leg up on the sink, ass sticking out as you fingered yourself, mouth dropping open when you inserted the toy. How cold it would have been when it first touched your pert little hole and how you’d gotten it all warm for him as you waited with your little secret for him to get home.

“It’s curved to hit prostates,” you gasped as Bakugou rocked hard, steady thrusts into you. “In case you’re interested.”

The thought, much to Bakugou’s surprise, sent a thrill right through his belly down to his dick. He couldn’t help but slam rapidly into you, making your eyes roll back. Fuck, was that something he wanted? It wasn’t something he’d ever thought about, and he didn’t have the mind right now to ponder it.

“God you feel so big.”

“You feel so tight, sweetheart,” Bakugou grunted, refusing to acknowledge the fresh heat that was on his cheeks after your previous comment. “Squeezing me from all sides.”

The butt plug left it so there was barely enough room in your pussy for his cock to pump in and out. The pressure was hard on one side, making him fucking twitch every time the head of his cock caught against it, leading him to opt for long, deep thrusts in and out of you. It was so good that he didn’t even care if the only present he got for his birthday was a little hunk of stainless steel halfway up your ass. He’d gotten home five minutes ago and already he could feel his balls tightening, threatening to bust a nut.

“Just think of it, Katsuki,” you said, your voice dreamy as he fucked you raw. “All the women wearing this set, thinking of you when they show it off for their partners. All wishing that you were the one fucking them. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, baby? But they’ll never have anything but their husband’s sad cock that they pretend is yours.”

“Fuck,” Bakugou growled, putting a hand on the headboard and nearly splintering it in his grip. You were riling him up and it made him want to press his palm flat against the burnished oak and let off his quirk, send shards flying. His hand was already drenched with more sweat than it should have been, just like with those villains earlier. Goddamn this time of year. He couldn’t help it; his quirk begged for it. He was in dire need of release of some kind, and it wasn’t like he could cum yet. He had to know how your pussy felt when it convulsed around him, ass cheeks tensing and squeezing that toy hard against his cock until he was spurting into you.

Bakugou let off a few crackling pops from his palm, moaning as relief filled him, the tension lessened for a moment. A faint smell of wood smoke spread through the room, slightly embittered by the resin blackening around his hand. One more scorch mark on the bed frame. You groaned underneath him, taken by the sight of Bakugou’s ever-tight control slipping for you. You knew he���d fuck you through the bed until the rest of the frame gave way if he wanted. You’d both be flat on a busted mattress and he’d keep going until he felt you clench around him.

“How’s that sound, Katsu?” you continued, your voice growing higher as Bakugou took his hand off the headboard and pressed four fingers, still sweaty and heated from his quirk, against the lace covering your clit. It was soaked through. “A-Ah, you’d like the idea of a woman home alone, dressed up just for you, fucking herself on the dildo she hides in the back of your closet, screaming out your name and hoping to God that her neighbors don’t hear?”

Bakugou couldn’t do the long, slow thrusts anymore. Your legs had grown tighter around his waist, your calves soft and silken against his ass as he kept his thrusts deep. The butt plug was rubbing against the base of his cock as he pounded into you, his fingers swiping over your clit with little finesse, but speed and steady pressure making up for it.

“But no matter…” you continued, the words coming out in little huffs as you panted with your head thrown back. Bakugou couldn’t resist leaning down and licking a line up the length of your neck, biting your earlobe when he got to the top, “no dildo, no matter how expensive, no matter how long and fat, will be good enough. The whole time…they’ll know they’re missing out. Oh, fuck.”

All of a sudden, your thighs were squeezing tight against his hip bones, arms thrown over his back and finger scratching hot lines that would mark him even more as yours tomorrow. Then you were gasping, walls squeezing and Bakugou fought against your grip to pull out just enough so that the metal toy was rubbing just over the cleft of his head with every convulsion.

He didn’t stand a chance. There was hardly any warning before he was cumming into you, streaks of his seed dribbling out of you. He couldn’t even pump himself through it; you were gripping him so tightly and, more than that, he didn’t want to move. Everything was white hot, so he just waited it out, barely moving save for where his hand was still rubbing over your clit.

Eventually you stopped him, grabbing his wrist just as the grip of your cunt loosened around him. Then you brought his hand, glistening with moisture, up to your mouth, and broadly laved your tongue from the base of his fingers to the tips, looking him dead in the eye. You then brought his hand down to your neck, and allowed him to streak the combined fluids across and down your décolletage.

Fuck—there was no way he was going to work on his birthday next year. He’d let villains overtake the city first.

“They’ll know they’re missing out,” you breathed, and it took Bakugou a second to figure out that you were continuing your voyeuristic fantasy from before, playing it out to the end, “They might even think they understand. But the only one who will truly know, is me.”

You smiled, your eyes and grin both heavy, sleepy, sated.

“Got that fucking right,” Bakugou said, pulling out of you, his cum already dripping down your ass. He eyed it, only catching a glimpse of the glinting metal plug before your legs fell to the bed, spread and limp. He smacked your hip lightly with one hand. “Roll over.”

In no mood to argue, you flipped willingly, ass up, plug still hidden from view. The lingerie was damp in some spots from where your wetness had spilled from your pussy. He leaned his mouth towards one of the strips of elastic stretching against the swell of your ass and bit. You gasped, back arching, and Katsuki smirked as he pulled away.

“A fucking lingerie line?”

A chuckle escaped your throat. “It was supposed to be a joke, but now…”

Katsuki pinched the elastic with his fingers and snapped it, watching the slight jiggle of your cheeks as you jolted. “No.”

“But Katsuki,” you whined.

“Mm,” he amended, as close to ‘maybe’ as you were going to get. You both could always talk about the idea—truly ridiculous idea—later. Katsuki put a hand on one cheek under the strips of lingerie and spread it.

There was the plug, a stainless steel handle. It was thin and shaped like an oblong donut, not like one of those cheap bejeweled things. This one, even just what he could see of it, screamed quality, and, for a moment, Bakugou wondered again what it would be like to wear. If you’d gotten it in, he sure as fuck could. And he did hold a certain anatomical advantage in using it.

He put his thumb and forefinger to the phalange and gave the toy a twist, pressing it just slightly deeper into your hole. You groaned, your voice low and deep in the pillow like when he gave you a back massage. He smirked and kept at it. Seemed this was a birthday gift for him after all.

“Katsu, don’t tease,” you moaned. “Sensitive.”

Bakugou, however, had no mercy. He flipped you over again, pulling a little yelp from you, and then picked you up bridal style, carrying you off the bed.

“Where are we going?” you asked, your voice suddenly much more awake.

“Shower,” he answered simply. He squeezed the meat of your upper thigh. Not quite your ass but close enough for the point to be made. “I’m not done with my present yet.”

[typical-simplelove]

The Other Girl -> Anthony Beauvillier

Summary: When your boyfriend, Anthony, keeps coming home late at night and smelling like another woman's perfume, you don't know what to think. You never thought Anthony could be like that, but as he keeps smelling like that other woman, you can't help the heartbreak you feel.

Author's Note: Here's another edition of my Kelsea Series! So sorry this took so long, don't you just love writer's block? Before you read, I have one short disclaimer: this is a work of fiction. Any actions that the characters participate in are not at all reflective of them in real life. Again, this is a work of fiction. Thank you so much for reading, and please let me know what you think!

Warnings: explicit!female reader; cheating; alcohol; implied sex; Anders Lee is a prominent character; angst; no solution ending; mentions of a car accident; mentions of hospitals;

Word Count: 5.3k (including song lyrics)

I bet you're from out West somewhere Hazel eyes and dark brown hair And everything you wear fits you just right I bet you drink martinis dry And never let him see you cry I bet you're more promiscuous than I

It all became real on Friday night when Anthony stood you up for date night. You wanted to go out and spend some alone time with your boyfriend because he’s been busy. You assumed that his normal schedule had a change which resulted in Anthony being busy recently. What’s the saying? When you assume something, you make an ass out of you and me. That’s exactly what happened. You assumed all these things only for them to be incredibly wrong.

Date night. It was the first date night in a while. When you first started dating Anthony, you thought your relationship with him would be like those in the movies where the couple was crazy about each other. It stayed that way until after the first year. Just because you were crazy about him doesn’t mean he was just as crazy about you. Four months after your one-year anniversary and moving in together, you could feel Anthony slipping from you. You could feel a lack of emotion in his hugs and kisses. When he smiled at you, Anthony’s smile didn’t meet his eyes. It was lacking the emotion that two people madly in love had.

In hopes of saving your relationship, you insisted on a romantic date night. You thought it would be everything you needed to repair your relationship. Your eyes lit up at the idea and began planning it right away. All it really was going to be was dinner at a nice restaurant, but it was the meaning behind it. It was the effort you put into finding the perfect restaurant and all the calls you made to make sure that Anthony would be free that night.

When you prompted him with the idea, you knew Anthony was only half listening. He was preoccupied, but you weren’t sure with what. Or who. You pushed that thought away thinking that Anthony would never. He shrugged and said “sure.” His eyes were glued to something on his phone. His answer put a bright smile on your face. You pushed away the pang in your chest when you saw his lack of enthusiasm. You immediately began talking about what you planned but were interrupted when Anthony abruptly got up and said he was meeting some friends. Your face deflated, you muttered a soft, “oh,” as Anthony walked out the door.

He came home that night intoxicated. Anthony wasn’t drunk, but he was sober enough to drive himself home. He didn’t bother to change as he undressed and slipped into bed. He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you against his body. You felt his heartbeat at your back. Normally, this touch would comfort you. The only thing you could think about was how Anthony smelled. He was an idiot. If Anthony was going to spend the night with another woman, he should have showered. Anthony didn’t smell like his normal cologne. He didn’t smell like your perfume, either. He smelled like a perfume that you knew you’d never wear. The smell lingered like rotten eggs as your forced yourself to fall asleep.

You washed the sheets the next morning before going to work.

I bet you're bol I bet that's why You seem to occupy his mind I bet you're smart But do you know about me?

Eight days before the date night, you got into a minor car accident. You had the right of way when a driver rammed right into your car. You were fine. You escaped with a sprained ankle and a few cuts and bruises. The nurse told you that your main contact—Anthony—wasn’t picking up the phone. This shouldn’t have shocked you as much as you did. You needed someone to pick you up because your car wasn’t drivable. Anthony has been distant lately. He was spending more nights out with “friends” and coming home and smelling like another woman. You’re pretty sure it was only one woman. He always came home smelling like the exact same perfume. You’ve been washing your bedsheets a lot recently because Anthony is too dumb to realize he should shower to cover up his infidelity.

You ended up calling Anders. You and Anders were family friends. Despite the few year age difference, you and Anders are close. He was always like an older brother to you and constantly was looking out for you.

“Where’s the boyfriend?” Anders says bitterly. At first, he was nervous about Anthony dating you because he knows the way Anthony was and how you were. He also knows what you deserve and didn’t think Anthony was what it was. Anthony not picking up the phone was just proving Anders’ point.

“Don’t,” you scold. “I’m not in the mood.”

“I’m going to take you back to my place,” Anders informs. “I don’t like the idea of you being alone after getting into a car accident.” You want to contradict Anders’ words and say that Anthony will be home, but you know it will be quite late before coming home. Anthony has been coming home later and later each night and smelling more and more like that perfume. It was stronger. Your bedsheets were getting a really great wash lately.

“Okay,” you say without hesitation. You ignore the look of surprise that Anders gives you when you don’t argue about his proposition.

When Anders drives you back to you and Anthony’s shared apartment the next morning, Anthony’s home. He’s sitting on the kitchen counter drinking his coffee as if nothing was amiss. He’s shocked when he sees Anders right behind you wearing a scowl.

“Where were you last night?” Anders growls.

“Here?” he answers obliviously.

“Then why didn’t you answer the phone?”

“What?” Anthony is visibly confused, so you decide to interject.

“I got into a car accident last night, and you didn’t answer the phone. Anders picked me up, and I spent the night with him and Grace,” you explain. Anthony looks at you but doesn’t move from his seat. He takes another sip of his coffee.

“Are you okay?” he asks. Based on his tone and facial features, you know he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care and doesn’t want to know.

“Yeah, she’s fine now,” Anders says and helps you grab some water. Under his breath, he mutters, “No thanks to you.”

You glare at Anders, and he instantly knows to turn down the angry, protective older brother act. Once you get some water, Anders helps you walk to the bathroom as Anthony continues to sit at the counter ignoring his captain and your injured state.

“Is everything okay with you and Beau?” Anders asks. From what he’s seen, you and Anthony aren’t the same. Anthony used to be lovingly obsessed with you. He needed to be by your side constantly because he was so in love with you. Now, you and Anthony seem like a married couple contemplating divorce.

“Yeah, why?” you say with a fake chipper voice.

Your friend shrugs. “You guys just seem, I don’t know, not okay?”

“He’s just stressed,” you lie.

“He’s stressed about his point streak and our winning streak?”

“Anders, don’t,” you beg. You grab some clean pajamas before stepping out of the closet. “We’re fine. Things are a bit tense, but we’re fine.”

“Okay,” he says. “Call me if you need anything else.”

You smile as he gives you a hug. You end up spending the entire day in your bedroom. Anthony never came home that night.

Is it me, is it you? Tell me who, Who's the other girl? Who's the first? Who's the fool? Who's the diamond? Who's the pearl? Are you mad? Me too And I wonder in his world Is it me, is it you? Who's the other girl?

Because your car was still in the shop, you’ve directed Anthony to be the one to drive to the date. Your ankle was feeling better and many of the bruises and cuts have faded. When you told Anthony, he responded with a sigh but grumbled a quick, “Yeah, yeah,” before heading out again. You’re not sure why he was so grumpy because he knows your situation and is heading to the exact same place.

You told him strictly to be home and ready by 5:30 PM. You know Long Island traffic. You know that the LIE will undoubtedly be backed up during rush hour as you’re heading to dinner. You reminded him numerous times and made sure he knew. When 5:30 PM came and went and Anthony wasn’t there, you got nervous. Maybe he got ready at a friend’s house? When the clock on the microwave read 6 PM, your mood began to deflate. When you got a call at 7 PM from the restaurant asking if you were still making your reservation scheduled for fifteen minutes ago, you tell them no. Anthony wasn’t coming home nor was he going to go on the date with you. He was likely at that girl’s house.

You ended up falling asleep on the couch with a wine glass and an empty bowl of ice cream sitting on the coffee table. You woke up at 2 AM with a dry throat and a pain in your neck. You didn’t mean to fall asleep on the couch, but when your heart is heavy, it happens.

You were just about to get up and migrate to your bedroom when you hear the lock click. You immediately lay back down on your couch; you’re not sure why you did it, but you kind of do. Maybe, just maybe, it was to see if Anthony would carry you to bed. He used to do that whenever you fell asleep on the couch. It was a test. For some reason, this seemed like a test, and if Anthony failed, you knew that it was truly over.

“I love you, too, baby,” Anthony says into the phone. You have to plug your nose as this girls’ strong perfume wafted through the room. What hurts you the most is that he’s telling this girl he loves her. Anthony hasn’t told you he’s loved you in a really long time. His voice is filled with the love and happiness that he used to have for you. Anthony doesn’t even notice that you’re laying on the couch. Anthony is still talking on the phone as he goes into your shared bedroom.

He doesn’t even walk out wondering where you are. He doesn’t care, you know that. You only wished that you stopped could stop caring, too.

Who's gonna put on the red dress Scarlett letter on her chest Can't love with this on her conscience Tell me who's the other girl, girl, girl, girl

“That’s mine, thanks,” you tell the barista as you grab your drink from her hand. She smiles at you and returns to her job. You take a sip of your coffee and let it comfort you. It’s become real, recently, that Anthony is cheating on you. You have no one to talk to about it. You can’t talk to your parents because they’ll just tell you to dump Anthony. You can’t talk to your friends because they’ll plot his murder. You can’t talk to Anders because that would cause issues in the locker room. It doesn’t matter who you talk to because, in the end, all you want is to stop loving Anthony. You don’t want to still care for him. You want all the feelings and memories to go away. You know you have to break up with him because you and Anthony both aren’t happy together anymore.

“Oh, oof, I’m sorry,” a beautiful blonde says as she accidentally bumps into you. “I was just trying to get my coffee.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” you say. “I’m standing in the way, anyway.”

The blonde smiles and walks to grab her coffee. You turn your attention to the door and walk out. You stand on the side of the street wondering which shop you wanted to go to first. You decided, because Anthony was cheating on you, you deserve some you-time and to treat yourself. You didn’t want to spend the day in the apartment because no amount of candles or Febreze or open windows could make the apartment smell less like her perfume. Anthony was getting bolder and bolder. He wasn’t coming home for days at a time. He was smelling more and more like her perfume.

You turn your head and walk into the local baby store. As one of Ruby’s, Anders and Grace’s daughter, godmother, it only seemed fitting that you buy some more clothes for her. You’re about to step towards the store when you see Anthony. You don’t know why he’s there. As far as you’re concerned, Anthony and the team were going on a day retreat. It seems Anthony wasn’t. You’re not sure if you should confront him. Things were already difficult. Maybe if you confronted him about lying, then you’d break up. Then, everything would be over.

You take one step towards Anthony when you see the blonde from the coffee shop run up to Anthony and place a giant kiss on his lips. You nearly drop your coffee. So she was the other girl. You take a few steps back as you watch them interact. You watch her easy smile and easy charm. You watch the way Anthony smiles at her like she’s the world. He used to look at you like that but somewhere along the line, he stopped. It must be because of her.

You go home instead of into the shop. You could barely see in front of you as the tears begin to stream down your face. You hurry to your car as the tears continue to fall and take over all your emotions. You slam your new car door as you sit. You clutch the steering wheel as you rest your head and cry.

As the tears subside, you turn the car on a begin to drive back to your shared apartment. This was it. Anthony truly didn’t want to be with you anymore. He didn’t want you, and he didn’t care. He was getting bolder. Anyone could have seen Anthony and the blonde. You know for a fact that many of the other WAGs shop at the baby store that Anthony was standing outside of. He truly didn’t care. There wasn’t a part of him who wanted to stay with you anymore.

It was done.

Are you the one he's talkin' to When he gets up and leaves the room And comes back with a distance in his eyes? Maybe I should be the one to leave? But damn when he starts lovin' me Makes me think I'm all that's on his mind

When you first started dating Anthony, you thought he was going to be the one. You thought you and Anthony were going to build a life together that would lead to forever. You thought that you’d be wearing the white dress and walking down the aisle to him. You thought that you were going to have little babies running around and build your life on Long Island together. It was you and Anthony forever.

As you lie awake at night, you run your mind through your relationship. You met Anthony through Anders and Grace. The first game you ever went to was when you met Anthony, the team, and the other WAGs. You were leaning against the wall as Grace was talking your ear off about a new kitchen appliance she bought. You were listening attentively just as Anders walked out of the locker room and pulls Grace in for a giant hug. You shuffled to the side awkwardly and let them have their moment. You look away, and your eyes land on Anthony. You didn’t quite know who he was, but it seemed he knew you. His eyes landed on yours and he smiled. You smiled back. At that moment, Anders lifted his head and saw you and his teammate making eye contact. Putting on his protective older brother hat, Anders glared at Anthony. That glare seemed to imply that you were off-limits to Anthony and vice versa. You now wish you listened to Anders.

You turn your head and stare at the clock on your nightstand. It reads 3:24 AM. Anthony isn’t home. He’s probably with that blonde. He’s probably giving her all that attention and love that you wished he was giving to you. Anthony is probably telling her how much he loves her like he used to do with you.

You grab Anthony’s pillow. It doesn’t smell like him; it smells like your washing machine detergent. You used to wash your bed sheets every day, but not anymore. Anthony comes home once every two or three days. When he does come, that’s when you wash the sheets. You clutch the pillow to your face and breathe in the scent. You used to do that when you missed Anthony while he was on the road. You don’t miss Anthony. You miss what you had. You miss the boy you loved with your entire being.

When the pillow doesn’t smell like Anthony, you throw it across the room. It hits a picture frame and goes falling to the ground with a loud shatter; you’re suddenly very awake and turn the lamp on that sits on your nightstand. You see the glass sitting on the floor and walk to the bathroom to grab the dustpan to sweep up the glass. You sit on the ground away from the glass and pick up the photos sitting in the picture frame. The frame had slots for four photos. You bought it in hopes to replace the photos when you and Anthony got married. The tears fall from your face as you realize the poetic meaning behind the fractured and broken picture frame. The shatter of the glass truly depicts how your relationship is shattered. You and Anthony won’t be getting married. No children will be coming down the line. No one is happy in this situation, and Anthony didn’t have the guts to tell it to your face.

Is it me, is it you? Tell me who, Who's the other girl? Who's the first? Who's the fool? Who's the diamond? Who's the pearl? Are you mad? Me too And I wonder in his world Is it me, is it you? Who's the other girl?

The first time Anthony kissed you, it felt like you were floating. His lips were soft; a lot softer than you thought they were going to be. Before he kissed you, you imagined his lips on yours and your body. His plump lips were all you could think about.

When he puts his hands on your face, you nearly melted at how it felt. Anthony’s hands were rough and calloused, but when he held your face gently, it felt like he was holding the most gentle object ever. You were that gentle object. You were the one person in his life he couldn’t hurt. You were the one person Anthony couldn’t lose.

Somehow, that changed.

It’s been three days since Anthony has come home. You kept a spreadsheet counting the days. He was gone for either three or four days when he was in Long Island. You had no idea if the blonde traveled on the road with him, too. Actually, you knew nothing about this blonde and had zero desire to learn anything about her. You didn’t want to know what made her different from you. You didn’t want to learn what made her more appealing than you. You didn’t want to know what made her more special than you.

Anthony came home the next night—the fourth night away. He climbed into bed; he still doesn’t bother showering. You have to stop yourself from gagging as you smell her perfume. When you think back to when you met her in the coffee shop, you do have a small memory of smelling that perfume. Maybe you’re projecting and wishing you could smell that perfume. At that moment, you weren’t paying attention enough to try to smell her perfume. Or, her perfume lingered on her clothes so much that you smelled it everywhere.

Anthony no longer pulled you against his chest when he came home. He would undress and climb into bed and sleep. Not once did he bother to shower; he must not realize that he reeks of her perfume.

You’re feeling self-destructive and petty, so you open your mouth. “Hey, Beau?” You haven’t called him that in months, but then again, you’ve barely spoken to him in months. Although you can’t see his face, you know a shocked expression is lining his features. You can picture it exactly.

“You’re awake?” Yup, he’s shocked. He also sounds a tad bit guilty. Obviously not that guilty because he can still cheat on you.

“I always wait up for you,” you say as sweetly and innocently as possible. You were trying to convey that you had no idea what he was doing. You wanted him to feel guilty and bad about what he’s doing. You wanted Anthony to feel bad for either (a) spending copious amounts of time away or (b) cheating. Both would be nice.

“Is that so?”

You nod but doubt he can see it. “Anyway, I was wondering. Are you using a different cologne?”

“What?” He sounds shocked. Good, if your plan worked, then he’d be baffled but also know that you were either on to him or know exactly what he’s thinking.

“When you come home, you smell like a scent that’s not your usual cologne. I was just wondering if you’re using something. It smells really bad, but if you like it, then I’ll get used to it.”

Anthony doesn’t say anything. He just turns on his side and away from you. He knows you know. You’re hoping his silence is that of guilt. You want him to feel bad and terrible. It’s what he ought to, after all. If you knew that cologne was going to be the topic of the last conversation you ever have with Anthony, you might have made the conversation a bit more memorable.

Who's gonna put on the red dress Scarlett letter on her chest Can't love with this on her conscience Tell me who's the other girl, girl, girl, girl

You know that you should dump Anthony right away. You know that you should confront him and ask him about his infidelity. At this point, though, you feel angry. You’re hurt. You’re no longer sad. No more tears fall from your eyes when you think about the eventual outcome of your relationship. You don’t cry anymore when you realize you’re basically single. You don’t let the tears fall. The tears don’t fall because you’re not sad. You’re angry; you have every right to be.

As a result of your failing relationship with Anthony, you’ve been ignoring Anders, one of your closest friends since childhood. You know he’s worried about you. It’s evident in the text messages and voicemails he leaves.

You pick up the phone when he calls for the first time in weeks. Anthony may have taken away your happiness with his infidelity, but he wasn’t going to take away one of the most important relationships in your life—Anthony’s captain or not. You agree to go to the Lee house for dinner. From the call, it sounded like Anders wanted to meet you alone knowing something was wrong, but he knows that Grace and Ruby really want to see you, too. They miss your presence as much as Anders misses your annoying, little-sister presence.

“I’m going to go get Miss Ruby for bed,” Grace says. She eyes her husband as if telling him to talk to you. The minute that Grace is around the corner away from the kitchen, Anders pounces and begins questioning you. Up until now, dinner has been nice and cordial. It’s been great catching up and having that easy conversation, but Grace and Anders must know something is wrong with you and Anthony because Anthony isn’t brought up once. You wonder what Anthony has said in the locker room and if anyone knows what he’s doing.

“How are you?” Anders asks. You snort. “What?” he asks with confusion.

“That’s what you want to ask me?”

“Yeah, I mean, you’ve been ignoring me and Grace for weeks, and every time I ask Beau about it, he just says you’re busy.”

“Yeah, I guess I’m busy.”

“Is everything okay?” Anders asks and gives you his protective older brother tone.

“Yes, Anders, I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I just said I’m fine.”

“Just because you say something, it doesn’t make it true. You’re saying you’re fine, but you’re not. Anthony keeps saying you’re busy that’s why you’re blowing Grace and me off, but we both know there’s something else.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say. I’m fine.” You take a sip of your water to try to mask the anger and annoyance. You don’t want to talk about it, and you know that Anders knows you don’t want to talk about it. However, you know Anders and your long-time friendship with him. You both question each other and push for the truth in order to help. You know that this time will not be any different.

“Don’t do this,” Anders warns. “I’m worried about you.”

“I’m fine, why can’t you just see that?” you loudly yell. You realize your mistake about talking too loudly for Ruby’s sake, and your eyes go wide. Anders jumps a little at your tone; he’s never seen you use that tone towards him before. Anders gives you a reassuring smile and waits for you to talk. In a low tone, you finally say, “Anthony has been cheating on me.”

“That asshole.” Anders is furious now. “I’m going to kick his ass.”

“Don’t, please,” you beg. Anders’ eyes are full of fury. You always were like a little sister to him, so when someone hurt you, Anders got protective, similar to how he is with his daughter. “Look, I’m figuring things out, I just don’t need you getting involved.”

“What do you mean by figuring things out? Are you planning on staying with him?”

You shake your head. “Even if I wanted to stay with him, he wouldn’t want to, firstly. No, I’m looking for new apartments and stuff. I just need a bit of time, okay?”

“You could always stay here with us,” Anders offers with a soft smile.

You shake your head. “I need to do this on my own, but thank you. You’re not allowed to do anything, Anders. At least not until I say you can.”

He sighs. “Fine, but no promises on being rougher on him during practice.”

“Okay,” you tell your friend and smile. Maybe things could be okay.

I bet you're cool I bet that's why You seem to occupy his time I bet by now You know about me You know about me

You tape up the final box and hand it to the movers. He didn’t know you were leaving. He didn’t know you packed up your things. He hasn’t come home in almost eight days. You know for a fact that Anthony has been in New York because Anders is home. You’ve been going over and having dinner with him and Grace as much as they’ll have you over. You know that Anders wants to confront Anthony, but you keep asking him not to and that you’re dealing with it. If Anthony wants to go the destructive route to the end of your relationship, then so will you. You’re done with Anthony and his life.

You grab a notepad and scribble a note. In your handwriting, you write, “I’m done. She can move in now.” You’re not sure if Anthony ever realized that you knew and found out he was cheating on you, but you knew, no, know. It was done. You were done. This was it.

You run your eyes across the half-empty apartment that you shared with Anthony. You rest your eyes on the empty TV stand that held photos of you and Anthony. You kept the frames but tossed the pictures. Being petty, you placed the photos on the top of the trash, so it was the first thing Anthony saw when he went to toss something in it. You glance at the bookshelf that was barren now with all your knickknacks and books gone. You glance at the couch that no longer held any pillows or blankets. They were yours, so you had a right to want them. The wall of the hallway was empty with no more photos taped up. Those photos, too, were sitting at the top of the trash can.

You place the necklace he got you on your anniversary next to the note. It was beautiful, and you’re sure that in a few years, you could wear it without thinking of Anthony. It was your initial with your birthstone resting on it. The only connection to Anthony it had was that he gave it to you, but you’re feeling petty and want him to know the pain and anguish he’s causing.

Next to the necklace, you place your key. It was the last thing tying you to this apartment and Anthony. With a shaking hand, you put the key down. Looking out the windows that overlook the suburban New York town you live in, you take a deep breath. It was time. You’re leaving. If Anthony wanted to throw away his relationship with you to be with someone else, then this was how it was going to be. He didn’t deserve you and your love. He doesn’t deserve your loyalty and how much you cared. He doesn’t deserve an ounce of love you have after he threw everything away.

Opening the door, you take one last glance at the apartment. You step outside and shut the door. You don’t move, though. You stare at the door. The familiar number 18 staring back at you. It was a mere coincidence that Anthony lived in apartment number 18, but the gold numbering always made you smile. You let go of the handle and take a step back. You don’t have any tears. You’re not angry. You’re not confused. You’re not frustrated. You’re done. You’re done giving him the love that he didn’t want from you. No more.

You nod at the door and walk down the hall to the elevator and down to the movers. This chapter of your life was done. The pain and sadness would still linger, but you were done. You step outside into the bright Long Island sun. It warms your body as it shines down on the world. You nod at the movers to tell them to head to your new apartment.

You were done with Anthony. If he couldn’t love you, then he couldn’t have you.

The door was closed on that part of your life. New beginnings awaited you without him. Anthony is nothing more than a memory, a blip in your life, and that’s how it will stay.

Who's gonna put on the red dress Scarlett letter on her chest Can't love with this on her conscience Tell me who's the other girl, girl, girl, girl

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[unwrittenlibrary]

Fine Line

Summary: There’s a fine line between love and hate and you’re not too sure which side you’re on with Harry anymore. Part Two to What Kind of Man 

Words: 5.0k

Warnings: I said this in the first part & will repeat it. This is purely fictional. This in no way reflects how I feel Harry would handle this situation in reality. I’m really using Harry as a character. DO NOT READ THIS if you feel the situation of cheating and staying together will impact you strongly or offend you. That is not what I want when reading my story. 

Notes: I urge those uncomfortable with cheating to avoid this. I also urge those who dislike this kind of writing to avoid. I came up with this story at a point in my life where my parents were divorcing, I was going through a break up and was lost. I’ve decided to finish this story because I put so much effort into it for it to end unfinished feels wrong. I can’t speak for anybody and how they would handle this situation. 

Thank you for 1000 followers. That is crazy! 

-

You’ve got my devotion. 

But man, I can hate you sometimes.

...

You sunshine, you temptress.

My hands at risk I fold.

-

April. 

The first two sessions had gone by in relative silence. You weren’t sure what to say to answer the therapists questions. You weren’t sure you even wanted to talk at all. 

“Y/N.” You look up startled out of your thoughts. “Do you feel like talking today?” Her eyes are kind and understanding. Her degrees hang behind her head and you zone in on them. Dr. Walsh had been the only therapist who could take you on in April. Any others that you called had informed you their next opening for new patients wasn’t until the end of May. 

You supposed it could have been worse. So far, Dr. Walsh had come across as kind and understanding of your hesitance. She had never forced you to talk and had only tried to get you involved on your own accord. 

“What would we talk about?” You ask instead of ignoring in silence like you had the past two sessions. You can see Harry turn his head to look at you out of the corner of your eye, but you remained focused on the two degrees hanging behind Dr. Walsh’s head. 

UCLA. “What year did you graduate?” You ask before she can answer your original question. “From UCLA.” 

“We can talk about whatever you want. How you two met. Your kids.” You raise an eyebrow and she smiles. “1996.” 

“I thought we were supposed to talk about our issues. Why would we talk about our kids or how we met?” You answer her question. You can tell Harry’s eyes are moving back and forth between the two of you, like he’s unsure if he should get involved in the conversation. 

Dr. Walsh shakes her head. “Sometimes the best place to start is with what makes you two happy. You’re here to work on your relationship, right?” 

The two of you nod. “Then I’m not worried about starting with the most painful part of your relationship. I want to learn about it. If I can learn about your relationship then I have more knowledge on how to help you repair it, if that’s what you want.” 

“Okay.” You agree. You feel some of your tenseness fade away. You were here for a reason. “We went to UCLA too.” 

She nods. “You did? Were you studying the same thing? Is that how you two met?” 

You look down at your fidgeting hands and let out a laugh. “Not quite. I was a creative writing major and Harry was political science. We met in a World History course our sophomore. It was a general requirement class.” 

“Yeah.” Harry nods as if the memory is coming back to him. “Professor Ward.” 

“Mind if I sit here?” You look up and your breath hitches. He was handsome. That was your first thought. Bright eyes and a sweet smile that could take anyone’s breath away. 

You nod hastily. “Yeah. It’s all yours.” You move your notebook over so he has a bit more room on his half of the table.

“Thanks.” He drops his books on the table and flops down into the chair. “Harry.” He reaches a hand towards you and you meet him halfway. 

You offer your name up easily and his smile brightens. “What brings you into a World history course?” He asks quietly as the last bit of students rush into the few seats left up front. 

You smile. “Creative writing majors have to take one broad history course before focusing on any history of writing courses. Ward’s class was the only one with openings that didn’t start at eight.” 

“Creative writing. That’s cool.” Harry’s spinning the pen in between his fingers. “You want to be a writer?” 

You smile nervously and nod. “That’s the goal. What brings you to Ward’s World History?” 

Harry laughs softly. “I’m a political science major, this is just a required gen ed.” 

“Political science. What’s your plan with that? Am I sitting next to a future senator?” You give him a teasing smile. 

“Lawyer.” 

You shrug, “Senators have to start somewhere.” The professor comes in and that halts the conversation from going anywhere else. As Professor Ward goes over the syllabus you see a piece of paper slide across the table towards you. You look over at Harry, but he’s looking ahead with a smirk on his face. 

You unfold the paper and there is a number written in messy handwriting taking up the small page. 

“Bold.” You whisper to him and he shrugs. “I can tell we’re gonna be good friends.” He whispers back. 

“So you both liked each other right away?” You look up as you're dragged out of the memory of meeting Harry. 

“Yeah.” You breathe out. “I think so.” 

“Definitely.” Harry agrees. “I’m lucky I was running late that day. The seat next to her was the only good seat left. Plus, she helped edit all my essays. I was a shit writer before her.” 

You smile softly at the memory. “Y/N?”  You look up and Dr. Walsh is watching you closely. 

“That class sucked.” You can’t help but let out a laugh. “We had so many essays. He’s right, he was a shit writer before me.” 

You finally spare a look over at Harry and he’s watching you with soft eyes. “That was our first semester of sophomore year. We were attached at the hip after that.” You look back down at your hands. 

“Did you guys start dating right away?” She asks.

“Pretty much. We started dating right before winter break.”  Harry answers for the both of you. 

She nods as she eyes the clock on the wall. “Does that memory still make you happy?”

You nod. Your memories hadn’t been ruined. But that didn’t really mean anything when you could barely be in the same room as Harry now. “Of course. But… Things are different. We’re not twenty-somethings with no responsibility. We’re parents. Partners. We’re supposed to have each other’s back. And now it feels like we don’t.” 

Harry looks over at Dr. Walsh as she studies you. She was obviously taking in your words and processing a response to them. “I think the biggest question you need to find the answer to is, do you want to fix this marriage?” She finally says looking pointedly at the distance between you two. 

You pause and mull over her question. “Can we fix it?” You ask quietly. 

She shrugs. “I can’t answer that for you. It’s my job to help you find the answer, not give it to you. What I can tell you is; Sometimes people walk out of this with a new appreciation and love. Sometimes people realize it can’t be fixed. Nothing is wrong with either, it’s just up to you two to figure out which one it is.” 

You look over at Harry and find him watching you with hopeful eyes. You knew he wanted to and felt like you both could fix this. 

But you weren’t sure. “I don’t know.” 

-

The drive home is silent for the most part. Music playing softly from the radio as you stare out the passenger side window. 

“I don’t know what to say.” Harry says as he pulls the car into the driveway. He puts it into park but doesn’t turn it off so the music is still playing as he turns to look at you. 

Gemma’s car was parked behind your own. You see the curtain move slightly which is a telltale sign that a child was peeking out the window. It quickly falls back into place when your eye catches Serena’s. 

You shake your head and look back down at your lap. “What is there to say?” 

Harry shuts his eyes and you see his grip on the steering wheel tighten. “I want to fix this. I’m trying. Do you want to fix this?” 

You let out a humorless laugh. “Don’t try and guilt me, Harry. I didn’t cheat, you did. This… This mess isn’t my fault and it shouldn’t be my job to fix it.” 

“I’m not trying to guilt-“ He cuts himself off and takes a deep breath. “That was a shitty thing to say. I know. I just want to know if we’re gonna make it through this. If you think we have a chance.” 

You look over at him with watery eyes. “I don’t know. All I can think about is you fucking another woman while I was home with our kids. Telling them that you were just busy. That we would have dinner tomorrow. Or maybe the next day.” 

Harry flinches like you’ve hit him. You turn away but don’t stop talking. “I know a month may not seem like a long time in the grand scheme of things. We’ve been together for seventeen years, so what’s a month?” You laugh humorlessly. “But how long have we been distant? How long have you been staying late and missing dinners?” 

“I don’t know.” Harry whispers and you see him clench his eyes in an attempt to stop tears from falling.

“It’s been months, Harry.” You look around the yard. Your and Persephone’s plants needed maintenance. “We had Jack and then everything changed. We stopped date nights. Family game nights faded from existence. We stopped having sex. I… I don’t know what happened.” 

Harry doesn’t say anything so you sigh. “I’m trying, Harry. It may not seem like it to you, but I’m trying.” You unbuckle yourself and move to get out of the car. 

Harry reaches out and wraps his hand gently around your wrist. “I know.” He stresses the word. “I know you are.” 

You nod and the two of you just watch each other for a moment. You break away from him first. “I’m sure the kids are peeking out the window. We’ve been out here long enough.” 

The both of you climb out of the car silently. The door flies open by the time you reach the second step of your front porch. 

“Mama!” Oliver comes flying out towards you. “Mama. Never leave us again. Baby Jack is crazy.” He grips you tight and you laugh, the tension immediately leaving your body as you hug him back. 

Gemma comes to stand in the entrance with Jack on her hip. She gives you a weak smile and you smile back. “Come on, I’m sure Aunt Gem is dying to go home after watching you crazy lot for two hours.” 

Gemma leaves quickly handing Jack off to Harry and giving you and Harry both kisses on the cheek. “Let me know about spring break, Y/N!” She calls as she rushes out your front door. 

“Spring break?” Harry asks as he bounces Jack in his arms. 

“We’ll talk about it later.” You say sparing a glance down to Oliver, who’s still attached to your leg. Harry nods before moving towards the living room. Oliver follows behind him and you’re left in the front hall alone. 

You take a deep breath before following them. 

-

Harry sleeps in the guest room. You can’t bring yourself to allow him back into the room you two shared. 

His clothes remain in his half of the closet though and his toiletries had remained in place on the bathroom counter, so you saw him every night before going to sleep. 

Dr. Walsh had suggested the two of you used this time to try and reconnect. “You don’t have to sleep in the same bed yet. It’s completely normal for you to need time apart, Y/N. But I do want you two to talk before bed every night, I know you have four kids and it may be your only true alone time to reconnect emotionally before you ever do anything physically, even just sleep.” She had offered at the end of your session after you had admitted you weren’t sure how you felt about Harry and your relationship now. “This is a good way to figure out if you can still see yourself together.” 

You loved him. You didn’t need her to help you answer that question. He was the father of your children. You had over a decade of amazing times together. But you couldn’t look at him without your chest aching. 

“What was Gemma talking about spring break?” Harry sits on the lounge chair you two had placed in the corner of your room. Jack’s bassinet used to be next to it, but he had recently moved into his own room. 

You sit on the end of your bed with your arms crossed over your chest. “Olly has been asking if we could go to Disney World. I was talking to her about maybe surprising him and Serena for their birthday since it falls during the kids break this year.” 

“That sounds really nice.” Harry smiles and you nod. “I’m sure the four of them would love it. I can put in for the week tomorrow. I have a bunch of paid time off I need to use up.” 

You look up at him with wide eyes. “You want to go? We haven’t been on vacation since the beach trip before Jack was born.”

Harry’s face turns stoic. “Of course I want to go. I told you I was going to spend more time with guys.” He walks towards the dresser you have pushed against the wall. “Here, pull your laptop out, let's book this now so we can get a good room.” 

You gape at him. It had only been an idea you were considering for the twins birthday. Although, it was coming up and you were running out of time to make a decision. 

“Are you sure you can get the time off?” You ask instead of listening to his direction. 

Harry nods resolutely. “Can I?” He points next to you and you nod. You lean over to your nightstand, where you had left the computer the night before while writing. 

You push it open. “I’m gonna go get Persephone.” You stand up and hand the laptop to Harry. “She can help plan some stuff with us, so we know what these young kids want.” You give Harry a weak smile and he nods. 

You shake your hands out as you make your way down the hall towards your eldest daughter’s room. You knock softly on the door, “Seph?” 

“Come in.” She calls and you push the door open. She’s got her show paused and is curled into her comforter. “What’s up, mom?” 

“Can you help your dad and I with something?” You ask hesitantly. “I know it’s late, it’ll be quick.” 

Persephone gives you the same dimpled smile Harry has, “Of course. I was gonna be up binge watching this show anyways.” She unwraps herself from the blanket and grabs her phone before following you back to your bedroom. 

“Hey, lovebug.” Harry gives her your favorite smile. One he’s somehow reserved solely for you children. Soft and bright while his eyes shine proudly. 

“Hi, daddy.” She plops herself down next to him and rests her head on his shoulder. He presses a kiss to her forehead and the smile that spreads across Persephone’s face is contagious. 

You take a seat next to her, so she is squished in between the two of you. “You know how Olly has been asking about Disney?” You ask quietly. You and Harry had put the twins down an hour ago, but Oliver was known to sneak away from his room for a cuddle with you. 

She nods instead of verbally answering and Harry pulls up the booking website. “Your mom had the great idea to surprise the twins for their birthday.” 

“Really?” Seph asks excitedly. Your family trips usually consisted of beaches or visiting grandparents. The last time you had been to Disney was when it was just the three of you. You weren’t sure she could even remember most of the trip. 

You bump her shoulder softly with an excited grin. “Really. Jack is old enough that he can get probably through a day there without screaming his head off. Aunt Gem said that she could come to help watch him so you three can have fun.” 

“That sounds awesome!” She lifts her head from Harry’s shoulder and looks at you happily. “What did you need my help with?” 

“Picking out where to stay. You guys are the focus of the trip so we want you to stay where you want to, not us.” You gently take the laptop from Harry and place it in her hands. “So tell us your top three and then dad and I will pick from there so you still get to enjoy some of the surprise aspect.” 

She scrolls through the website for a few minutes while the three of you sit there quietly. You glance over at Harry hesitantly. He’s looking down at your daughter with bright eyes. 

You quickly look away when his eyes move up to meet yours. “Okay. I added the three I liked the most to your favorites! Did you guys need anything else?” 

You both shake your head. “Just keep this a secret. It’s going to be a surprise.” You smile excitedly at your eldest. She had grown so much, but seeing the childlike shine of excitement in her eyes brought you a bounty of joy. She was still your baby. 

Persephone nods before handing the laptop back over to Harry. She presses a kiss to both your and his cheeks before hopping up and making her way towards your door. 

You give her a confused smile when she pauses and turns back around to face you again. She takes in a nervous breath before speaking. 

“It’s really good to be all together again.” The words are quiet and fearful. “Um. I love you guys. Goodnight.” She turns on her heel and bolts out the room and back down the hall. 

You gnaw on the inside of your cheek and look down at your lap. “I’m sorry.” Harry whispers. His tone is similar to her’s. Quiet and full of fear. “I love you all. I know I hurt you, but you are all my world. Those kids are what I’m most proudest of.” 

“I know.” You look over at his lap. His hands curled tightly around the laptop still open in his lap. “I never doubted how much they meant to you Harry. I know how much you love those kids.” 

You want to reach out and pull his hand into yours. Something you usually did when Harry was scared or nervous. But you kept your hand firmly planted in your lap, unable to give him that forgiveness. 

“I was never afraid of you not loving them. I was-“ You stop unsure of what to say. What were you afraid of? “I was afraid that I had given so much and you still wouldn’t have chosen me.” 

Harry looks over at you with sad eyes and you let out a humorless laugh. “Harry, I’ve never regretted having Persephone so young. I’ve never regretted being home. But, I just want you to show that… that you appreciate me.” 

“I do appreciate you.” Harry says quietly. “I’m so sorry I’ve made you feel like I don’t.” He places the laptop in the empty space in between you. You watch as he works through what to say, his tension clear in his eyes. 

“But…” He trails off like he’s still unsure of what to say. “I’m here. I want to be here. I want to show you that I appreciate you.” Harry takes a deep breath and places a hesitant hand on your back. “As long as you’ll have me.” 

You take a deep breath. “Let’s focus on this... I want the twins to have a great birthday and for Seph to have a great spring break. Things have been tough for them too. We can figure the other stuff out later.” 

Harry doesn’t say anything, just nods and pulls the laptop back towards him. You can tell he wants to though. That he wants to talk this out and get in deep.

You just can’t bring yourself to do it. 

-

“A family vacation can be very cathartic for couples struggling.” Dr. Walsh gives the two of you a kind smile after you reveal what you had planned for your kids. “But, it can also bring about stress at being in such a small space for such a long time. Especially when you’re still struggling to communicate.” 

“I’m really trying.” You say quietly, on edge at the idea of you and Harry bringing about any stress on a trip meant to be for your kids. “We both are. I think.” 

“I know.” She gives you an understanding look. “You guys do your homework. You said it yourself, your nightly conversations aren’t painful anymore. But talking about small things is only the beginning of strengthening your communication.” 

“So you want us to talk about the affair?” You ask. “The big thing.” 

She shakes her head. “Eventually. Sweeping it under the rug or ignoring it can only cause more tension. But there are other things I’m sure you want to talk about as well.” 

“Like what?” Harry asks. He glances over at you before looking back at Dr. Walsh. 

“Anything either of you felt was an issue.” She explains. “Big or small. Anything you think contributed to your distance. Try to remember, you’re not placing blame.”

“Not even for the affair?” Harry sighs and you shut your eyes. “How can I not place blame? That’s not my fault.” 

“No.” She agrees. “I’ve never agreed with placing blame for something like that on the victim. Do you want to start with talking about it?” 

“No.” You shake your head. “I just wanted to make sure we’re not finding all these so-called small issues so we can then excuse the cheating. I won’t do that.” You say disdainfully. 

“We don’t expect you to.” She glances over at Harry. He looks pained but he nods in agreement. “Of course not.” He says quietly. 

You take a deep breath in before nodding. “Okay, then where do we start?” 

“A lot of times, affairs feel like they come out of nowhere. They do.” She gives you an assuaging look. “But it’s also important to remember that there were issues before it and they’re still there to be worked through. We want to work through the big problem, but oftentimes couples work through that but not other things and end up separating.” 

You nod and take a deep breath trying to think through issues. Things had felt perfect during your pregnancy with Jack. 

You were excited, a fourth child and it was a boy, you and Harry had been hoping for another boy. Harry had even planned the small family vacation to the beach so you could enjoy time together as a family of five before it became six. 

“We argued.” You say quietly. The family vacation slips from your mind as your exhausted tears come to your memory. “Um. I had Jack and I was exhausted and we argued. It was barely even an argument.” 

“He still won’t eat?” Harry asks, coming into the bedroom. He was still in his suit from court and you feel angry heat flush through you at how put together he looked. How well rested and up he looked. 

You shake your head silently. Harry seems to not notice your tense jaw as he pushes his way into the closet to find clothes for the night. You turn to look down at Jack laying restlessly in your arms. Tears rush to your eyes as you stand and place Jack in his bassinet and finally get a look at yourself in the mirror hanging next to the closet door. 

You hadn’t showered since Persephone had left earlier the previous day and after running around to get the twins settled with Gemma and taking care of the baby all day you felt tense and gross. 

Harry comes out and smiles kindly as he watches you step towards the ensuite. “Can you watch him for a moment? I need a shower. I feel gross and it’ll help me relax. My nurse said getting tense makes it harder to breastfeed.” 

Harry looks down at his watch. “Something more important?” You ask before he can get a word out. “No. Just- I was supposed to hop on a conference call with Jeff, I’ll reschedule.” Harry tries to change the tone of the conversation, but you’ve already seen red. “Y/N, go shower.” 

“I’m sorry.” You say instead of moving. “I didn’t mean to inconvenience you with your child for half an hour.” You know you don’t mean the harsh words and that you’ll probably regret them all after you’ve taken a break but- “I’m home all day with him, but fuck if I ask you to watch him so I can shower.” 

Harry’s eyes widen at the cold tone. He crosses his arms defensively across his chest as he takes a step back from you, even though he was already several feet away. “I never said I was inconvenienced. You asked a question and I answered honestly. I don’t have a problem spending time with my own child, Y/N.” 

Your turn on your heel and stock into the ensuite and slam the door shut behind you. You hear Jack begin to fuss more and Harry’s whispers as he presumably picks the baby up. There wasn’t a time in the fifteen years you’ve had children that you’ve ever thought Harry didn’t want to spend time with his kids. You still didn’t. But the exhaustion and stress that you felt with Jack was unlike anything you’d felt before and Harry hadn’t seemed to notice. 

“It felt like you weren’t paying attention.” You say quietly. “It felt like you had no idea what was going on.” Dr. Walsh trains her eyes on you as Harry’s eyes flick around trying to figure out what argument you were talking about. 

“I’m sorry.” You say quietly. Jack is curled in your arms as he eats and a weight has been lifted off your shoulder. You feel shameful at the words that had slipped out in an attempt to make Harry notice how upset you were. “I know you’re not inconvenienced by our kids.” 

Harry turns his head to look at you. He had been silently typing out emails as you fed Jack, upset but refusing to leave your side. “What’s wrong?” He asks as he slams the laptop shut. 

You want to tell him. How stressed and anxious you felt. How much tougher being with Jack was than any of your other children. How insecure it made you feel. You should tell him.

But. 

“How could I tell you all that and not sound like I’m angry at our child? Not sound like an awful mother?” You choke on the words. 

Harry stares at you with what looks like pity and you turn away. You didn’t want pity. You wanted help. You wanted him to understand. “You don’t sound like a horrible mother. You sound tired.” 

“What stopped you from telling him this?” Dr. Walsh prompts gently as you and Harry fall into silence. Her eyes flicker to Harry as he watches you with the same sad eyes. 

You shrug. “I just wanted him to notice. I wanted to feel like he still noticed me.” You let out a breath. “We love Jack, but Jack wasn’t exactly planned. We weren’t sure if we wanted a fourth and had only just begun talking about it. When I found out I was pregnant and figured out how excited I felt, I knew I wanted to keep him.” You explain to the therapist carefully. “We decided that we wanted him, but he would be our last one.”

You think of the doctors appointments and heavy warnings that a fourth pregnancy could wreck havoc on your body. 

“But I’m not twenty-three anymore and the pregnancy was really tough on me. And Harry knew. So he took care of the kids when I couldn’t and he planned vacations for me before I gave birth and it-” You breath catches. “It felt like you didn’t care anymore once I had him because I wasn’t in danger anymore. But Jack is stubborn and I was struggling.” 

Harry takes in a shaky breath and reaches out to steady your trembling hands. 

It’s a start. You guess. 

-

“I didn’t realize how tough Jack was on you.” Harry says quietly that night. You had been dreading sitting in the awkward silence. 

You shrug. “Babies are tough. Persephone was tough because we were so young. Serena and Oliver were tough because they were twins.” Your baby monitor makes a sound and you glance over to see Jack stretching his arms. 

You sigh and stand up. “Jack was… Jack was tough in a way I wasn’t expecting. Maybe it was because I had four kids all of the sudden or because you started working more. I was exhausted all the time.” 

You leave before he can say anything in response, but you know he’ll follow you to Jack’s room. You push the door open quietly and hear Jack’s soft giggles. 

“Hello, handsome.” You whisper as he looks up at you. “What’s got you awake?” 

You pick him up gently and bring him over to the rocking chair placed in the corner of the room. Harry leans against the door jam. 

You rock back and forth with Jack in your arms and Harry watched with gentle eyes. You look up as Harry begins to speak quietly. “I wish I could take everything back. Just… Redo this past year.” 

You look down at Jack and run a gentle finger over his cheek. “You can’t. You don’t get redos in real life.” 

The room is silent as you rock your baby back to sleep and Harry watches. 

-

We’ll be a fine line.

-

Notes: Title song Fine Line. This is really a filler for the next piece, I needed April to get to May :/

A few things; I have them staying together written. While this has been my plan since I begun writing this part & the next, if it’s something people wanted, I could do two different endings.

Like I said, I wrote this at a low place for me and had always imagined it as some type of closure that I never got from my parents situation or from my ex. Cheaters suck. But, some people do work through it. Some people can’t. That’s the beauty of our autonomy, we decide. I got a lot (and I mean a lot) of messages urging me to be mindful of impressionable people who may read this piece & with that I want to say; Your situation is not this one. Some cheaters will always be cheaters. This is not in anyway trying to convince you that a toxic relationship is okay. Or that cheating is okay. Please remember this is fiction and not meant to do anything other than entertain you! This is a piece I wrote & a piece whose ending I choose. Thank you for reading. I love every single person who read What Kind of Man and thought, I want more of this person’s writing.

(please do not be mean to me, I write for fun & am very emotional thank u)

[barnesandco]

Little Hands (II)

Series Masterlist

You, Bucky, and Anastasia pay Bruce Banner a visit. 

This is an entry for @star-spangled-bingo 2021. Word count: 1836. Square filled: “You don’t wanna know.”

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: More Sad Child. Needles, fear of. So much overthinking.

A/N: Gosh, I’m so glad I got this chapter edited in time. I hope you like it and I’m sorry for skipping out on y’all last week! To make up for it, there’ll be two updates this weekend, so look out for the next chapter tomorrow! Lmk what you thinkkkk

The Avengers Compound is every bit as spectacular as you could have possibly hoped, and yet you’re unable to fully appreciate it because of the sheer absurdity of the situation. Your hand is in the vice-tight grip of the supposed daughter of your neighbor, who happens to be an Avenger.

Said neighbor is pacing back and forth in front of you as you sit in Bruce Banner’s laboratory, with Anastasia beside you while you wait for Bruce to arrive. Ana is remarkably calm, her young features – the round cheeks, still-wet eyes – made mature by her abnormal silence. Something about her makes you think she’s used to this kind of tension. Something about her screams war-child. Perhaps this grip she has on you is the first demand she has made in a long time, the only tantrum she has ever been allowed to throw.

While you aren’t particularly experienced with children, you think you want her to feel safe with you, because it seems she hasn’t been elsewhere. Ana’s eyes flit around the room in the only behavioral indication of her youth – a childlike curiosity, shining in the face of this fancy, new place that gleams like a toy store. Every now and then, her gaze jumps back from the alien appearance of the lab to her father (?) who seems intent on wearing a hole in the tiles with his pacing.

It is beginning to wear on you: both Bucky’s pacing and Ana’s steadily increasing anxiety. He hasn’t said a word to her since he opened the envelope, only asked that you accompany him to the Compound seeing as Ana won’t go alone with him (You would have gone with him even if that hadn’t been so. Though the nature of your relationship is ambiguous at times, the strength of your friendship is not. You’ll figure this out. You won’t leave him alone). Clearly, there is some unspoken memory that has him convinced the claim in the letter is plausible. Neither of you would be here if it wasn’t.

Bucky doesn’t talk too much about his past. He has offered a few of the shattered shards of his past reflection to you in the few night-caped moments you have hammered on his door upon hearing shouts across the hall. Between that, and what you know thanks to Black Widow’s file dump, the big Avengers’ in-fight in Europe last summer, the consequent resolution to the Accords, and Bucky’s publicized pardon, you can guess at the traumas that lurk in the depths of him.

They’re traumas that are closer to the surface of his eyes now, pulled forth by this new life, this little soul that has no business with such dark things, and the implication that this holds. Ana, innocent as she may be, is an insinuation of what else might have been unwillingly torn from Bucky.

You don’t want to think about it, because it hurts to do so, because you care for him, in many, many ways. It seems that Anastasia is also starting to tire of it. With every step Bucky takes, her hand tightens on yours. Fortunately, soon, the door to your left opens, and Bruce Banner enters his lab.

He's appropriately disheveled for this hour in the morning. Under his pristine lab coat, one of his shirt buttons is done into the wrong buttonhole, but his eyes are alert, frantic even, though you get the feeling that this is a man always on the edge of escape.

Bucky lets out a breath he seems to have been holding at the same time as his shoulders tense. “Thanks for coming so early, Doctor Banner. I wouldn’t have called if—”

“You never call, so I know it must have been important. But it looks like I’ve kept you waiting anyways,” Banner says, his eyes widening as they move from Bucky, to you, to the little girl at your side. “What’s the matter? You know I’m not a medical doctor, right?” He asks, putting a work bench between himself and his visitors.

Bucky clears his throat, and doesn’t quite know how to say what he needs to. After a few more seconds of hesitation, in which Banner waits patiently, Bucky extracts the envelope containing the fateful letter from his pocket, and hands it over.

The furrows in Doctor Banner’s brow multiply spontaneously, and when he looks up, Bucky gestures with a subtle nod of his head to Ana. He has yet to explain your presence, but you think Doctor Banner is a smart man. It won’t take more than Anastasia’s tight hold on you for him to put two and two together. Sometimes, a scared child is just that, no matter how unusual.

Most of their ensuing conversation is held at a lowered volume, set by Bucky, probably out of courtesy for Ana. You can hear snatches and phrases, most of them confirmations of things you had expected and some, not so much. Lobby security cam footage… fingerprints… paternity test… serum… blood sample…

By the end of it, some facsimile of a plan seems to have evolved between the two men, because Doctor Banner turns away with a smile and you, taking it as a welcome, stand and approach him. He rounds his desk and shakes your hand, exchange introductions though he hardly needs one, and then, he crouches, the way Bucky had, and offers Ana his hand.

“Hi, I’m Bruce.”

“Ana.”

Bucky steps forward. “Anastasia—” the name is clumsy on his tongue, because he’s scared. You can see it, and you hope he knows you are, too, but you’ll stand with him regardless, “—Bruce is going to check that you aren’t sick.”

“I’m okay.”

“We need to be sure.”

“Okay.”

Banner pulls out a chair, and you’re about to sit Ana down on it, when she pushes you gently into it, and sits on your lap. You can do nothing but wrap your arms gently around her, so she doesn’t fall. The apology in Bucky’s eyes is melted with a sympathetic smile. It’s alright. A child developing an inexplicable affection for you is not the worst thing to ever happen to you.

Ana is warm and a comfortable weight on you, and you hold her as loosely as you can, feel the movement of her chest against your arms with each breath. Her hair is a mix of wool-thick and silk-soft against your chin, smelling faintly of the sugar-sweet strawberry scent found in children’s shampoos. Someone took care of her.

Someone she isn’t asking for. What kind of child doesn’t ask for their mother, past the initial, momentary heartbreak? How has she come to terms with the apparent change in custody, when the new custodian hasn’t?

Whether Bucky is to be the new guardian has yet to be determined. You can see Bruce pulling out a syringe and preparing a vial. You wonder if she’s scared of needles. Bucky flinches at the sight of them, even now. He’s said that his disdain for the cold clinicism of medicine dates back to long before Hydra. Medical equipment reminds him of worrying that his best friend was going to die. It’s the fear he has harbored longest, longer than his fear of war, of gunshots in the dark, of blood on his hands.

Ana shares it. When she sees the needle, she screams, and Bucky lunges forward to help you hold her in place. She’s so, so much stronger than you thought and while you can hold her limbs, her head thrashes about, and so does her torso, making it impossible for Bruce to get to the inside of her elbow.

In the chaos, your eye lands on a trinket on a nearby desk, sitting there like a peace offering, literally beckoning to you. “Hey, Ana,” you whisper-yell, trying not to get hit in the jaw by her head. “Do you like animals? Cats? I have a friend who has lots and lots of cats, and I could take you to see them.” It’s working. You’re out of breath, but she’s quieting. Most little kids love cats. You love cats. “I think Bruce has a toy cat. See, over there?” You dare to lift an arm to point at the maneki-neko on the table. Ana stills. Her eyes follow the hypnotic movement, and the syringe at Ana’s elbow does its job.

When the bandage is put on, you and Bucky let go with twin nervous chuckles of relief and disbelief, and Bruce puts the vial in a machine. Ana hops off to approach the desk, and bats at the paw waving at her like a mirror of it.

“We should have the results soon. I think the others are starting to wake up, if you want to say hi,” Bruce says, taking off his glasses and wiping them on the corner of his lab coat.

“Maybe later,” you say, seeing that Bucky is hardly in any position to converse casually with his teammates right now. Not to mention, it’d be a lot of work to explain Ana, especially before having any sort of confirmation of who she is.

Bucky pulls out a chair next to you while Bruce opens a laptop a few counters away, and an x-ray machine lifts its head behind Ana, who has moved on from the lucky cat, and is stroking the leaves of a flowering plant.

“Peace lily,” Bucky says, startling you. You look at him, the bags under his eyes, the way he almost looks his age right now, and fight the urge to hold his hand. “It’s the first flower I bought for my apartment. I put it in a community garden after a nightmare about the war. Didn’t feel right for me to have it.”

He's talking about the Second World War. The war always refers to his first war. You think he’s talking about peace, and not the lily, after what he’s done. After what he was forced to do.

“It’s not your fault,” is an automatic response, and never enough, especially for the war, because at least he was in his own senses, even if he was drafted. It always elicits a self-deprecating laugh, but right now, he’s too tired for even that.

Right now, he can only watch as the x-ray camera follows Ana around the room, from the peace lilies, to an Amazon elephant’s ear, to a strange sculpture made from Coca-Cola cans glued together by what looks like spider-webs.

Too soon, Bruce calls you over to his work station. You follow Bucky, one eye on Ana.

“She’s yours,” Bruce says, and Bucky inhales sharply. Now, you do take his hand, stroke the metal ridges with your calloused thumb. “But she has disproportionately more of your DNA than her mother’s.”

“What does that mean?”

Bruce wrings his hands. “She’s not a complete clone, but nearly a genetic copy. 80% of a clone, if you will.”

Bucky is growing increasingly uncomfortable, shifting next to you. “How’s that possible?”

“You don’t wanna know.”

[mitsukui]

honey droplets | b.w.

Pairing: Bill Weasley x reader.

Summary: when the full moon hits the night sky, Bill can’t help but suffer a little. Thanks Merlin you are always there, right beside him.

Word Count: 1,3k.

Warnings: none! Bill and the reader bath together and mention sex, but it contains no sexual content below.

Disclaimer: none of the pictures used in the edit below belong to me; I simply put them together.

A/N: feeling a bit iffy about this one, so I’d love to hear your thoughts on it! Domhnall Gleeson’s existence offends me in a whole new level. I’d give him my soul if he asked for it. My askbox is open for your opinions, thoughts and requests. Thank you so much for your time and attention!  ♡

Masterlist!

A tall and well-built figure could be seen standing in the balcony of their shared apartment. The full moonlight hit his face, and one could see he was a very handsome long-haired man. He had a few scars on his face, which strangely only made him look even better. However, he carried a weary expression on his face.

Bill Weasley, once again, could not sleep.

And you sensed this. You sensed he was not there, right beside you.

You woke up in the middle of the night, and searched for him with your hands patting his side of the bed. The fact that he was not there did not make you startled. Somehow, you had grown used to the fact that, once a month, he would have trouble sleeping. Sometimes, he did not even sleep at all. Such a thing shattered your heart into a billion of pieces.

After being attacked by Fenrir Greyback, Bill had not exactly turned into a werewolf. He had been lucky enough only to develop some wolfish traits; for instance, he would rather have his steaks rare every now and then, and his body had gotten a bit more of hair, which you absolutely loved.

He was also unable to have good nights of sleep during the full moon, something he had loathed ever since the attack. It was difficult for him to exactly pinpoint what he hated so much about it. Perhaps, it was the fact that the sleepless nights reminded him of how he had been marked for eternity. Losing sleep was plainly annoying as well. Or, maybe, there was a connection with how you would always stay up to keep him company.

That night was not any different.

Alongside the cool breeze that hit his shirtless body, he felt your warm arms wrapping him in a back hug and your cheek being pressed against him. The combination of cool and warm touches caused shivers to go down his spine. He smiled to himself, but guilt soon started to run in his veins.

“Go back to sleep, darling.”

“Not without you.”

“You know I can’t sleep.” His voice manifested both frustration and firmness, especially because he did not want you to face the morning to come feeling tired over him. “And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“I can always try, right?” You leaned back, breaking the comforting connection between your skins. Your hands traveled to the sides of his body, and gave them a light squeeze, silently asking him to turn around and look at you.

His Prussian blue eyes, inherited from his father, found yours in a matter of seconds, and a grin suddenly took over your lips. You absolutely adored his eyes and, if given permission, you would spend hours getting lost in them. 

While looking at his eyes, you saw deep and beautiful oceans, summer skies, and balmy waves.

Bill Weasley made you feel like you were in heaven.

“Let me take care of you.”

He slowly gave in to your request, and accepted to be taken care of. With your hands guiding him to wherever you went, you did your best to distract his mind off his frustration a bit. You talked about things that had happened at work, or about the cute baby you had seen on the streets earlier that week.

Just like that, before any of you could realize, the old bathtub that occupied most of your small bathroom was filled with hot water and bubbles. Taking baths together was a pivotal element of your ritual for sleepless nights. You would usually spend quite a long time in the water. You would talk about unimportant things, and he would laugh carelessly at your high-spirited personality.

At that moment, both of your bodies were submerged in the temporary alleviation the water offered. Despite being taller and more muscular than you, Bill had his back leaned against your chest, being extremely careful not to hurt you. Your fingers ran across his fiery long locks, and you pressed your lips gently on his temples.

“Damn, William, you’re packing.” The vibration of his laugh resonated in your chest, and you laughed along with him, feeling relieved over his relaxation. “Your significant other must be very lucky, huh? I bet that, having such a fat cock like that, you’re a love machine.”

“I’m a fuck machine.”

You laughed loudly and even snored a little bit, bringing fresh warmth to his heart. After murmuring he was, actually, ridiculous, you decided it was time to leave the bathtub, due to the falling temperature of the water.

He was the first one to stand up, and he offered you his hand as a support for you to stand up as well. In no time, you were dry and your bodies were covered by matching pajamas.

“Aww, how cheesy!” As you stared at your own reflections in the mirror, you realized how he looked a bit better. He still carried the same weary expression from before, but he did not look as dreadful as before.

“Honestly, you tear up my reputation.” He shook his head to himself, but it was crystal clear he was not upset over anything that was happening then. It was amusing how Bill held a somewhat intimidating image, but still managed to be so soft and romantic.

Deep down inside, you were wholeheartedly thankful for his behaviors, and for him never blocking you out. Although there were moments when he dismissed your cares at first, this would never last for too long. He had always accepted and embraced all of you. Even your childish comments, your desire to wear tacky matching pajamas, and your constant tries to help him as much as you could.

“Be right back. Gonna prepare ourselves some warm milk, because I’m dating a big baby.” You stood on your tiptoes and pecked his lips before leaving the bathroom.

You left him with a smile on his lips, which, however, soon disappeared. There was still a pang of guilt in his chest, but he could not lie and say he was not feeling any better after sharing a bath with you. Your touch was always so gentle and caring, and you did not seem to be bothered by his situation by any means.

How on Earth had he gotten to be so favoured, even after so many bad events that took place in his life?

A few minutes passed by, and you returned to his presence with two mugs, one on each hand. Your beaming face assured him everything was alright, and that you got his back no matter what. You would be by his side even in the middle of the night, after having an exhausting day at work, or with your heart overwhelmed by your own problems and feelings.

You would always be by his side because you loved him.

“There you go, babe.” One of your hands gave him a black mug with a steaming liquid inside of it. Another part of your ritual was to end the night with a mug of warm milk with some drops of honey. You had read somewhere that honey could help with sleeping problems, and that stuck with you for a long time. You had always eagerly grasped at things that could help him somehow.

Your own mug was taken to your lips as you sipped the drink, and your chest felt full of a sympathetic warmth. Bill, on the other hand, did not sip his drink and this did not fall into ignorance for you. When you were about to ask him what was wrong, his voice echoed in the room first.

“Come here.”

You stepped closer to him with a puzzled look on your face, but he only dismissed it with a charming wink. His fingers ran along your jawline, and his hand cupped your face right after it. He pulled you closer to him, lips soon connecting to yours.

After dedicating one or two minutes to a kiss in which you had to focus on both your lips moving in sync, and mugs being balanced in your hands, you broke away. Your eyes found each other once more, and your nuzzled your nose up against his. He rested his forehead on yours, his next words being softly whispered.

“You taste like honey.”