𝐤

Writer-Ish? Fucked My Way 2 The Top By Lana Del Rey™️

[nckovasangel]

⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ | Lamenting —﹒ Dominick Kardos ﹒⟢

“ You are killing me, and you are keeping me from dying. That is love. ” ⟢ Mahmoud Darwish

⊱ Tags: OC X OC — Kamilla Delara Yarrows | Not Proofread | Also, just for some clarity, Dominick is in fact the son of Hungarian immigrants & Kamilla is ethnically Anglo-Persian. Trying new styles bare with me.

The day had gone better than either of us had originally anticipated. Vaughn’s eighth birthday was a resounding success—and thank Christ for that. He hadn’t even asked for a party, just wanted me and his mom to get along for a picnic at the beach on a school day so there wouldn’t be any people around. He had a cinnamon roll instead of a birthday cake and cheese-and-cucumber sandwiches from an Hermes wicker tote bag. We’d used the public beach grills to fry up some burgers — after a significant, borderline neurotic, amount of cleaning by Kamilla.

We played several games of Volleyball when the sun was at its peak. Vaughn and Kamilla had begun crafting a sand castle by the time I was put on cooking duty. And then we’d had one last dip in the water before eating. The summer sun had finally begun to dip beyond the horizon at around eight pm when Vaughn began dozing off on his mother’s lap. The sky bled from a bright yellow into a bruised orange and lavender as dusk settled in the air. And even though the slow-to-cool sand was still burning my palms slightly, I didn’t move. My eyes traced the jagged spikes of the Mt. Tallac range just past the lake as it began to cut through the golden-hued sun.

“I like this.” Vaughn mumbles. “When mommy and daddy get along.”

“Yeah?” Milla asks, kissing his curls.

“Mhm. Thank you for making my birthday good.”

Jesus Christ, have mercy on me. Why was this kid so adorable? I cannot physically cope. The kid got the best, and I mean all the best, traits from his mother and me, and somehow none of the worst. My throat tightened, I couldn't help it. Vaughn did so much for me and the boy didn't even know it.

I grew up so much with him. The kid taught me what it means to be brave and composed. What a man ought to be. I remember the nights when Kamilla would be sleeping next to me and I’d lie awake thinking about the man I wanted to raise. Someone bright, loyal and secure in all aspects of his life. One with a level shoulder who showed up for his people. I knew I wanted my boy to be dependable and brave and masculine in his protection but feminine in his devotion. And I knew, if I wanted my kid to be those things. I had to be those things. I had to show him those things. What it meant to be a real man worth being proud of. But most of all, I knew that if he wasn't someone I could be proud of, then it'd be my own fault.

But Vaughn ended up better than I could have ever imagined. He had more maturity and sense at eight than I think I had at twice his age. But he’s still a kid. A happy kid. And knowing that that was the only thing she wanted for him, for him to be happy, and for him to be the happiest kid I know. That makes me feel good. As it does her, I'm sure.

“We get along, Vaughn.” Milla croons into her son’s head, sharing her warmth. “Most of the time.” That caveat made me smile.

I choose not to say anything, just allowing the quiet sounds of the waves lapping to fill the space around us. Curling an arm around her shoulder, I gently rub small tentative circles on it. It felt instinctive—I hadn't genuinely considered the gesture before I did it. Perhaps some touch-starved part of me needed to be physically connected at this moment. To indulge in the domesticity of the moment. Vaughn yawns against his mother’s chest, though he was probably half-asleep already. The kid looked blissed out. His dark strands were tousled and mussed as they had dried. Dustings of sand clung to his eyelashes, which I carefully wiped away with my thumb—not wanting them to get into his eyes.

“There’s my sweet boy,” Kamilla whispers. “I’m so proud of you, you know? You’re so kind and gentle.”

Oh fuck me, like I wasn't dying as is. Kamilla had always made an effort to lull Vaughn to sleep by purring sweet praises and affirmation ever since she was pregnant with him. It was the most lovely and special thing to witness. Especially when you never got it as a kid. And it may or may not have resulted in a second-child scare because those maternal instincts of hers do some dangerous things to me. The woman was a terrifying heiress to a massive hotel tycoon—brutal on the negotiation front, cutthroat at business and generally never stood fr any bullshit. But lord, was she tender and sweet when she wanted to be. And she only ever wanted to be like that with our kid—or me, but that mostly ended years ago.

Vaughn's head lolls on her chest and his lids squeeze shut. He's already drifting off and that may have been the final nail in the coffin for him. He's always been a sucker for his momma’s sweet words I could feel my own eyes getting a little misty at the sight. My heart was in my throat, but I managed to swallow it down. Personal biases aside, I genuinely believed that she had always been the best mother—tender and protective and so damn loving, as if she was making up for all the shitty parents out there in the world. Hell, pretty sure just watching it healed my inner child.

Vaughn made a soft, sleepy sound of acknowledgment into her shoulder, snuggling closer, as she kissed even more kind words into his skin.

“Momma and daddy love you so much. The most in the world.” I blow out a ragged breath. Another sound that's a bit more like a tiny snore escapes him, his chest rising and falling slowly and rhythmically as sleep finally takes him into its arms.

Careful moments of silence follow that give me enough time to indulge in her presence.

The lake had gone almost perfectly still by then, the last of the evening breeze barely disturbing the water’s surface. The gentle breeze carried the salty scent over, brushing Vaughn’s curls out of his face in its wake. Somewhere farther down the beach, a family was packing up their things, the occasional muffled laugh carrying across the water before disappearing into the dusk.

I wondered if we sounded like that today. If we sounded happy and familial and whether that sent pangs of envy sparking down someone else’s spine as it did mine. Because after this was over, and either she or I got up, the mirage crumbles into the bleak reality that we were just co-parents. That this sense of domestic bliss would only ever be temporary because the woman next to me and I were too damn stubborn and flawed to work out well with one another. Or perhaps we were just young. Young and dumb and now old and regretful.

Kamilla was warm beside me. I hadn’t realised how close we’d gotten until I looked down and saw her head resting against my shoulder, and that my hand had moved up higher to sit more comfortably on her shoulder, keeping her close. Soft waves of brown hair had fallen loose from that clipped-up style she’d done with it earlier in the day, dark strands spilling over her shoulder and brushing against my wrist whenever the breeze picked up. There were still tiny grains of sand caught in it. A few had found their way onto her cheek, too, though I didn’t dare reach over and brush them away. Always prancing on eggshells around this one. Inhaling a long breath, the smell of salt water and sunscreen rolls off of her, but it hardly covers her natural scent of water lilies and iris that typically radiated off of her.

“He’s so wonderful.” The reverence in her voice that prickling sensation behind my eyes flare up again. I can't bring myself to look away from the kid, his soft little face nuzzling into her belly. It makes my heart twist, but I still manage to rasp out a reply.

"He gets that from you, baby."

My gaze drifts to her face, finally. God, she's beautiful. Even now, with her smudged mascara darkening her under eyes, and the rest of her makeup having faded over the course of the day, she was still impossibly pretty. It was hard to wrap my mind around it at times.

"You've always been good with him." I murmur. "You were made to be a mom."

Kamilla’s throat bobs but when she speaks again, it’s not a reply to my words and something else entirely. “He’s starting to look more like you. If I were a betting woman, I’d say by the time he’s a teenager, he’ll look less like me and more like your carbon copy.”

Maybe it’s a bit obnoxious, the surge of pride that engulfs my heart in a balmy embrace. He was born with these massive brown eyes that took up most of his face, and the same wispy long lashes and button nose that his mom has. Brown hair that we both shared but it was closer to hers in hue when he was smaller and has changed from that chocolate brown to match my woody brown. And I suspected her hypothesis would be correct and as he loses his baby face, he’ll look a bit more like me. Can’t say I hate the idea.

“I can live with that as long as he keeps your eyes.”

kamilla snorts, “Fortunately, as long as he doesn’t go for coloured contacts, I don’t think that they’re going anywhere.”

I can't bite back the smile that tugs at my lips. Reaching a hand down absentmindedly, I rub slow circles on the bottom of Vaughn's foot, dusting the sand off, before pulling my gaze back over to her.

"Smart mouth." I murmur, letting my eyes wander over her features. "He gets that from you too."

“Yeah, well, it’ll serve him good. Witt makes the world go round.”

“Oh? And here I thought the old saying was money makes the world go around.” I retort, raising an eyebrow at her. She smiles back.

“Money can't buy wit, but the witty can make money one way or another.”

“I suppose it's wit and looks, then,” I correct with a small smirk, leaning my weight back on my arms. But then my expression softens again as I watch Vaughn sleep. “Kid’s got both though.”

I look the two of them over. “You did good with him, Milla, baby. Really fucking good.”

“As much as I’d love to take all the credit, you know that we both did good, Dominick. It wasn't just me.”

I open my mouth to argue, but then I catch her eye, and the words suddenly freeze in my throat. There’s a quiet pleading in her gaze, as if she truly wants—no, desperately needs—me to agree with her. With a sigh of resignation, I finally relent. "Alright. Fine. We did good." Kamilla hums softly, nuzzling into my side as she used to do when she was pregnant with Vaughn all those years ago, her breath warm against my skin and her eyes shimmering with a mixture of weariness and contentment.

“I’m gonna say something but you have to promise to forget about it by morning.”

"Alright," I murmur, turning my head slightly to press a kiss into her hair. Apparently, her crooning was the only signal I needed to get more affectionate with her. "Promise." I mean it too. Whatever she's about to say? It stays between us tonight and disappears by sunrise.

My thumb brushes along the curve of her shoulder as I wait for whatever confession or random thought that's gonna escape next from that beautiful mouth of hers.

“I miss us. I miss you. I hate that we didn’t work out and partly blame myself the most.” The last part was a barely audible whisper but it may as well have been yelled at me through a microphone. Sitting up straighter, I brush the sand off my hands before cupping her cheeks in my hands.

“Oh baby, it wasn't just you. We both fucked up, mama,”

[nckovasangel]

⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ | First Day Of The New Year

Irish All-Stars: Kian Holland

Tags: Kian has transferred in his final year upon getting a scholarship to Tommen—particularly a football (soccer) sports scholarship.

Thursday, 27th August

Induction Day

Tommen College.

I reread the sign bolted to the black metal-pipe front gate over and over again, hanging over the swarm of sixth years filing in for their final year. They’re all dressed in polished shoes and new designer bags, walking in little groups with their friends that they’ve known since their first year. Maybe even infant school.

I don’t share that luxury. It’s my first year here, and none of the kids I went to infant school with could ever afford to attend a posh private school. None of the kids from my estate either. Tommen was a school that predated the countries independent existence. It was most definitely not a school that casually allowed children from government subsidised housing through these gates often. Which means that I am undoubtedly and indelibly alone. This was the year my scholarship finally came through; the year I was hand-picked as one of the lucky six.

My stomach twists—followed by a surge of self-annoyance. What did I have to be anxious about? It’s just a school.

A school you don’t belong in.

I do. I earned my spot here.

I got through the interviews, the written exams, the teacher references, and even played ninety minutes against a school from Inniscara while a panel of strangers watched my every touch. And after all that, a board full of rich fucks in pricey suits and a condescending desire for social mobility, chose me.

So I belong.

I draw in a deep breath and take a step towards the gate. Just as some prick slams into my shoulder as he walks past, hard enough to knock me sideways and shameless enough not to even look back and mumble out a half-assed apology.

Immediately, anger curls low in my gut and, like a scorpion, spits its venom throughout my body. My chest tightens and my throat closes and I feel the unforgettable sensation of my knuckles prickling begging me to make contact with the back of the guy’s head. Maybe knock him off his balance and shove his face into the brick quarter-wall hedge border. And smash it against it. Again. And again. Until his nose bleeds and a tooth, or two, launches out of his mouth. Maybe he’ll bite down on his tongue enough to rip it out? I hope it hurts. I wanted it to hurt. Rich fucker probably saw my second-hand uniform with the scuffed-up trouser legs and a blazer that was too big horizontally but too small vertically, and figured I was an easy target.

I wanted him to regret making that assumption. To lament the fact that he was ever small minded enough to ever think that and act on it. He didn’t deserve to have all his teeth in after that, fucking bastard. He’s not better than me. He’s just swanky scum and I wanted to discard it.

I wanted to…

Act like my dad.

My balled fists relax immediately, and I only realise that one hand was on his shoulder, digging into his crisp, clean blazer with enough strength that I’d be able to yank him back. His head is tilted towards me, eyebrows digging deep down towards the ground. “What do you think you’re doing?” He spits at me. “You walked into me.”

“Yeah?” My pulse still pounds against my temples, but I still let my hand fall off of his shoulder as clarity soothes the fire sparking inside of me. I shove both hands into my pockets before they can do something stupid, and this time I barge past him. “You did it first,” I spit back at him. “Watch where you’re fucking going.”

Running off of the mini-adrenaline rush coursing through me, I walk with my head held a little higher and an actual feel for the Don Toliver lyrics playing through my knock-off AirPods.

Past the gate, the grounds open up fully, the trees that once shielded the massive, castle-like building now gone, leaving me in the imposing, mountainous shadow of Tommen.

I adjust my blazer again. Though, it still doesn't feel quite right. It’s either too tight across my back or too loose at my wrists. Why can't it just fit? Why can't I just fit?

Because you're not meant to be here, Kian.

I am.

I proved it.

I…

“Welcome back sixth years, you're form classes are all listed on the bulletin boards, make your way there for your individual timetables and full induction.”

I did as the nasal-voiced teacher instructed, near the grand staircase, hidden behind a swarm of navy-uniformed kids, where I assumed the list was located. Another annoying pang of anxiety shoots through me like an electric current—what if my name wasn't on the list? What if this was some stupid misunderstanding and I wasn't supposed to come in today? What if none of the teachers anticipated me?

The irrational anxiety builds even though they have no grounds to stand on. I got the emails, I got the confirmation, but the anxiety keeps following me around like a personal raincloud—forever succumbing me to its bleak shadow.

Still, it's slightly soothed when I read my name on the list next to a classroom.

Kian Holland — 17B

I read it once. And then twice just to make sure before I look around at the signs that point down various hallways; different corridors opposite the grand hall. 8-11A were the classrooms that lined the courtyard. And the B classes were up the grand double staircase. Which, as if this school could be any more pretentious, had a blood red carpet running through the middle of the dark wood that was probably older than my last name.

I quickly followed the crowd who was swarming up the stairs, trying to avoid having to interact with anyone. Frankly, I didn’t trust myself not to get into a fight or to throw up the nerves that bubbled inside of me so this was the safest bet. Total isolation.

Kids were tall here. Taller than me and taller than I was used to. I wasn’t short by most metrics but compared to the rest of the kids here? It was nothing to write home about. The lads at my old school would hardly believe it, I was always the tallest kid in infant school and primary and one of the tallest at BCS too. But not at Tommen. Boys here were as tall as the archways they walked under.

They were strong, too, bulky, with good meat on their bones for the most part. I imagine a lot of them would be on the rugby team but if I were a betting boy I’d say that the swimmers, footballers, and hockey players, were probably also burlier than I was used to. I don’t think I mind that they’re all bigger than me, I doubt that most of them have ever thrown a punch with intention and “vim” — as my primary school teacher, Mrs Doyle, would put it. Petty school kid fights here probably wouldn’t hold a candle to the kids who punched and fought for their lives or the kids who had nothing to lose anyway.

I also think my lankiness is probably a good part of the reason I got this scholarship anyway—with how burly these boys are, they didn’t have the same speed and agility I had. Which made them poor strikers. My nan always complained that I was all “knees and elbows” and that wouldn’t get a boy anywhere. She was wrong, it got me here.

It’s well and good having one or two that are big so they can slam into the other team but you need one or two that are speedy and brisk and can end up from one side of the pitch to the other obscenely quick. And one thing about me was that I was a runner.

I ran a lot.

From a lot.

But I wouldn’t run from this. I owed it to myself. I deserved to put myself first for the first time. No matter what they say. And it’s that thought that has me opening the classroom door with an extra burst of confidence with my head held high as a mountain and shoulders as relaxed as a lounging lion. My hands were clenching up in my pockets where they were balled but that didn’t matter as long as I looked unbreakable. Imperishable. I am—I will be. Or at the very least, they will think that I am and that’s all I need to survive.

“Fake it until you make it, Ki. The rest will come naturally.”

Oh I was faking it. But I was also determined to make it.

Immediately when I step into the room I’m overcome with the scent of stale, old books that had sat on shelves for years. There was also the woody scent of sharpened pencils and something faintly citrusy. Like tangerines. It was sweet and tangy and complemented the room pretty well.

I get my bearings, eyes darting across the room taking inventory of the classroom, the layout, the students, and the teacher sat smiling at the front. This classroom matched the aesthetic of the building, with old English-style windows and doors lining the walls, accompanied by pictures and posters of different quotes by various poets. The back wall was lined with a massive bookshelf that extended wall to wall, filled to the brim with all sorts of books—a cocktail of leather-bound editions and Art Nouveau covers, as well as more modern glossy covers. Hardbacks and paperbacks that make the wooden planks they sat on bow under their weight.

But one thing remained consistent: it was all poetry. I gathered as much from the bold writing that had “BUKOWSKI” bound onto the spine of one book on the furthest left-hand side of the bookshelf. It was the name of a poet occupying the spine of a book in big, bold, very intelligible writing. The collection went up to “ZHIWEN” on the furthest shelf to the right.

I walk up to the line forming beside the teacher’s desk. She was seating everyone personally in a specific seating plan. That much was obvious because nobody was sitting next to the same gender. It was a boy-girl order. Not that I minded, my old history teacher and biology teacher had the same pattern.

Continuing the sizing up of my classroom, someone new entirely captures my attention like I’m the life of a soldier and they’re the valley of death. That’s a Tennyson reference.

She had such striking features that it was almost unnerving. Soft, pale skin with cheeks dusted a delicate hue of baby pink. Her face was small and heart-shaped only made more pronounced by the widow's peak hairline. Her hair was a dark murky brown that could look black in winter and a decadently dark chocolate brown in the summer. Her face was lithe—not boney but more willowy. The cheekbones were high, the jawline tight and her chin small but it had a dimple in it which was playing peek-a-boo as her pinky mouth flexed in that pout she was wearing. Modern-day Snow White had her eyes downcast rereading the piece of paper that sat on the desk in front of her, her eyes lashed long enough that it looked like they were brushing the tips of her cheeks.

Beautiful—in a slightly waifish and haunting sort of way. She didn’t look entirely solid, like she was present and an actual girl sat in the second row of her classroom, reading over her new year schedule. That felt too real. She didn’t. The setting and task felt too human and existing but she did not. As brash of an ogre I felt for staring at her, something deep seated and innate inside of me wouldn’t let me look sway. It forbade me and I was too cowardly to fight back so I let myself watch. Until she must’ve felt my eyes burning through her and looked up. Placid midnight blue eyes that took up half of her face stared at me. I stared back. She looked at me harder and matched her.

It wasn’t until my turn in the Que came that I lowered my gaze to the smooth-faced teacher in front of me. Most likely she was in her early thirties with just faint crows feet wrinkling her otherwise wise-looking face. Her brown eyes look at me expectedly through the lenses of her gold-framed glasses. “And what’s your name?”

“Uh..Kian, Kian Holland.”

She looks back down at the clipboard sat before her, letting out a faint “ah” sound when she must’ve found my name which had been marked with a gold asterisk to label me as a scholarship recipient.

“Right, Kian, you’ll be sitting on the second row on the left side. Next to Miss Clodagh Kavanagh over there.” Following her gaze I return to the person I was looking down moments ago. This time at least I knew her name.

Clodagh.

It was a pretty name. Clodagh like the river in the Comeragh Mountains.

Clodagh Kavanagh — the name of the most poetry inducing girl I’d ever laid eyes on.

[nckovasangel]

⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ | 📍Paloma Beach, Saint Jean Cap Ferrat

ׁ ♯ ׅ Regius Rosengård Akademi; Malachai Moreau! ׁ ׅ ‎ꫂ᭪݁ . ݁⚜️

ׁ ♯ ׅ Tags: Not proof read, sexual references, teasing, an arranged marriage

The Paloma Beach sun warms your skin, casting tendrils of sunlight scorching your body, tanning your skin. Rosengård has broken up for the summer last week and your family, as well as the Moreau’s were already on the French beach, renting villas next to each other. So has been the case for as long as you could remember, the only year you hadn’t spent the hot months with the family of blondes was four years ago when Malachai had lost his grandfather a few days before school ended. Every year before, and since, has been spent in close proximity with your future in-laws.

Emerging from the water, he looks almost statuesque, in a Greco-Roman god-like way. Like how one might portray a modern Hermes or Apollo: tanned, sun-caressed skin and blonde, sopping, swept-back hair, every hard muscle and rigid, sharp bone structure only fed into the common belief that Malachai Moreau was a very beautiful man.

And your betrothed husband since you were practically infants, go figure.

A harmless deal from one multi-millionaire, nearing billionaire, family to another. Your quintessential case of realpolitik except for the fact that this wasn't the Middle Ages and neither your family nor the Moreau’s were titled aristocrats. Just wealthy bourgeoisie. But one does suppose, especially if you are Malachai’s mother, that if this way of life was good enough for the Medici family, then it is surely good enough for them. Hence why, as outdated and inhuman as it may seem to the outer world, it is perfectly reasonable and rational to anyone in your tax bracket.

“How’s my betrothed doing?” Malachi says, bringing every soaking wet inch of his 6’4 frame over to you with the smuggest, most patronising aura that could be. Snapping your book shut and discreetly hiding the cover, you slide your glasses up your face to perch them on your very nice and dry hair. Some people could pull off the soaking wet hair like Jasmine Tookes or Bella Hadid, you could not. Especially not next to a man who looked like that.

You squint up at him, shielding your eyes from the sun’s cruel glares with your hand. “I’m okay.” Malachai lifts your legs, stealing their spot on your lounger, before lowering your feet onto his lap, letting you stretch over him. “What about you? It’s really hot.”

He hums, gently squeezing your feet absentmindedly. He’d always been affectionate like that, in fact, you’d never seen him not be touchy or adverse to tender displays of kindness or acts of service. Even though neither of you were particularly close before recently, he’d always attended events with his arm around you or on you, grabbing you drinks and dancing unprompted.

He did what one would expect of a husband. It’s only up until recently he’s began to mean it. Though, that doesn’t mean he’s teasing you any less.

A stupidly charming grin crosses his plush lips, stretching his taut cheeks and making his dimples dig deep into his skin. “Are you talking about the weather or your book?”

Your cheeks warm immediately and fight the urge to roll your head back against the pillowy headrest and just ignore him until he leaves—like he’s a bear, maybe if you play dead, he’ll leave you alone.

Last September he’d come into your dorm room to ask about a charity gala your family was hosting in the winter. He’d just come back from Polo practice and you were finishing your meeting for the environmental advocacy club. So, like a normal person, you told him to stay put and that you’d be there as soon as possible.

But, much to your misfortune, Malachai turned out to be a little sleuth and incredibly nosy and took the apt opportunity to invade your privacy and have a gander around your dorm and your belongings. Everything seemed normal—you were a perfectly ordinary extraordinary girl. Until, he peeked into your bedside bottom drawer where he was met with a questionable title and covered book.

Dirty Little Secret

And the cover was an older, greying man with elegant glasses and big meaty hands covering the mouth of a more youthful and perky woman. The body parts were exaggerated and the outfits judicially chosen to accentuate those features. A tight white blouse with the top few buttons undone so the lace bra underneath was peeking out. And the trousers on the man tight enough to show a significant sized bulge in his dark pants.

Long story short, he peeked into it and the first chapter was some crazy, wild toe-curling smut. Gobsmacked wasn’t nearly as an accurate description of what he felt. There was no way, not a chance, that his sweet, normie little fiancée was secretly a crazy horny little perv who read books like this.

The first chapter was detailing semi-public voyeuristic sex where they were using the camera in his office to record personal porn for themselves.

The author had even prefaced the book by saying that it’s not about accuracy, it’s about creating more stimulating and female-centred content for pleasure. It was literary porn. And now he was a man on a mission, there’s no way she just had one of these. Thirteen year old Malachai watched the same video twice. He searched in her closet, on her bookshelves, only to find stacks and stacks of these books under her bed all organised alphabetically and cross referenced by kinks.

Ever since then, he’d been teasing you more, infatuated with you almost. You weren’t the boring fiancée, it was the first part of your real personality he’d finally seen and was hooked instantaneously. The good girl with nothing to hide was boring. The good girl with a dirty mind and a mouthy attitude was so much more his wavelength.

“What are you talking about? I’m not reading those books in public.”

“Why not?”

“What do you mean ‘why not?’ Because I’m not a degenerate.”

He scoffs at you. Those pretty blue eyes matching the same shade as the free ocean behind him. The urge to drown was strong. But pride was stronger, so when he leans forward to kiss you, you avert your head, while also slapping your palm over his mouth. He blinks at you in confusion. And you drop your hand quickly.

“We’re in public!”

“It’s a private section. And nobody’s here.”

“Still!”

“So you can read a book about a flight attendant having a threesome with the pilot and co-pilot in the cockpit, but mild PDA is where you draw the line?”

“Well, yes. Reading is different to…you know, actually doing it.”

“But we’re not doing it, it’s just a kiss, wifey.”

“Still.”

He watches you quietly.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“You want to get some ice cream to cool down?”

“Yes please.”

He stands, and offers you his hand. You accept. Because of course you would; he’s your fiancee after all.

[nckovasangel]

Hiii ⭒๋𐙚⭒ ๋

As someone who is a huge fan of your writing and work i just wanted to know if you had any tips when planning ur characters and how you write them and organize all the information for them as someone who cant keep up with it all and is ocd

And any tips on how to write??

⭒๋𐙚⭒ ๋Thank youuu, angel.⭒๋𐙚⭒ ๋

Hello again,

Id say Pinterest boards really help me. And making individual character profiles on who they are, their traits, their bedroom, speaking style, etc. having an organised and clean plan for each helps. Also, figuring out other characters who have a similar vibe to yours can help.

[nckovasangel]

Hi angelll⭒๋𐙚⭒ ๋

How do you make ur tik tok videos?? They are just so perfect and cute

Hellooo,

I edit using Alight Motion. It takes some tweaking to figure out your own style, and blending it with inspiration from other editors. Nutritiously, I’ve never been able to stick to a single style so I just do what my heart whims of me and usually it ends up well.

[nckovasangel]

Hii!! How you doing? Just saw you had a pinterest board up for Unsteady by Peyton Corinne. What did you think of it? It's on my tbr.

Another thing, I'm a creator on cai and I was wondering if it's okay if I make bots inspired by your old ones? I'll give you credits and all.

I really liked it. The pacing and writing for the first one was off but it genuinely got so much better as the series progressed. And unbound may be my favourite romance book of the year so far. Paloma Blake and Bennett Reiner are both entrenched into my very being and I’ve never felt more represented since like, Joey Lynch. I’d recommend.

As for the CAI I’d rather you not but I’m also very aware that I have no enforceable power in this situation so yeah, credit is fine.

[nckovasangel]

Omg, do you do boards for your like original worlds??? I don’t know if you’ve get that but like blue hawks and all the others? Or which ones have a board?

My OC boards need the most amount of updating, but I’ve got one for Rosengard, teenage dirtbags, blue hawkes, that goth series i did, and all-stars but that one is private. Im trying to add all the fmc’s to the blue hawkes too since most people voted in favour of that.

[nckovasangel]

Hello darling! I hope you’re doing great, would you be open to give a rundown of your Pinterest, I get lost sometimes but I love it

Hello!

Of course I can.

I make a board for any series I’m thinking of whether that’s one I’ve read or made up. I’m trying to organise it but I’ve started naming the individual sections with the actual names of each character but some still need editing.

I have dedicated boards to my favourite or most thought about characters, like Aoife and I’m making one for Paloma Blake.

In order to make them even and so that each couple is put together, sometimes I’ll have “filler sections” and this may be the couples aesthetic together or like the location. It’s just to soothe my OCD and make sure everyone is in the right pairing. If you have a specific question feel free to ask.

My Pinterest is NckovasAngel if anyone else is interested.

Thank you for your question.

Love you Xx

[vetckkie]

girl get off that c.ai and embrace the 'x reader'

[nckovasangel]

⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ | Blistering Summer Heatwave

New OC: Graham Scott Hennessy

Tags: MDNI 18+ Neighbour + Age Gap + Not proof read + name calling (mild) + swearing + Aftercare centred

“Gray,” you whinge at the burly-built man curled up beside you. His warm body heat bleeding through your oversized cotton t-shirt. This heat was scolding enough, you didn’t need the bulky fucker adding to it. Though, unfortunately, your neighbour was clingy. Like a big, greying toddler with biceps the size of your neck and a shoulder width akin to a sturdy brick wall.

“Hmm?” He croons out, nosing the nape of your neck, making warm air tickle your skin with wispy little kisses. Gosh, the audacity of him to make that sleepy little noise and make the butterflies in your belly go haywire when you’re trying to pry him off of you. Not particularly because you dislike his company, but because it was sweltering hot. Palms clammy, under-boob soggy, hair sticky, type of heat.

His palm moves down to hold your hip, tugging you back against his groin in a half-sleep dazed state. Sure, it was cute that he wanted to be so close to you despite the extreme weather—but oh my fricken goodness, should it come at the expense of burning you alive until you're sweltering and seasoned with salty sweat like a buttery lobster ready to serve?

When his lips come down onto your shoulder, suckling the supple skin slightly, that was your final straw—as his heat, mixed with the general atmosphere and the sudden warmth that blossomed across your body.

“No!” you shoot out of your bed. “Absolutely not. Like, genuinely no, I can’t do this.”

A shiver rolls through your body at the sudden breeze that kissed your bare thighs. And another one rolls through you for a completely different reason when you catch the pure blissed-out gleam in his eyes. Graham’s face contorted into confusion, his head lifted and hair disheveled from rolling around in between the sheets with you.

“What’s wrong?” His voice was raspy and laced with the lingering remnants of guttural groans and moans that had filled your bedroom near half-an-hour ago. He drops his head back down onto the pillow, eyeing you with a perplexed expression.

Oh, Christ.

Refusing to look at him any longer, mostly out of fear that you’d jump back into bed again at the sight of those wanton puppy dog eyes, you opt to turn on your heel and stick your head out of your apartment window.

Just enough so that air, albeit humid and dry, can peck your cheeks. Your arms sit crossed on the windowsill, and your face follows, head tilted and cheek pressed against your arm.

You mumble an answer but he doesn’t quite catch it. A sigh falls out of his mouth and you hear the rustling of bedsheets followed by the faint thump of feet hitting the carpeted floor.

He makes his way towards you, looms over behind you.

His fingers find your hair, pulling it up out of your neck, and breathes down it.

“Whats wrong? Talk to me.”

“It’s too hot.”

“I know, baby.” He coos, sliding his hands up your shirt.

“You’re not helping.”

“Am I not?” Graham croons. He was playing with you now. “You want a shower? It’ll be nice and cold.”

“Do I want a shower or do you want a show, perv?”

He laughs. “Can it not be mutually beneficial?” Oh so gently, Graham guides you by the elbow towards your bathroom. Helping you strip, not that there was much to help with, cool water flows through the tap, filling the bathtub. He makes sure it’s not too cold so that your body doesn’t go into heat shock. Halfway through, he switches to the shower head to pour the water down your head, while the other messages your scalp with lavender scented shampoo. A content little sigh is coaxed from your lips and Graham leans down to press a tender little kiss on your forehead.

“So snippy for no reason, just talk to me, silly girl.” The reprimanding is paired with a velvety susurrate that makes your body preen into his touch.

“Hmm.” Now it was your turn to just make sounds, he supposed. When you meet his gaze again, his eyes are softened even further. His dirty blonde eyelashes lowered slightly and a fond expression controlling his face.

“How about I go get you a cold drink and that egregiously expensive chocolate covered fruit you like.”

“It’s called trüfrü, old man, and £4.50 at Morrisons!”

“So why am I buying it for almost a tenner at Tesco?”

“Because the lights are on but nobody’s inside.”

Another gruff laugh escapes him. “Such a mouth on you.” He presses a couple of kisses onto your cold, wet cheek. “It’ll get you in trouble one day.”

“Oh yeah, my hot, older neighbour who also happens to be my fuck buddy who also runs cold baths for me and puts up with my attitude is the epitome of trouble.”

“Glad you’re aware.”

You sink into the bath so that your toes are sticking out on the other side but you’re buried up to your nose in the water. He eyes you. You eye him back before blowing out bubbles, charming out another laugh from the forty-something year-old man. Look at you go, regular old jester, aren’t you? His eyes crinkle on the sides, crows feet deepening. And it’s not long after until he’s gone to scout out the closest Morrisons, leaving you to cool down from the blistering summer heatwave.

[nckovasangel]

hii!! so on other sites, ppl are posting copies of your bots without due credit, how would you like that handled?

also, would you ever consider other sites? chai, j.ai, that sort of thing?

If people are posting my bots on other sites, I’d really appreciate if you guys would report it as plagiarism or something. It’s just really fucking stupid bc, for a plethora of reasons, their bots will never be like mine bc each bot requires a character profile and nobody knows those but me? That’s why I suppose my bots were more effective bc I put thought in behind most of them.

Also, no I don’t think I’d go to any other ai platforms. I’m taking a pretty anti ai stance.

[nckovasangel]

How do you feel about people reposting your old bots on cai? I've seen a few accounts reposting salvaged bots, but I wasn't sure if you'd be okay with people actually using them

Not a fan. It’s straight up plagiarism. It’s also the same reason I never copy and pasted excerpts from books onto bots, I understand that it’s the authors intellectual property. And I have far too much integrity (and shame) to do exploit that.

It’s gross. And I implore anyone who comes across it to report it please and thank you.

Love, Angelika

[nckovasangel]

⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ | OCD Head cannon

Irish All-stars: Rory Kavanagh

Tags: Character is 18, not healthy behaviour, obsessive, perhaps toxic? Not recommended to act like Rory in this situation. Rory Kavanagh has OCD

Rory Kavanagh

Rory Kavanagh whose OCD makes it so that he’s constantly victim to intrusive thoughts and subsequently, always seeks your reassurance.

It started with scrupulosity at church—when he accompanied his Nan—he’ll occupy the confessional weeks on end confessing the same sin again and again because he worries that he didn’t convey it eloquently enough. Does half of their church think that Rory’s secretly a delinquent because of how frequently he has things to confess? Yes. But Rory doesn’t particularly notice or care because it’s better safe than burning in hell because you used the wrong word to explain something.

Then came the blasphemy intrusive thoughts where he’d say some…not so savoury things about God and stuff that he doesn’t even think or believe! They just popped into his mind and now he feels bad and starts spiralling a bit because it opened the floodgate for internal conversations that looked a bit like…

Left side of RK’s Brain: God bad

Right side of RK’s Brain: No! That’s not true,

I don’t believe that??

Left Side of RK’s Brain: U do. Ur just too much of a

coward to stand 10 toes on it.

So it’s not great. That’s until he finally vocalises his fears to you and you reassure him. And it’s like putting aloe Vera on a burn with how perfectly it soothes him. His anxiety plummets and it’s like he’s able to breathe freely again.

Then when the next time it hits, he craves you. His brain knows that you are the person who can make the pain stop so he must go to you again. It's a non negotiable.

And every time after that, you're his solace. His reverie. The person who knows how to say the right things to make him feel good.

In the middle of the school day, he’ll excuse himself to go to the toilet, in fact, and just sneak away to find you. Or texts you to meet him at the music room so you can sit on the piano bench and he can kneel at your feet feet and put his head on your lap and let the assurance in that patient tone you take with him, pour in through his ear and caress his brain.

It's almost like he can't manage his anxiety without you anymore. Whenever hes slow to find you or you're separated by distance, like during his rugby games, he calls you in the comfort of his hotel room, with his voice taking on this watery tone he gets when he’s had a rough day and is due for a little bit of a cry. And he’ll fall asleep listening to the sound of his human xanax.

As he gets older, the intrusive thoughts get scarier. Self-harm, violence, unabashed anger? It all consumes him and it scares him and despite your insistence that he talk to his therapist, he refuses, grinning that charming Kavanagh grin of his and assuring you that as long as you're there, he doesn't need anything else.

Well, guess what? Not a sound or sustainable philosophy that, and one day you're unreachable. Not around. For whatever reason. You just didn't show up to school that day and Rory was on edge all fucking day.

He repeatedly calls you and texts you and feels like hes drowning without you. Usually, it may have been okay, but the more he calls and can't reach, the more he thinks about it and the worse his thoughts become and OCD gets.

And for God knows what reason, Adam McLaughlin, said something derogatory about you in the lads’ changing room. So that, plus the fact he was already hanging on by a thread, made it so that Adam unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it) is a victim of Rory’s killer uppercut, which he must have inherited from his uncle Joe.

“Go on say it again, fucking prick. If you're a man, say that shit again.”

He gets all up in Adam’s face, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him against the wall while his friends and teammates try to pull him off. It's not until their coach barges in and physically stops Rory from mauling Adam, that he stops.

Hours later, filled with much coaxing from both of his parents, Rory doesn't get expelled for breaking Adam’s nose and giving him a raccoon eye the size of 6 out of the 8-something moons of Jupiter; he's in his favourite place to calm down. The “man-cave” is just Rory’s second bedroom in a small shed by the rugby grounds on the Kavanagh Estate.

The first hour or so he was angrily sitting with you, for ignoring him. Then he thaws when rationality kicks in and your excuse that your phone was accidentally run over is probably a fair reason why you couldn't pick up his calls or reply to his messages.

He drops his head back down onto the pillows of your thighs, as you card through his brown hair. “M’sorry for being so whiney,” Rory grumbles into your belly when he turns to face your torso.

You stroke his chin. “It's fine, you big baby, just dont be going around doing things like that anymore, okay? Don't be jeopardising your career over me.”

“You shook down a girl at Halloween cus’ of me.”

“First of all, she sexually assaulted you. You didn't ask for that.” You twirl a lock of his hair around her finger, “And secondly, people are more receptive to violent rockstars. Athletes are expected to have a stick up their ass and act like the second coming of Saint Valentine.”

Rory laughs, warming your stomach with his breath. You smile down at him. Before piping back up again. “You need help, baby, this isn't sustainable.”

“I know.”

But God, did he wish it were.

“Good. So what do you plan on doing about it?”

“I'll talk to Dr Mohan.”

“Good.”

[nckovasangel]

You don't hate Lizzie Young right?? 🥺🥺💔

No, I would never hate Lizzie. If I’m critical of her, it’s bc she’s me and I am her and we are one.

Anything I dislike about her, I dislike in myself.

[nckovasangel]

⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ | Assassination Attempt

Unconstitutional: Briar Anthony Haye

Tags: swearing, guns? Sexual imagery, mentions of blood and minor injury. This is just part one.

State dinners are, more often than not, elaborate dick swinging competitions filled with overgrown theatre kids playing powerful. Under the chandeliers, everything glows faintly gold—the silverware, the crystals, the polished shoes of foreign diplomats and the sparkling teeth of domestic politicians ready to suck the dick of anyone willing and able to pay for a new golf course. The ballrooms have always seemed to exist in a sealed atmosphere where nothing wrong can seem to happen, but the fear lingers; though soothed by the obnoxious displays of exclusivity and wealth that push the danger to the backs of most people's consciousness.

I have never liked them. Not when I was an early teen, occasionally attending them as the president's son. And not now. As the fifty-first president of the United States of America.

Although, strangely enough, tonight doesn't seem to be as unbearable as the other nights. The usual vehement disgust at the show-pony-ness of it all doesn't come. Instead, all I can find myself reverting to during mindless small talk is her.

The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom

When she smiles, when she laughs. When she makes a joke or does something so agonisingly charming that the people around her laugh and smile, because they can't help but be endeared by the most powerful woman in the room. People feed off of her intoxicating energy as changelings feed on love.

Not that I could necessarily blame them. It is impossible not to watch her. And perhaps even more irritatingly so, it is impossible not to like her or like being around her.

I catch a glimpse of her teeth hidden behind her palm and take a note of the way she inclines her head to hear something being said to her. In my eye-line, she's framed by white rose centrepieces that make the twinkling rubies around her neck pop against the deep burgundy Valentino gown she’s clad in. Simply dazzling she is, almost flagrantly so.

Beside me, a senator from the judicial oversight committee yammers off about something to do with something. He has been for the better part of the last quarter hour. I have no clue what he has said or, more importantly, what the fuck I may have agreed to.

Every time I try to drag my attention back, it wanders away again. To the woman who, this time, catches my gaze. Amusement dances in those pupils that are no less entrapping than quicksand, her lips curling into a quick little smirk. The man beside her doesn't notice, as he continues cutting into his steak and talking.

Her mouth moves, and I swear I almost think I'm going to have a fucking stroke. That is, until, like a toddler, I'm quickly distracted by the fact that she is mouthing something. I strain my eyes to figure it out in the dimly lit room.

"Ever considered investing in a camera?" She cocks her head to the side like a fox.

I feel myself smile despite myself, momentarily averting my gaze to literally anything else, so I can school my face into an expression that won't make her as giddy as a schoolgirl

"Don't need one. Vogue does the job." The magazine is obsessed with her almost as much as I am. On an even keel with Caroline Basset Kennedy or, if you're British Vogue, Princess Diana.

She laughs, the bastard beside her thinks it's because of him, and smugness crosses his face. But I know better. I made her laugh. A proper laugh, too. None of those manufactured ones.

The orchestra in the corner is playing softly—harmonising with the gentle clanks and clatters of glassware and silver against plates. Smartly dressed waiters bob weave through circular tables, diligently tending to the whims and needs of dignitaries.

Then, an unmistakable sound cracks through the room, and everyone goes dead silent.

My eyes snap up from my plate just as another one rings out through the ballroom. This time, I don't hesitate to move. And I'm not the only one. The whole room slips into pandemonium.

A scream breaks the deathly silence that followed the gunshots, followed by the grating screeches of chairs against the wooden floors, some toppling over with how abruptly people stand up. The orchestra ceases in the middle of a note so abruptly that the silence itself seems to burst and explode.

I circle the table, dodging the people who were just moments ago sitting beside her and now running for their lives, for shelter. One instant, she is staring towards the far side of the ballroom, confusion creasing her brows, and the next, my hand closes the distance between us before my feet are even inches away from her.

My hand closes around her wrist, and the world narrows to a point. I lunge, and we both hit the floor with a thud, my free hand shooting to the back of her head to soften the blow. The impact knocks the breath from me. The maroon carpet under our table smells faintly of dust and wine, and it mingles with her perfume—the concoction making me dizzy.

There is a terrible confusion of movement all around us: shoes, chair legs and dark suits.

"Down! Protect the president!"

Another voice makes its presence known.

"Coast is clear! Move! Move!"

Hands seize my shoulders but ignore them. She’s beneath my arm, wide-eyed with her hair half over her face, and for one appalling second, I do not know if she's been hit or not.

"Stay down," I hear myself grunting at her.

People are scampering away, running in fear. Somewhere nearby, someone is crying. There is a loud, minacious ringing in my ears that does nothing to cool the sweat coating my brow. Below me, she draws a ragged, shaky breath. Then another. Her breath tickles the bare skin of my Adam's apple. Alive. She's alive. The relief that follows is so violent, it's almost painful. So long as she is alive, I can mediate the situation. I can call medics, I can demand protection. I am in control of the situation. That does cool the sweat licking my brow.

Big hands close around my arm again. "Mr President." The service member tries to pull me up, but I don't let go.

"Sir." He insists, more firmly this time.

I look up. The faces above me are grim and urgent, and beyond them, I can only see fragments of the ballroom—the edge of an overturned table, napkins scattered on the floor, wine glasses tipped over and lazily oozing out thousand-dollar nectar.

[nckovasangel]

⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ | Post War Guilt

Random Harry Potter drabble

Tags: mentions of Deaths. Isolation & survivors guilt. Depressed Harry Potter after the war truther. Canon setting so heavy Harry & Ginny bc the boy was living & dying for her in the last two books. Harry potter may be synonymous with Hamlet in this.

Nothing was well.

Two weeks after the war that had changed the lives of millions. After the death that saved countless. After the end of a prophecy that changed the course of history. Nothing was well. Not to me, at least.

Not to the families of the fallen or me. The people lost to bloodshed, gore and violence. People had lost too much and had been hurt too badly to comfort me that this was the end. The lightning scar that marred my skin would no longer bother me, it’s not the bane of my existence, the definer of my life or the cause of my suffering. It’s just a scar. A little defect from infancy that holds no significance anymore.

Because I wasn’t the boy who lived anymore; instead, I’m the man who survived.

I survived.

While many nobler and braver people are no longer here, I was given the choice. Why not them? They could have lived for causes much greater than mine. Once I killed Voldemort, what purpose did I fucking serve? I didn’t intend to make it past seventeen, and now that I have, it has become abundantly apparent how purposeless my life truly is.

I was a weapon meant to be destroyed in war. I wasn’t destroyed.

So what to do with me now?

Harry Potter is not a person who dreamt, he was a boy who acted in the name of the greater good and now that the good is restored and the blood of innocent coats my hands, what do I do?

Who am I allowed to be?

Whose breath do I steal next?

Cold sparks prickled beneath my skin, sending dull waves of pain up my spine as I sat in the drawing room of Number 12 Grimauld Place. My eyes had not moved from the scorned portrait of Andromeda Tonks. The woman who’d lost her husband, daughter and son-in-law, left with a grandson and a void that will never fill.

Before Andromeda, I was looking at Sirius. And I couldn’t even think, couldn’t even cry. I’d done a lot of that in the last week or so. I don’t think my body has any more left to shed. All I’m left, quite like Andromeda or George or The Creeveys or the Browns, was a pitifully vast, hungry emptiness where nothing but pain dwelled.

The ticks of the old oak grandfather clock tempered the silence that filled the estate. Even then, it was more than it had ever been. No Kreacher muttering, no Order meetings, no footsteps on the stairs, no Ron and Hermione playing the piano or—a heavyweight settled on my chest—Ginny, there was no fire-filled redhead, whose pain was the closest to my own, whose snark would make the moodiest chortle. Speaking from experience, she’s the only person aside from Tonks whom I’d seen make Mad-Eye laugh.

It was surprising to me then, not now. Even with the scars of war, the character-filled, Ginevra Weasley was an eternal force that willed me to keep fighting, to keep moving. Every moment that giving up felt desirable, was quickly replaced by the promise I’d made her in her bedroom on my birthday when she’d kissed me.

I promised her that I’d go back to her, assure her that her silver lining reigned true. But, I was a coward. Perhaps not a liar or untrustworthy, but I was a full-fledged coward. I went back to her for a single night after the war, to the burrow, but even twenty-four hours of seeing the bags under her eyes, the scars that cursed her body and the bruises that plagued her pale, peach-coloured freckled skin, I couldn’t take it.

The weight was too much. The pain around her—around all of them, weighed so heavily on my heart I thought it was honestly going to give out any moment. And when the sweet relief of death did not come, I fled in the night. Sending a patronous that I was okay and that I’d be staying at Number 12 and I just needed space.

Wallowing in despair is a consuming phenomenon, I’d come to learn. As I hadn’t noticed the shift in air and sound. I hadn’t realised that the distant murmuring wasn’t the cursing of the fallen replaying in my mind like a loop, it was real and coming from out in the hallway.

I’d only registered when a soft gasp too close for comfort had filled the air and, for the first time in what felt like days, I lifted my gaze.

[nckovasangel]

⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ | Scare w/ Dominick Kardos

OC: Dominick Kardos

Tags: angst, swearing, insults, bad blood, mentions of reckless driving which you should not do!!!!! Angst, fluff, they may be broken up physically but not in spirit, mentions of death

Im a hard-working man. Everything I have, the penthouse, the cars, the kid, I worked my ass off for. Which is why I think I deserve rest too, once in a while, from getting my jaw smashed by overgrown, temperamental toddlers—not being hyperbolic either; Vaughn’s got better emotional regulation than some of my ‘opponents.’

I'm sprawled out on the couch in my underwear while shovelling Jalapeño chicken popper flavoured Doritos into my mouth like a teenager—don’t judge me, someone’s got to finish them. I have a massive package of them since they’re my collab flavour. The crunching of the chips muffles Arnold Schwarzenegger's unintelligible yelling on my screen.

Now is it kinda boring? Yeah. But boredom is good, means my muscles and shit can relax for once, so I ain’t complaining. Or at least, I wasn’t until my phone rings, jolting me back into reality and forcing me to read [user]’s name light up my screen. I swallow the chips in my mouth and swipe to answer.

"Yo, what’s up?" I say, biting another chip.

“Dad!?” Vaughn cries on the line, panic exuding from every syllable that reaches my ear.

I sit up. The bag of chips falls off my stomach and to the floor.

"Whoa. Whoa, buddy, slow down," I say. "What's the matter? What's wrong?"

I already start pulling on a shirt and sweatpants, shoving my feet into slippers, while balancing the phone against my shoulder—not an easy feat with one hand but I manage.

The panic in his voice makes my heart pound even harder when he cries shrilly, “Dada! I think mama’s dying.”

For a single, horrifying moment, time just stops. Like all of existence just slams to a standstill. Then my brain snaps into hyperdrive. No more lounging. I'm on my feet now, grabbing my keys and sprinting out of the penthouse.

Worry beats at my heart, making me feel as though it's caving in, while my blood rushes to my head so fast I get lightheaded.

"Where are you?" My voice comes out sharp and I make an effort to soften it back down. "Vaughn, listen to me—where is she? Tell me where you are right now."

I don't wait for an answer as I'm already yanking open a drawer and shoving cash and car keys into my pocket with one hand before sprinting out of the door and taking the elevator to my private garage.

"Did she fall? Is there blood?"

“We’re at home. There was a lot of blood.”

I'm already in the garage, jumping into my SUV and starting the car.

"A lot?" I ask. My brain is already racing with the worst-case scenarios—blood, pain, hospital rooms. I can barely keep my voice steady.

I shove the keys into the slot and turn the engine on, not even trying to get the seatbelt on as I'm peeling out of the parking lot and speeding down the road towards home.

"Okay, it’s okay. Just keep talking to me, kid, okay?” I manage to stay calm around my panic.

My hands clench the wheel tightly as I weave through traffic, breaking more than a few laws in the process with my reckless driving—God, my accountants are gonna be up my ass because of it.

The image of my ex-fiancé in pain flashes in my head—with fat globs of tears sitting on her lower lash line, her body writhing in agony—and it hurts more than any punch I’ve ever taken in the ring. I swallow the urge to throw up.

"I'm almost there, Vaughn. Just hang on," I tell him, my voice steady. "I'm gonna make it better, okay? I promise."

I blow out a ragged breath, "You get Mom a towel. Press it where she's bleeding, okay? Like we practised with your boo-boos."

“Oh…okay.” He mumbles, filling the line with rustling. “Okay, I got my towel.”

“Don’t use your bath towel, V.”

“Oh.”

I almost smile at the kid—he was so fucking tooth-rottingy sweet, it never ceased to amaze me that he was a product of two of the most dysfunctional and toxic people alive.

“Alright, Da, I got a new one.”

“Atta boy, I’m nearly there okay? I’m outside the gate.” Pulling up to the ornate metal barrier that was lodged between tall walls of brick that circled [name]’s estate. My baby mama was not subtle or one for the ‘quaint’ lifestyle.

I push in Vaughn’s birth time, not date because date would’ve been too obvious according to her. God, she’s a paranoid cook. I really hope she isn’t dead.

“Vaughn! What’re you doing!” Serafina screeches.

“Dad said to press on the wound with a towel to stop the blood, Maa!”

“No, don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because, Vaughn.”

“Cus’ what?”

I'm halfway out the car door when I hear that, my stomach lurching.

"[Name]?" I shout as soon as the gate clicks open, abandoning all decorum and sprinting up the front stone steps. "The fuck is going on in there?!"

I don't even bother knocking—I just shove through her stupidly expensive oak door with enough force to make it rattle against its frame. Running up the stairs, taking two at a time, I ignore the way her butler gapes at me or how her housemaid yelps as I run past her.

My eyes immediately land on Vaughn clutching a towel like it's his lifeline while Serafina stands there looking perplexed.

"What," I pant, hands braced on my knees for balance from running so fast, "happened."

I look her up and down, clad in a satin red nightgown with a matching robe with her hands on her hips with a scowl adorning her features directed at me like I did something wrong.

"You're fine." I accuse, scowling back at her. "This is some dramatic bullshit you pulled just to get me over here?"

[Name] gapes at him, her eyes wide as she stares me down. “You fucking wish, asshole.” Her hands clamp down on the sides of our son’s head, covering Vaughn’s ears.

I huff out a frustrated breath, rubbing my forehead. There's a throbbing headache forming behind my eyes from all her bullshit. My eyes dart to Vaughn who is looking at me with worry and curiosity, which only makes the knot in my stomach even worse. I manage to plaster a smile onto my face.

"Go wait in the living room, bud," I say quietly. "Momma and I got some boring adult things we need to discuss, mmkay? I'll join you in a bit. Promise."

He hesitates. "O-okay."

We both watch out as our son scurries outside and all attempts at civility burn to the ground. “What’s wrong with you, you freak?”

My temper flares as her sharp tone hits me, the worry for her safety quickly morphing into frustration at her attitude. I'm still breathing hard from running here and my muscles are still taut from the adrenaline, only adding fuel to the flame.

"I'm the freak? You're the one who got our kid to call me in a panic, thinking you were dying! Jesus Christ, is attention really that much of a life necessity for you, [Name]?"

The woman scoffs at me, “First of all, I didn’t fucking call you, Vaughn did. And secondly, he did think that I was dying because my period came early and I woke up all fucking bloody—“ her voice consistently rises in tandem with her temper.

“—And now I have the worst cramps ever and they hurt so bad and my crazy toxic baby daddy burst my door down and accuses me of being obsessed with him as if I would ever need to look in his direction again! Look at me, I feel like shit and the people you look up to, still couldn’t pull me!” She cries—because she’s now crying—and throwing her pillow at me in frustration.

I barely manage to catch the pillow before it smacks me in the face, and just stand there for a few long seconds, blinking blankly, while her words land.

Oh. Okay. Well, now I feel like a jackass.

My shoulders sag a bit and the anger quickly leaves my body, only to be replaced with a weird sensation in the pit of my stomach. Her cramps were always really bad—I remember staying up all night with her while she moaned about them.

“Oh, baby.”

And instantly, the fire melts from her body and she pads over to and into my open arms.

My arms automatically open to wrap around my ex-fiancé and I pull her close, cradling her against my chest. She's smaller than me—barely comes up to my chin—and I can feel her body trembling against mine.

I hold her like a doll, her head tucked into the crook of my neck, and gently rock her back and forth while my hand moves up and down her spine in long, slow caresses in an attempt to console her. Even as angry as she makes me, I can never handle it when she cries.

"I'm sorry," I murmur into her hair. "I'm a dick."

“You are.” She hiccups before wailing again, “Everything hurts so bad, Dom!”

My grip tightens instinctively, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of her head while the other presses firmly against her lower back—like I can physically shield her from the pain.

"Shhh, I know," I mutter into her hair. "Fuckin' hate when it gets this bad for you."

I don't even question it—just lift a hand and start rubbing slow circles over where she's clenching in pain through that stupidly expensive silk robe.

"You want me to get you something? Tea? Painkillers?" My voice is rough but softer than usual as my thumb brushes along a tear track on her cheek before wiping it away with my knuckles.

"Or do you just need me here like this?"

When she doesn't reply, I nudge her cheek with my nose and then she shakes her head.

“Just stay?”

“Just stay.”