#he can cheat on me and I’d still hit it every night

[ripeblackcherrymerlot]

I need Spencer Reid in the way that a bullet needs to be put in trumps head

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Imagine House who can tell something is off with you but can't figure out what. It bothers him immensely, and he gets prickly about it. Now, when you finally tell him you're pregnant, he damn near has a heart attack.

A/n: I LOVE THIS!

House loved you.

Truly...you were the one person besides Wilson that seemed to see the best in a cynical bastard like himself.

But of their was one thing he couldn't stand not being able to figure something out and right now you were putting him in that moment.

House had knew something was off with you, and it was driving him crazy. You'd been acting differently for weeks—distracted, quiet at times, and oddly sentimental in others. You’d smile at him like you had a secret, then brush it off when he asked you what was going on.This was maddening. He hated being out of the loop.

His frustration started bubbling to the surface in typical House fashion���sharp comments, teasing questions disguised as jabs, and an almost childish insistence that you were hiding something from him.

“You’re fidgeting,” he said one evening as you both sat on the couch. He gestured with his cane as if it were a pointer, accusing you as if you were on trial. “You never fidget. Unless you’ve taken up a secret career as a poker player, there’s something you’re not telling me...what is it?"

You raised an eyebrow at him, trying to keep a straight face. “Greg, not everything has to be some big mystery.”

“Except when it is,” he shot back. “You’ve been weird lately. Quieter. Glowing, but not in your usual annoyingly optimistic way. It’s like…sunshine and overpowering of sunshine but with a side of nerves. So Spill.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to suppress a smile. He was so perceptive it was almost unfair, but this time, you didn’t feel quite ready to tell him. Not yet, not when you had to make sure“Maybe I’ve just been working too much.”

House narrowed his eyes, unconvinced. “Or maybe you’re secretly building a bunker for the end of the world. Honestly, that seems more plausible.”

You laughed, leaning into his shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you love me,” he quipped, poking your side gently. But the smirk on his face faded as he looked at you, his eyes searching yours. “Seriously, Y/n. If something’s going on, you can tell me. I’m not as scary as I look nor as fragile."

You hesitated, your smile faltering for just a moment before you shook your head. “Not yet, Greg. I’ll tell you when I’m ready....please."

With a grumble, House relaxed into the couch but this was far from over.

It was a week later, and House was still obsessing over it. He found himself analyzing every move yoy made, every shift in your tone. He was annoyed—at you for keeping him in the dark and at himself for caring so much.

But that night, you decided it was time. You couldn’t keep it to yourself any longer, not when he was practically bursting with curiosity. They were in his apartment, eating takeout, when you set down your fork and took a deep breath.

“Greg, we need to talk,” you said softly.

House froze mid-bite, his brain instantly jumping to the worst-case scenario. His eyes narrowed. “That’s never a good start. Are you dying? Did you cheat on me? Wait, don’t answer that—I’d know. I’m a doctor.”

You shook your head, smiling at his dramatics. “No, I’m not dying. And no, I didn’t cheat on you.”

“Well, that narrows it down to alien abduction or—”

“I’m pregnant.”

The words hit him like a freight train. For a moment, he didn’t react at all, just staring at you with wide eyes as his brain worked overtime to process what you'd just said. Then, slowly, he set his takeout box aside, his hands suddenly feeling too clumsy to hold anything.

“You’re…pregnant?” he repeated, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. His heart was hammering in his chest and he could have sworn he might have a heart attack.

You nodded, watching him carefully. “Yes. About two months.”

House blinked, his usual quick wit completely failing him. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but no words came out. Finally, he let out a shaky laugh, running a hand through his hair. “I…you’re serious?”

He didn't know how that was never an option in his made up scenarios. Maybe it was due to him thinking it couldn't happen, that he didn't deserve to be happy, didn't deserve this.

He could see it now, now that you said it, now that he got a proper look at you. You had a soft glow about you. The one he'd often see in expecting mothers in the hospital, the subtle curve of your stomach. He suddenly felt like an idiot now.

“Yes, Greg,” you said, your tone gentle. “I’m serious.”

He leaned back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling as if it held all the answers to the universe. “Holy crap,” he muttered. “I’m gonna be a dad.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly at his stunned expression. “Is that a good ‘holy crap’ or a bad one?”

House looked at you then, his blue eyes wide and unguarded in a way you rarely saw. Slowly, a small, almost boyish smile spread across his face. “It’s…a terrifying ‘holy crap.’ But I think it’s also a good one.”

Relief washed over you, as you reached for his hand, intertwining your fingers with his. “I know it’s a lot, Greg. But I think we can do this. Together.”

He squeezed your hand, his mind racing. “We’re having a baby,” he said again, as if saying it out loud would make it more real. Then, in true House fashion, he added with a smirk, “This kid’s gonna have your brains and my charm. God help the world.”

You laughed, leaning into his side. “And your sarcasm, I’m sure.”

“And your optimism,” he countered, his tone softening as he looked at you. “Kid’s gonna be unstoppable.”

For the first time in a long time, House felt something he rarely allowed himself to feel: hope. Sure, he was terrified. He had no idea how to be a father, but as he sat there with your hand in his, he realized something important.

He wasn’t alone in this. And maybe, just maybe, he could figure it out—with you.

[girlinterupptedsblog]

♤Rafe is just pathetic ex that misses you too much

Pairing: ex!rafe cameron x reader

Warnings: Toxic relationship dynamics, emotional manipulation, verbal abuse, gaslighting, sexual content (non-explicit), psychological distress, substance use (alcohol, drugs), strong language, cheating implications, obsessive/possessive behavior.

It was well past midnight. The TV flickered with soft light as some action movie dragged on in the background, barely holding your attention anymore. Your boyfriend — the new guy — had fallen asleep with his head in your lap, a gentle, rhythmic breath brushing against your bare thigh. He was good to you, patient, normal. Not the kind to raise his voice or drive you crazy. Not the kind to break things or slam doors. Not Rafe.

Your phone lit up on the coffee table, face down. The buzz was soft, just one single vibration, and you didn’t think much of it. You weren’t expecting anyone. Certainly not him.

You didn’t even look at it for ten minutes.

And then you did.

Rafe

Your stomach turned. You stared at the screen like it was lying to you. You swore you blocked him — months ago, after the final blowout. After he screamed at you on the street and whatever you could at him and he told you to go fuck yourself.

You opened the message.

It was a video.

The thumbnail alone made your chest lock up. A dimly lit room, too close-up to see much except for skin, motion, and the soft rise and fall of your own stomach. You knew instantly what it was.

You shouldn't have, but your finger tapped it.

And there it was. Him, slow and deep inside you, recording while he fucked you in missionary. His hips grinding in a rhythm only the two of you knew. Your legs bent up, his hand gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise. His voice low, breathless, possessive — the kind that could make you forget every awful thing he ever said.

"You feel that? Look at me. Look at me, baby. You take me so fuckin’ well... goddamn."

A soft moan slipped from his lips — your name laced in it like prayer.

“This pussy was made for me, huh? Mine.”

You felt like someone had punched you. Your mouth was dry, heart racing. You hadn't watched more than twenty seconds before you locked your phone and set it face down again.

But then — another buzz.

Another message.

Rafe:

My cock misses your pussy.

You stared at the words, heart hammering.

Rafe:

I miss you too. I know I shouldn't. I know I don’t deserve to.

But I do.

I miss the way you sound when you cum for me. Like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.

No one else ever sounded like that.

I can still hear it. Every night. Every time I close my eyes.

You should’ve deleted it. You should’ve thrown your phone across the room. But you just kept reading as message after message started pouring in, one after another. It was like a dam had broken.

You think I don’t know you moved on? I know.

I hope he treats you good.

But he doesn’t fuck you like I did.

He doesn’t know your little sounds. That tiny gasp when I hit that spot. That shake in your thighs.

He doesn’t know how to make you cum without touching your clit. I do.

He doesn’t know you taste like fucking heaven when you’re half-asleep.

I do.

I miss everything. Your smell. Your shampoo. The way you yell at me when I’m being a dick.

I want you to yell at me again.

I want you to slap me and cry and say you hate me and then beg me not to stop when I’m fucking into you like you need it to breathe.

Please. Just answer.

Say something. Tell me you hate me. Just don’t ignore me.

Fuck, baby, I’m losing it.

I jerked off to that video six times. It’s not enough.

It’s never enough.

No one tastes like you. No one fucks like you. No one fights like you.

No one makes me wanna ruin my whole fucking life like you.

You swallowed, heart pounding.

I know I ruined us.

But you ruined me too.

I love you. I still fucking love you.

Even if you hate me.

Even if you’re lying in bed with someone else right now.

I wish it was me.

I’d make you feel everything he can’t.

Silence.

Then—

You’re not gonna answer, huh? That’s okay.

I’m gonna keep texting anyway.

Because I need you to know.

My cock’s hard just thinking about your mouth.

The way you spit on it. The way you looked up at me with those fucking eyes.

I’d give anything to feel your nails down my back again.

Or your legs locking around my waist while you beg me not to pull out.

You glanced down at your sleeping boyfriend — soft, calm, warm. Normal.

Then back at your phone.

Fuck. I’m so pathetic.

I keep replaying that night you told me you were done.

And I laughed.

*I lied.

I cried the second you left.

I still do sometimes.

I sleep on your side of the bed.

I even got your parfume just so i have part of you.

You’re not mine anymore, and I hate it.

But if I ever get one more chance, I’ll ruin you all over again.

The way you ruined me.

Please.

Tell me you still think about me when he’s inside you.

Tell me you still miss the way I filled you up.

Say my name. Just once. Please.

Your fingers hovered above your keyboard.

But you didn’t type anything.

Yet.

You didn’t even flinch as you tossed your phone back onto the coffee table, face-down again like it was burning hot. You just sank a little deeper into the couch cushions and pulled the blanket tighter around your waist. Your boyfriend — mumbled something sleepy and soft, then settled again, cheek pressing back into the warmth of your thigh.

You couldn’t even remember the name of the movie anymore. Something violent. Something loud. But all you could hear now was the pounding of your own heart.

You hated Rafe.

No — you loathed him.

The kind of hatred that brewed in your bones, thick and bitter like poison. It wasn’t the kind that fades. It was the kind that clung to your skin and refused to wash off. You hated what he did to you. The way he made you feel like nothing. The way he made you beg for love. The way he’d kiss you like you were the only thing that existed and then say the most vile things two hours later.

And still — still — that familiar, disgusting ache stirred in your chest the moment you saw his name. That stupid, sick spark of adrenaline that always came when he texted. Your whole body remembered him. Even when your heart didn’t want to.

Your phone buzzed again. Then again. And again.

You ignored it for as long as you could. You tried.

But your hands were already reaching.

Rafe:

Of course you're not gonna answer. You're still the same bitch you always were.

Acting like you're better than me.

Like you’re so fucking innocent.

You’re not.

You were the problem. Not me.

You’re the one who kept starting fights.

You’re the one who cried and screamed and threw shit at me because you’re fucked in the head.

Don’t act like this was all on me.

You stared at the words, jaw clenched so tight you could feel your teeth grinding.

You should’ve blocked him again.

But instead, you watched the next message pop up.

The only reason we stayed together as long as we did was because the sex was good.

That was it.

You made me feel fucking lame sometimes. Like I had to tone myself down for you.

Like I couldn’t breathe when I was around you.

It was like being punched in the stomach. And still, your face stayed calm. Cold. Emotionless. Because you’d heard worse. You’d lived worse. The pain wasn’t new — it was familiar. You'd gotten used to Rafe swinging between cruel and pathetic. He always started like this when he felt ignored. Like being mean would force a reaction out of you.

You didn’t move. Your boyfriend breathed slow and steady against your skin. Safe. Warm. Real.

And then—another ping. You didn’t have to open it. The preview was right there on your lock screen.

I didn’t mean that.

Another.

Baby, please. I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t.

I’m sorry. I just... I’m losing my fucking mind.

I’m drunk. I’m high. I don’t know what I’m doing.

But I know I miss you.

I miss you so much it fucking hurts.

Your fingers moved. You tapped it open. You don’t know why. Maybe you needed to see what bullshit would come next.

You’re not fucked up.

I am.

You were the best thing that ever happened to me and I ruined it like I ruin everything.

You’re not the problem. You’re perfect. My perfect girl. My sweet, pretty baby.

You made me feel loved in a way no one else ever could.

And I pissed it all away.

You rolled your eyes, but your chest burned.

That sex wasn’t just sex.

It was fucking heaven. You know it was.

No one’s body fits mine like yours.

No one sounds like you.

That noise you make when you’re about to cum... that shaky, desperate moan? I replay that shit in my head every single night.

I haven’t touched anyone since you.

Can’t.

All I want is you.

You sat there motionless, watching as more messages dropped in rapid-fire.

I love you.

I always have. Even when I didn’t say it. Even when I was a dick.

Even when I hurt you.

Especially then.

I love every version of you — the angry one, the bratty one, the soft one that cries when I kiss your neck.

Please talk to me.

Please just say something. Call me names. Tell me to go fuck myself. I don’t care.

Just don’t ignore me. I can’t take being ignored by you.

I’d rather you scream at me than pretend I don’t exist.

I’d rather you hate me than forget me.

Your vision blurred slightly.

Remember when you used to trace your fingers over my chest after we fucked?

And you’d whisper that you hated me, but you didn’t let go?

I think about that all the time.

You hated me but you loved me too.

And I’d do anything to feel that again.

Even if it’s just one more time.

He sent a picture next.

A shirt of yours. Worn. Faded. Folded on his pillow.

I sleep with it every night.

It doesn’t even smell like you anymore. But I pretend.

I fucking pretend, baby.

You exhaled through your nose and locked your phone again. No reply. Not a single word.

You looked down at the boy asleep in your lap. His breathing calm, his body warm and safe. Your fingers ghosted through his hair and for a second, you felt grounded again.

And still — somewhere in the dark, in that awful part of your heart you never wanted to acknowledge — Rafes words sat there.

Rotting.

Festering.

Pulling at the edges of a wound that never really closed.

[obvithe-bestsoph]

Can I get something with Kenan where he gets into a fight with reader bc of cheating allegations 😔😔😔😔😔🥲🥲🥲🥲🥴

just let me explain.

masterlist requests word count: 1.1k

a/n: guys cheating is bad, don't cheat ❌❌ genre: angst/comfort. warnings: cheating accusations (ofc pookie kenan didn't actually cheat)

summary: you accuse kenan of cheating after someone sends you a photo of him with another girl, and even though he insists he didn’t do anything, you don’t let him explain. after a few days apart, you realize you were acting out of fear, not truth, and go to him to apologize. he forgives you, and you work through it together.

It starts with a picture.

A blurry, low-light photo, sent to your phone by someone you don’t even know. It’s him, standing way too close to some girl in a club. Her hand is on his chest. His head is tipped toward hers like he’s whispering something. The caption underneath is simple. Cold.

“He’s not who you think he is.”

You don’t ask questions. You don’t wait. Your fingers move before your brain catches up.

“Come over. Now.”

Kenan doesn’t hesitate. Fifteen minutes later, he’s at your door, slightly breathless, his eyes scanning your face like he already knows something’s wrong. He steps inside without a word and you toss your phone onto the coffee table. The screen’s still lit. The photo still visible.

You watch his jaw clench as he sees it.

“What the hell is this?” he asks quietly.

“That’s what I’d like to know.”

His eyes snap to yours, hurt swimming just beneath the surface.

“You think I cheated on you?”

You cross your arms even though your chest already aches. “I think I’ve been lied to. And I think you weren’t going to tell me unless someone else did.”

Kenan’s hands drop to his sides. His voice lifts, sharp and defensive. “Are you serious right now? You’re going off one photo from some random person?”

Your breath hitches. “You were with her. She was touching you. You didn’t stop her.”

“Because it was nothing!” he explodes. “It wasn’t even like that. She was a fan who got too close. I moved away two seconds later. You wanna see the CCTV?”

“You think I’m stupid?”

“No, I think you’re hurt,” he says, stepping forward, “and you’re not even giving me a chance to explain.”

“Explain what, Kenan? That you went out, didn’t tell me, let some girl get all over you, and didn’t think I’d find out?”

He flinches like you hit him.

The room goes too still.

“I didn’t cheat on you,” he says, much softer now. “I swear to Allah, I didn’t.”

But you can’t breathe properly, like something’s sitting on your chest. Maybe it’s betrayal. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s all the stupid, fragile hope you ever built up around him crashing down in real time.

“Then why does it feel like you did?” you whisper. “Why does it hurt like this?”

Kenan’s face falls. He shakes his head once, slowly, like he doesn’t know how this spiraled.

Like he’s watching you slip through his fingers.

“I love you,” he says, desperate. “I would never do that to you. Never.”

But you don’t believe him. Not tonight.

Your voice cracks. “You should go.”

He hesitates for the longest second. And then he nods.

“I’m not giving up on us,” he says as he leaves. “Even if you already have.”

You don’t sleep that night. You don’t eat the next day.

You replay the fight in your head until your heart physically aches. You stare at that photo again and again, looking for signs of guilt in his face, looking for something, anything, that makes your pain feel justified.

But it never comes.

Instead, your mind conjures up every stupid memory.

Kenan holding your hand under the dinner table. Kenan whispering du’a into your hair before you both fell asleep. Kenan kissing your forehead and calling it his favorite spot in the world.

You remember the way he never once looked at anyone else, never made you feel second-best, never left you in the dark on purpose.

And it hits you like a truck:

You never let him explain because it was easier to believe he was just like everyone else.

That way, if he left, it wouldn’t be your fault.

Two days go by. Silence.

Three.

You fold first. Obviously.

He opens the door like he was already standing right behind it. His eyes are bloodshot, his jaw unshaved, his hoodie half-zipped like he hadn’t been sleeping right either.

You stare at him.

He stares right back.

And then he steps aside to let you in.

You don’t say anything at first. You sit on his couch, knees pulled up to your chest, fists tight in your hoodie sleeves.

He waits. Doesn’t pressure. Doesn’t speak. Just sits beside you, eyes on the ground.

“I didn’t trust you,” you say finally.

“I know.”

“I panicked. I didn’t even ask. I just assumed.”

Kenan’s voice is hoarse. “You really thought I’d cheat on you?”

“No,” you admit, shame curling in your throat. “Not really. But it was easier to be angry than to be scared. Because if I was right, at least I wouldn’t have to feel stupid.”

He swallows. His voice is thin and raw. “You think being accused didn’t hurt?”

You meet his eyes. “I know it did.”

He exhales through his nose, slow and steady. “That girl was a fan. She stopped me outside the club. I wasn’t even inside yet. She asked for a selfie and then grabbed my chest like it was funny. I laughed awkwardly and walked away. That’s all that happened.”

Your stomach turns. You nod slowly, breathing deep. “I believe you.”

“Bit late for that,” he says with a tired smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I know,” you say again, softer this time. “I just... I think I was scared that you’d find someone easier. Someone who doesn’t freak out, doesn’t overthink, doesn’t accuse you the second something feels off.”

“I don’t want easier,” Kenan says, finally looking at you. “I want you. Even when you overthink. Even when you panic. I just need you to trust me through it.”

Your voice catches. “I’m sorry.”

He nods. “I know.”

You inch closer. “Can I fix this?”

He watches you carefully. “Do you want to?”

“More than anything.”

Kenan nods again, then opens his arms like he’s been waiting for this. You fall into his chest, and he wraps himself around you like home.

Your face presses against his shirt and he smells like laundry and something warm and worn-in, like he hasn’t changed in a couple days but somehow you’re still comforted.

“I hate fighting with you,” you mumble.

“I hated not knowing if we were still together.”

You close your eyes, hugging him tighter. “We are.”

Kenan kisses the top of your head. “Good.”

Silence again. But not the kind that stings. The kind that feels full of breath, and softness, and something starting again.

He rests his cheek on your hair and says, “Next time someone sends you a photo, just ask me about it. Don’t shut me out. Don’t give up before you know the truth.”

“I won’t,” you whisper. “Not again.”

You stay like that for a long while. No rushing. No pressure. Just the gentle rhythm of forgiveness threading its way back through every crack.

Kenan pulls back eventually, just enough to look you in the eye.

“I still love you, you know.”

You smile, finally. “I never stopped.”

[mutifandomkid]

Happy Anniversary, Part three

Parings: Buckyxreader

Warnings: angst, blood, self harm(sorta)??, drinking, mentions of cheating, mental breakdown, POV change

Word count: 1.4k

*************

Sam picked me up in his car a few streets down.

“Hey, you okay?” He asked softly. “I saw Bucky chase after you. He looked pretty distressed.”

“I’m fine.” I said softly, playing with some of the fabric of my dress. My hands wrinkling the soft silk. “Distressed is an understatement.”

”What happened?” Sam asked softly, silently letting me know I didn’t have to answer.

“I almost got hit by a car. I um, tripped.” I answered, dropping my head, my hands fiddling with the silk more.

If Bucky was driving, he’d reach over and grab my hands, running his thumb over my knuckles before bringing my hand to his lips, and pressing a soft kiss to soothe my nerves. But that was before.

“M’glad you’re okay.” Sam said, his hands never leaving the wheel.

“Yeah,” I breathed out softly.

“You know I’m here for you. So is Nat, and Wanda. Hell, Tony would be too if you called him.” Sam said softly.

“I know.” I said, pausing for a long minute before continuing. “James, um, saved me.”

“James?” Sam questioned, I’d never addressed Bucky as James unless… “You’re really mad at him, huh?”

“He basically threw out the past four years, of course I’m going to be mad at him.” I whispered.

“Did you let him explain?” Sam asked softly.

“What’s there to explain, Sam? You saw the same as I did.” I said, shifting in my seat uncomfortably.

Sam was quiet as he pulled into the parking lot of the apartment building. “Are you going to be okay tonight? I can stay the night, it’s not a problem.”

“No, I’ll be fine. Thanks Sam.” I said, it was clear I was tired.

“Alright.” Sam said, pulling into a parking space. “Try to get some rest, okay?”

“Okay.” I said, getting out of the car, and making my way to the elevator. I waved goodbye as I walked away from Sam’s car.

Everything was quiet, the elevator, my heels, the door to the apartment opening, my thoughts. All of it was quiet.

The apartment itself was empty. Felt that way, despite all the furniture and knickknacks. The bookshelves lined with Bucky’s favorite books, recently dusted and clean, ones that were once a comfort, now felt sterile and too clean.

The couch, Bucky’s sweatshirt lazily thrown over the cushions, now seemed like it was a nuisance taunting me. His shoes, all placed by the front door, seemed like a painful reminder.

I walked into the bedroom, seeing his clothes, the rumpled side of his bed, his cologne, his current book. I could still smell his presence in the room, and it was almost like he was there with me.

And for a second, I wished he was.

Only, it was all tainted. The betrayal, the hurt, the fear of losing him and realizing that not only had I lost him, he had taken what we had for granted. Thrown it to the side as if I was nothing but an annoyance in his life. Traded the four years of love for a quick thrill.

Anger and grief flooded my veins, and before I knew it, I was grabbing suitcases. His suitcases. I threw them on the bed, and grabbed his clothes, his books, shoes, knickknacks, colognes, toothbrush, hygiene products, hair products, every single little item that I could think of that was his, and threw it into the suitcases.

When I was done, I rolled his suitcases out and put them by the door. Then made my way to the kitchen, grabbing that whiskey bottle he’d brought home, and popping it open.

I poured myself a generous glass. I hated whiskey. I took a swig. I hated the burn. I took another swig.

His lips were on hers. Another swig. Her hands in his chest. Another.

I poured another generous glass.

“It’s not what you’re thinking!” His words rang in my head. Another swig.

“You almost got hit by a fucking car, and that’s what your worried about?!” I could hear that familiar sarcasm in his voice as his words taunted my thoughts. Another generous swig.

I could still feel the anger, the pain, the hurt, the betrayal… “Babydoll, please, tomorrow's our anniversary!”

I screamed, throwing the glass of whiskey into the counter. The glass shattered and splintered everywhere on impact. Glass shot back at me, sinking into my skin, but even the physical pain wasn’t enough to make the thoughts, the memories stop. Blood slowly seeped down my arms and cheeks where the glass had made an impact.

I sank to the floor, hands over my ears, knees tucked into my chest, head tucked down as I screamed and sobbed.

__________

Bucky

I didn’t bother drinking. Just sat on Steve’s couch. Head in my hands, fingers carding through my hair.

“She’s understanding Buck, just give her time.” Steve said, trying to give some sort of reassurance. “I’m sure she’ll come around.”

“You didn’t see the way she looked at me, Steve.” I said, finally looking up at him. My eyes were red, and I was clearly torn apart, tears evident on my cheeks from the wet trails they left. ”She looked at me like…” I dropped my head back between my knees, fingers back to carding through my hair. “Like I was a monster. She’s never looked at me like that.”

“She’s just hurt, Bucky. I would be too if I saw Peggy kissing another agent, especially one who’s never liked me before.” Steve reasoned. “I’d be mad too if Peggy hadn’t explained beforehand.”

“She won’t let me explain, Steve.” I muttered, sounding just as broken as I felt. “Sharon kissed me, grabbed my tie and kissed me.”

“I know Bucky. But you need to tell her that.” Steve responded.

“She won’t let me tell her! Steve she couldn’t even look at me, and then she yelled at me, and I,”

Steve interrupted me before I could continue. “She yelled at you?”

I nodded.

“She never yells.” Steve mused.

“I know! I know she doesn’t yell, Steve! I’ve been with her for almost four fucking years now! Don’t you think I know she doesn’t yell!” I said, growing more irritated by the second.

“Bucky,” Steve started.

“No, Steve! I fucked it up! And she won’t even hear my reasoning! She won’t even try to listen to me!” I stood and began to pace, my arms crossing to keep my hands from ripping out my hair.

“Bucky, just give her some time, she’ll let you explain.” Steve responded calmly, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms.

“Goddamnit, Steve!” I yelled, my vibrainmun arm shooting out, punching into the wall. “You don’t get it, do you?” I snapped.

“Get what, Bucky? That Sharon set you up? That she kissed you when she knew y/n was looking?” Steve snapped back.

“No!” I said, finally meeting his gaze. “I was going to propose to her, Steve. I wanted to make her my wife. My girl.” I dropped back onto the couch, holding my head in my hands, voice breaking, tears staining my cheeks again. “And now…Steve I might’ve just lost the best fucking thing I could’ve ever had a chance with.”

I didn’t catch the pitiful look Steve gave me, didn’t even notice when he sat down next to me on the couch.

“I don’t think you lost her, Bucky. I think she just needs a little time to think everything through.” He whispered.

“Steve, you didn’t see the way she looked at me, the way she treated me. The way she treated herself.” I whispered, too broken to strengthen my voice. “I almost lost her, Steve. The car…she just stood there. Accepting it, like there was nothing she could do.”

Steve was quiet, save for the small almost inaudible gasp.

“I saved her, Steve. And she couldn’t even look at me. It was like I wasn’t even there to begin with.”

“Could’ve just been shocked, Bucky.” Steve said softly.

“No, she knew it was me, because the only thing she said was that ‘I kissed Sharon.’” A small sob left my lips, and I wouldn’t have realized it was from me if it hadn’t wracked my body. “She thinks I…”

Steve was quiet, trying to offer his support with a hand on my shoulder.

“I wanted to make her my fiancé tomorrow, Steve.” I shuffled around in my pocket, then pulled out the velvet box. “Been carrying this around for weeks, thought I’d be able to man up and ask her, but now…”

“You’ll get to ask her, Buck.” Steve whispered, though there was doubt in his voice. So subtle, I don’t even think he caught onto it.

“I don’t think I can now.” I whispered, voice broken, eyes red and teary. “I think I’ve just lost the greatest gift I’ve ever received.”

***********

Part four?

Tag list:

@greatenthusiattidalwave @sebbymybaby21 @vicmc624 @cinnamon-bun47 @capswife @440mxs-wife @supersoldiers1xt @missvelvetsstuff @bonnyclydecat @marajade1974 @caity1995 @buckitostan

[mandarinmoons]

Idk if this is gonna make sense but I just got the random idea, but I’m not good at writing and I’d love to see it come to life. (I’m listening to scared of my guitar and idk just made me think of this😭)

Could you possibly do a story where the reader is kind of falling out of love with their current boyfriend (if you want to make it sound less bitchy he could be cheating or smthn idk) and falling in love with Spencer? Reader finally breaks it off with their now ex and finds comfort in Spencer and stays the night, eventually revealing the fact they’re in love with each other. If you don’t want to, that’s completely fine, and if you do, thank you so much!🩷

Being in the embrace of your loved one should feel warm, it should feel comforting, like nothing bad could happen to you, but that’s not what you felt. Every time you were in the arms of your boyfriend you felt cold, freezing even.

The past few times he had taken you into his arms for a hug you felt a shiver go down your spine and you had to push him off to escape the dreaded feeling. You would mumble an apology, but in all honesty you didn’t mean it, you felt distant from him and you didn’t want to hide it, why hide it when it would only make you feel miserable, or should you say more miserable, than you already were.

The only time you would feel the same hint of a spark the first time you were with Dylan was whenever you spent time with your coworker Spencer. His facts about the most obscure things would have your ears perk up and your day was better whenever you got to talk to him or listen to him talk. His ramblings were often blown off by others but whenever he would open his mouth to talk you felt like you could listen to him for hours. Whenever you were alone you would often reminisce about the previous breaks at work where you would laugh about a not so funny physics joke he would make, which to you would be the highlight of your day. You often wondered to yourself why is it that you felt so light whenever you were with Spencer when you should be feeling that way with Dylan, your boyfriend?

Eventually one day it hit you that you had deeper feelings for Spencer than you thought you did. It should’ve made you feel guilty, sick to your stomach even, but all you felt was clarity and the butterflies you were suppressing for so long finally had a chance to be set free. That lasted for a moment however as you were reminded that you already have someone, but knowing what you knew now it was clear what had to be done.

“So it’s over? Just like that?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I get more of an explanation?”

Your eyes went straight to your shoes as you scrambled to think of anything else. What else could you say? To you it seemed very simple that the feelings just weren’t there anymore and you needed to move on. Dylan still seemed to have feelings for you, you remembered the hurt in his eyes whenever you’d pass a hug or didn’t kiss him back, it was eating away at him and he deserved an explanation, one that you weren’t able to give him.

“No, I’m sorry.”

Turning to walk out, you froze when you heard Dylan’s last words to you, “I’ll always love you, Y/N.”

You wished you could say the same, but if you did you would’ve been saying the biggest lie of your life and that’s something neither of you deserved, so instead you turned the door handle and walked out, without a single word said.

Without knowing or looking in which direction you were walking, you knew the path all too well. Not long after, you were knocking an all too familiar door. After a moment of waiting, the door opened and you were met with none other than Spencer.

“Y/N, what’s wrong?”

You opened your mouth but no words came out. Your eyes felt dry so you knew that no tears were to be shed, but you felt dead inside and you knew Spencer could see it. He was quick to pull you inside and bring you in for a hug and you felt it again, the warmth of his embrace was quick to go through your whole being and your arms instantly wrapped around him to not lose any of the feeling, you were reminded of why you did what you did.

“I broke up with Dylan.”

“Oh Y/N, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be, it was for the best.”

Spencer took a moment to hold onto you and comfort you before taking a hold of your hand and taking you to the kitchen. It was hard to hide the smile that crept up to your face as your fingers lightly intertwined, but you bit your lip as this wasn’t the time for these types of feelings.

The whole night you spent your time at Spencer’s place and what should’ve been a time for you to rest and gather your thoughts over the break up were instead filled with laughter. Spencer insisted you stayed over the night so you didn’t have to be alone and you agreed immediately. What started off as him trying to teach you how to play chess ended up with you cuddled into his side as you watched a movie.

During the whole night you wondered if Spencer had any clue about your feelings for him. He most definitely knew that you needed some level of comfort to deal with the “heartbreak”, but right now you were clinging to his side more than you ever did with Dylan. He wasn’t one to turn you away either as at one point his fingers found your hair and were now lightly carding through the strands. The action felt so relaxing that you were having a hard time keeping your eyes open.

“You know I never really liked Dylan.”

“Really? How so?”

“I don’t know, whenever I saw you two together you seemed so uneased, as if you couldn’t wait to get away from him.”

Spencer’s words hit hard as what he was saying wasn’t far from the truth. You were reminded of the day Dylan came and surprised you at work and when the team came to look at the lovebirds, the whole time Dylan had his arm wrapped around your waist and you were itching to slip out of his grip. Spencer seemed to take notice of your discomfort and you remembered how he was quick to tell the team they had a case to get back to, he did that so Dylan would leave, so you would feel more comfortable.

“To be honest I don’t know if I ever truly loved him.”

Saying it out loud made you feel like a bitch, what kind of person stays with someone for so long without even knowing if they truly loved them. Dylan did make you feel safe, sure, but he wasn’t the best at making you feel loved. You weren’t even 6 months along into your relationship when you both settled into somewhat of a routine: wake up, have your coffee, kiss each other goodbye, maybe text a few times over the day, whoever got home first made dinner, watched some TV and that was it, no more no less. It was comfortable, but not exciting, you were aware of people who said not to chase the highs when it came to love, that it was supposed to simple and easy, but something deep inside you was screaming that this wasn’t it, that it wasn’t supposed to end this way, even if it was the only thing keeping you sane.

Now here you were, in the arms of a man that made your heart flutter whenever he was in your line of view, the man who was always considerate of you in the smallest of ways when he didn’t need to be, but he wanted to and that’s what made you fall for him.

“Y/N, I…”

Before Spencer was able to finish his sentence, your lips were quick to find his and a sigh parted both of your lips as it registered as to what was happening. Spencer’s thumb brushed over your cheek and your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer as if your life depended on it.

When you both parted, your eyes found his and the look of shock in his eyes mirrored the one in your eyes, what had just happened?

“I’m so sorry I-”

“Don’t be, I liked it.”

Spencer brushed the hair out of your face, the feather light touches of his fingers feeling so comforting against your skin. You braced yourself and looked into his eyes as you knew you couldn’t hide what you felt for much longer.

“Spencer-”

“I like you.”

He took the words out of your mouth, quite literally. You weren’t expecting those words to come out of his mouth, you always thought that Spencer was just kind to everyone around him, but it seems like he was being extra kind to you for a different reason.

“I like you too.”

Goofy smiles splayed over both of your faces, Spencer leaned in for another kiss and his lips barely touched yours and yet you felt fireworks go off inside of you. Was this a feeling that would stick around or inevitably fade? You weren’t sure, but you were willing to risk it to find out.

You can find my masterlist here!

Let me know your thoughts in the comments and like & reblog to support <3

[gigiii1sblog]

KISS ME LIKE A SECRET 006

Warnings: mature content, cheating, fluff, sexual content, 2 year age gap, 18 & 20 and more

Chapter six: only when no one’s looking.

Y/N:

His fingers were in my hair, slow and gentle, tracing lazy lines against my scalp.

I didn’t know when I’d fallen asleep, only that I’d woken up to the rise and fall of his chest against my back, our legs still tangled under the thin blanket. His hand was warm and steady, like he didn’t even realize he was still touching me.

The room smelled like him. Faint cologne, sweat, my skin. Us.

I should’ve felt guilty.

I didn’t.

I just felt… full. Raw, maybe. Like I’d poured every inch of myself into him and now I didn’t know how to come back to earth.

I rolled over, slowly, and his hand fell from my hair, resting on the pillow between us. His eyes were already open. Watching me.

Neither of us spoke.

And yet, I felt like we were saying everything.

His hair was messy. His bottom lip had a soft pink mark where I’d bit it too hard. There were nail scratches on his shoulder, mine. I’d never seen him like this before. Disarmed. Bare.

“You good?” he whispered, voice low.

I nodded.

Then paused.

“I don’t know.”

His brow furrowed a little. Not in annoyance. In concern. That almost made it worse.

“I didn’t think it would feel like this,” I admitted, voice small. “Like… this big.”

Chris shifted onto his side, mirroring me. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Me either.”

It wasn’t about the sex. It wasn’t even about Josh, or Nate, or the unsaid tension.

It was about the way he was looking at me now. Like I was no longer Nate’s little sister. Like I was something else entirely.

I stared at his lips, the slight curve of them, and remembered the way he said my name like it had weight. Like it belonged to him.

“I don’t regret it,” I said, almost defiantly.

Chris’s eyes darkened a little. “Me either.”

“But I don’t think we can pretend this didn’t happen.”

“No,” he agreed quietly. “We crossed a line.”

We both looked at each other like we were standing at the edge of something we couldn’t see the bottom of.

It wasn’t regret. But it was too much.

Too fast.

Too tangled in everything we thought we knew about each other.

He reached for my hand, thumb grazing my knuckles. It was the softest he’d ever been with me.

“I should’ve known,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“Known what?”

“That it would always be you.”

My chest clenched.

And still, I felt the ache settle behind my ribs. Because that didn’t mean we knew what to do now.

Because that kiss wasn’t an accident.

Because the way I moaned his name into the crook of his neck wasn’t a mistake.

Because we couldn’t go back.

And neither of us knew what that meant yet.

CHRIS:

She was still in the bed.

Her bare shoulder was peeking out from the blanket, the morning light slipping through the blinds and falling over her like something unreal.

I didn’t sleep. Not really. I just laid there with her body curled into mine, every breath she took brushing against my collarbone like it had a right to be there.

It should’ve felt like a mistake.

But it didn’t.

It felt inevitable.

I reached out without thinking, brushing my fingers through her hair, soft and slow, the same way I did when I was trying to calm myself down.

She stirred, and I pulled back slightly—almost like I was scared she’d catch me looking too long. But her eyes opened, and she turned to face me.

Fuck.

Her makeup was smudged from the night before, mascara faint under her lashes, her lips still swollen. From me. My hand clenched under the pillow.

Neither of us said a word for a moment.

I don’t know what I was expecting. Regret? Guilt? Maybe her scrambling away from me like it didn’t mean anything.

But she didn’t.

She looked at me like she was trying to memorize the moment. Like she didn’t know what to say either.

“You good?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded. Then paused. “I don’t know.”

That hit harder than I wanted it to. I could hear the weight behind it, like it was too much and not enough at the same time.

“I didn’t think it would feel like this,” she said, and the way her voice cracked a little made my stomach twist.

“Yeah,” I said. “Me either.”

Because I’d touched a lot of girls. Hooked up with a lot of them. But none of them felt like her.

None of them made me feel like I had something to lose.

“I don’t regret it,” she said suddenly. Like she needed me to know.

My chest squeezed. “Me either.”

We were quiet again. Not awkward, just unsure. Like we were both afraid to ask what it meant.

She looked so fucking beautiful it made me angry. Angry that I didn’t see it sooner. Angry that she’d been right in front of me all those years, and I never let myself look.

“I should’ve known,” I muttered, mostly to myself.

She looked at me. “Known what?”

“That it would always be you.”

The words slipped out before I could stop them. They weren’t planned. They were just true.

She looked at me like she didn’t know how to breathe. And I couldn’t stop touching her. My fingers found her hand, thumb brushing her knuckles like I could memorize her pulse.

But under it all, I felt it creeping in.

Nate. Matt. Nick

Every reason we should’ve never ended up here.

We crossed a line. One we couldn’t uncross.

And even if no one knew yet… I did.

I’d never be able to look at her the same. Never go back to pretending she was just Nate’s little sister.

Because now I knew what she sounded like when she begged me not to stop.

Because now I knew how she tasted, how she trembled, how she let me ruin her and then still looked at me like she wanted more.

And because I wanted more too.

Even if I shouldn’t.

⸻

Y/N:

Three days.

It had been three days since I gave in—since I kissed him first, since I stopped pretending I didn’t still want him like I used to when I was fourteen, watching from the hallway while he laughed too loud with Nate and smelled like sauvage and rebellion.

Except now he smelled like sandalwood, weed, and the cologne that lived in the curve of his neck. And now he kissed me back.

And touched me like he couldn’t get enough.

“Turn the heat down,” I said, nudging Chris with my hip as I stirred the sauce on the stovetop. “It’s gonna boil over.”

He was behind me, arms caging me in with one hand still holding the wooden spoon I let him use five minutes ago.

He didn’t move. Just leaned in closer, head lowering until I felt his lips graze the side of my neck.

“Maybe I want it to boil over,” he mumbled into my skin, smiling against the place where my shoulder met my neck.

I rolled my eyes. “You’re gonna ruin the pasta.”

He kissed me there, slow and low. “You gonna stop me?”

God. He was ridiculous. Addictive. And this was dangerous.

We weren’t even alone.

Nick was upstairs on a call. Nate and Matt were supposed to be back any minute. The window in the kitchen was open, the afternoon breeze drifting in with the scent of honeysuckle and chlorine. I had flour on my fingers and pasta sauce on my tank top and Chris’s hands ghosting over my waist like he didn’t care about any of it.

He reached forward and turned off the burner. “Fixed it.”

“You just want an excuse to distract me,” I muttered, feeling the goosebumps prickle down my spine.

“You let me,” he said.

That part was true. I always let him.

I turned around, facing him, the stove behind me. His face was close—his eyes darker than they should’ve been in daylight. There was something about how Chris looked at me now. Like he was letting himself see everything he ignored for years.

“You gonna kiss me or just stare?” I said, barely loud enough for him to hear.

He smirked, that lazy, cocky grin that used to make my stomach twist in the worst way when he was laughing with some random girl in high school.

Now it was mine.

He kissed me then. Soft at first. Like we had time. Like this wasn’t risky and insane and every bit as temporary as it was intoxicating.

But then I kissed him back harder, gripping the front of his shirt and pulling him flush to me.

We broke apart when a car door slammed outside.

Chris backed up fast, grabbing the dishtowel like he’d been wiping his hands the whole time. My heart was racing, lips still tingling.

I checked the pot. It hadn’t boiled over.

Barely.

CHRIS:

This was hell.

Because I wanted to kiss her constantly.

And she kept doing shit like licking sauce off her thumb and tugging her hair into a ponytail like it wasn’t the sexiest thing I’d ever seen.

Three days. And I still hadn’t wrapped my head around it.

Every night I thought about it.

Her. My bed. Her voice in my ear.

And then in the morning she’d walk into the kitchen like none of it happened. Like she didn’t wreck me for every other girl I ever looked at.

I watched her now, how she laughed when Matt walked in with a sarcastic comment, how she casually leaned on the counter like she wasn’t still flushed from kissing me against the stove.

She made it look easy. She made me feel like a goddamn mess.

Later that night, when everyone went outside to swim, I caught her alone in the pantry looking for more garlic salt.

“You’re terrible at pretending nothing’s going on,” I whispered, stepping in behind her.

She froze for a second. Then turned around, her back hitting the shelf.

“So are you.”

I caged her in with my arms, just like I did earlier.

Her lips parted. “Chris…”

I kissed her. Harder this time. Deeper. Like I needed her to remember how good it felt. Her hands were in my hair, nails grazing my scalp, and I almost forgot how close everyone was.

We pulled apart when footsteps passed the kitchen.

We stayed in that pantry for a few more seconds, catching our breath.

No words.

Just knowing looks.

I didn’t know what we were. I didn’t care.

Because she was finally mine. Even if no one else knew yet.

Y/N:

The dish soap smelled like lemon and sun. I rinsed out the bowl, trying to focus on the way the water swirled down the drain and not on the way Chris was leaning against the fridge, pretending he wasn’t staring at me.

I could feel him.

The air shifted when he was near. It got warmer, thicker, like something was waiting to happen. Something that shouldn’t.

I dried my hands slowly, letting my fingers linger on the towel, and walked past him toward the pantry. His arm brushed mine—barely—but the charge it sent through me made my breath catch.

Then I felt it. His hand. Wrapping gently around my wrist.

My heart stumbled.

I turned my head slowly. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at me like I was something he couldn’t touch in daylight—but would anyway.

“They’re outside,” I whispered. I didn’t even mean it as a warning. Just a reminder.

“I know,” he murmured. “Just needed to touch you.”

I tried to swallow the heat rising to my face. He wasn’t even doing anything and I felt wrecked. His fingers laced through mine under the edge of the counter, completely hidden.

Then he leaned in, close enough to speak against my ear.

“I’ve been thinking about that night,” he said. “You on top of me. The way you came…”

My knees went weak.

“You can’t say that here,” I whispered back, stealing a glance out the glass door. Matt and Nate were still outside, laughing by the grill. Nick was dancing to some song I couldn’t hear anymore because my pulse was too loud.

“You could always sneak away,” he said.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “You’re impossible.”

Chris smirked. “I’d lose my mind if you did.”

His fingers drifted to the hem of my shirt, barely brushing skin. I tried not to react—but I was soaked just from that. I hated how easily he got to me.

“I want to taste you again.”

God. Chris.

“I’ll be good,” he whispered when I didn’t respond, stepping back like none of it had happened.

And I hated him for it. But I wanted him more.

CHRIS:

She came up for Advil. I waited five minutes and followed.

The second I shut the bathroom door behind me, it was over. She was already in the shower, lips parted, pupils blown wide. My hands were on her hips like instinct. Her skin was warm. Soft. Bare.

“Missed this,” I murmured against her throat.

“We just did this,” she gasped as I slid my hand under her shirt. “Two nights ago.”

“Still not enough.”

Nothing ever was. She looked at me like she knew it, too. Like she knew I was losing control every time she breathed near me.

Then she grabbed my jaw and kissed me deep. Her tongue slid against mine, and when she pulled back, I almost chased her mouth with mine.

“Then hurry,” she whispered. “But don’t leave a mark.”

Y/N:

The bathroom light stayed off. We moved in shadows, water running hot as steam filled the room.

Chris stood behind me, pressing soft kisses to my shoulder, my neck, while his arms wrapped around my waist like he couldn’t bear to let go. The shower door closed with a click, trapping us inside something small and intimate, something too tender to be called casual, no matter what we tried to tell ourselves.

“You sure?” he murmured, voice hoarse.

I nodded, breath catching as I turned to face him. “Yeah.”

He looked at me like I was something holy.

Then he kissed me. And everything else disappeared.

His hands ran down my wet body, slow, reverent. My nipples were already stiff from the heat, and when he bent down to take one into his mouth, I gasped, head hitting the tile behind me.

He worked me open with his fingers, patient but aching, breathing harder every time I moaned into his mouth. “Fuck, Y/N… You’re so warm. So soft.”

“Chris,” I whispered, chest rising and falling against his. “I want you.”

He didn’t hesitate.

He lifted me effortlessly, and I wrapped my legs around him, sliding down onto his cock with a breathless cry as he pushed inside. The stretch made me tremble, made him groan into my neck.

“Still fit me so fucking good,” he muttered. “Like your body never forgot.”

The water beat down on our shoulders as he thrust up into me, slow and deep at first, both of us clinging to each other like we were drowning. My back hit the wall, his lips never leaving mine as our movements turned more frantic, more desperate, more real.

His hand tangled in my wet hair. My fingers clawed into his shoulder blades.

“You feel like mine,” he whispered, forehead pressed to mine. “You always have.”

I came hard biting his shoulder, crying out into his mouth as my body shook around him. He followed right after, groaning low as he came inside me, holding me like I might slip away if he let go.

⸻

The movie flickered in front of us, but I couldn’t tell you what it was about. My back was against Chris’s chest, his arms wrapped around me under the covers like he’d decided he wasn’t letting me go for the rest of the night. His skin was still warm from the shower. My hair was half-damp, stuck to his collarbone. Neither of us cared.

The joint burned slow between my fingers. I took a hit, the smoke curling from my lips in lazy spirals. Chris leaned forward just enough to take it from me, brushing his mouth against my temple in the process—so soft it felt like an apology and a promise all at once.

He smoked and handed it back. We didn’t talk for a while. The kind of silence that only happens when two people are pretending the world doesn’t exist outside the walls of a room.

“I used to think about this,” I said, barely above a whisper. “Not like… this exactly, but just… you. Here. With me.”

His arms tightened. “I didn’t let myself think about it.”

That hurt a little. I laughed anyway, dry and quiet. “Because I was Nate’s little sister?”

“Because you were good,” he said, voice raspy near my ear. “And I wasn’t.”

I blinked, something sharp curling in my chest. “You think I’m still good?”

“No,” he breathed. “You’re not. Not with me.”

My stomach flipped. I wanted to argue, but he was right. There was nothing innocent about us now. About the way we touched each other in secret. About how we looked at each other when no one else was around.

But somehow, in this moment, I didn’t feel dirty. I felt… safe.

“I don’t know how we’re supposed to go back to pretending,” I said after a long moment. “After this.”

His thumb rubbed slow circles against my hip under the blanket. “We won’t.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m not pretending anymore,” he said. “I’ll be quiet when I have to be. I’ll lie if it keeps you safe. But I’m not pretending like I don’t want you.”

My throat tightened.

Outside, the waves crashed against the beach in steady rhythm. Inside, my heart did the same.

CHRIS:

She looked like she belonged in my arms.

Fucking hell, I was so screwed.

I used to look at her like she was untouchable, this sweet, soft thing that moved through the world without ever noticing the damage she left behind. And now she was here. In my lap. Letting me touch her like she was mine.

The joint burned between her fingers again. She looked up at me, eyes red-rimmed from smoke and whatever emotion we were pretending not to feel.

“You scare me sometimes,” she whispered.

“Why?”

“Because you make me want things I told myself I’d never want.”

I didn’t ask what that meant. I already knew.

A future. A mistake. A fucking heartbreak waiting to happen.

“I think we were always gonna end up here,” I murmured. “Even if we tried to fight it.”

She didn’t say anything. Just curled deeper into my chest and passed me the joint.

We didn’t have answers. We didn’t have a plan.

But in the silence that followed, wrapped up in each other under the dim light of a paused movie and the haze of smoke, I knew one thing for sure..

I’d never be able to stay away from her again.

guys i felt like adding more to this chapter would be doing to much so im going to post another part later tonight! (For clarification this is just kind of the way their sneaking around)

@izzylovesmatt @riggysworld @amiraisafreakokaysorry @ansteeze @pair-of-pantaloons @kitty-meow-meow44 @emeraldsturns @sturnslux3 @kalel2005 @sarahsturnn

[crowsofdarkness]

Moment Of Weakness: Chapter Twenty Six

-gif not mine. credit to owner-

Pairings: Mob!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Content Warnings: language, 18 + smut, angst, fluff, affair, cheating, violence, kidnapping, faking a pregnancy.

Summary: Reader is the assistant to New York's most feared mob boss, James Buchanan Barnes. He had the picture-perfect life: status in the mob, friends, and beautiful wife. So why can't he keep his mind and eyes off of reader?

Authors Note: I just wanted to remind everyone who reads this, there are heavy moments of cheating/having an affair in this story. You might not agree with the actions of "reader" or Bucky but it does pertain to the storyline. If anyone is interested, tags are open for this! Just send me a message or comment!

Tags: @cjand10 @generalmoonpolice @sapphirebarnes @baw1066 @nameless-ken @minami97 @bookofriverr

Bucky stood close behind me as we walked the short distance from his car to the building where we were meeting Steve and Sam. According to Steve, there was someone inside that knew some information about the hit and he was willing to meet with us on one condition. Bucky had a tight grip on a bag that held that certain condition. 

Twenty thousand conditions to be exact. 

The guy wanted $20,000 in exchange for the info that we needed. I tried to tell Bucky that no matter what information this guy had, it wasn’t worth all this money.

“For your life? I’d drain every single one of my accounts.” 

I felt every inch of my body vibrate as we walked up to Steve and Sam, who stood right outside of the entrance of the club. 

“Is he here?” Bucky questioned. 

Steve nodded. “At the bar. 

“Is it in there?” Sam pointed to the bag. 

“Yeah. Asshole wouldn't take anything less than 20,” Bucky grumbled before resting his eyes on me. “Remember what I said?” 

I sighed but nodded. “Stay by you at all times.” 

With a motion of his head, we all headed inside of the lively club while all standing close to one another. Steve stood close behind me while Sam and Bucky were in front of us. There were bodies packed close together, dancing along with the loud beats of the music and we had to physically push our way through to make our way to the bar. Steve was right behind me, his warm breath across the skin of the back of my neck, and his arms were on either side of me to protect me from whatever would happen. 

Bucky looked over his shoulder to make sure I was still close so I linked my fingers with his, allowing him to guide me through the crowd. 

Through the clearing, we all stopped in front of the bar and Steve pointed to the lone man sitting in the middle with his back to us. 

“Perhaps we can go somewhere more private?” The man swung around in the stool, now staring at us. 

When his eyes landed on me, they widened for a brief second. “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.” 

I shrugged. “I don’t have anything to be afraid of.” 

“Hm,” the man hummed while taking a drink. “Baron Zemo.” 

“Y/N,” I gave a curt nod. 

Baron looked towards Bucky and motioned towards the bag in his hand. “Is that it?” 

Bucky dropped it to his feet. “Tell us what you know.” 

“If it’s anything like the last few times we’ve met, all the money is here?” Baron asked while placing the bag onto his lap. 

Clearly this wasn’t the first time that Bucky and Baron had met. 

“What do you know?” Steve now asked. 

“I received a call from Clint Barton a week ago to fly him and a lady friend of his to Hungary.” 

“Budapest?” Bucky spoke. 

I suddenly remembered the conversation that was being had between Bucky and the guy he had pinned to the bar last night. 

Baron nodded. “This wasn’t the first time I let them use my jet either.” 

Bucky’s hand was still linked with mine so I could feel when he tensed. “Them?” 

“Clint and the redhead,” Baron smirked while taking a drink. 

He knew who the redhead was, we all did. Baron was playing coy which irritated us. 

“I think she said her name was Natasha?” He said. 

Bucky went to lunge for him but I held him back, letting him know that we wouldn't get any more information if Baron was knocked to the floor unconscious. With myself standing in front of him to block him, I gave Baron a hard stare. 

“Cut the bullshit, Zemo. You knew Natasha was Bucky’s wife. How many times did you let them use your jet?” I asked. 

“Quite a lot over the last year and a half, even when the two of you were married. I caught them a few times being a bit too close, especially for a married woman,” Baron said over my shoulder to Bucky. 

My heart fell into my stomach with the realization that Natasha and Clint were seeing each other. But I could only hurt for Bucky so much because we were doing the same thing that they were. 

Sam could feel the sudden tension so he spoke next. “Are you planning on picking them up in Budapest to fly them back?” 

Baron only nodded. 

“When?” Steve asked. 

He lifted up his cell phone. “Clint will call me when they're ready to come back.” 

“As soon as he calls you, you let me know. Understand?” Bucky demanded, still standing behind me. 

“For a price,” Baron smirked. 

I went to refuse, not wanting Bucky to waste any more of his money on me, but he spoke faster than I could. 

“I’ll wire you another twenty when I have proof that they touched ground in New York.” 

The smirk on Baron’s face doubled in size but the conversation that they were now having fell on my deaf ears as I felt a burning sensation on the back of my head and it wasn’t coming from Bucky. 

While peering over my shoulder, I saw that not only was one set of eyes on me but at least three that I could notice. And it wasn’t the kind of gaze that was full of desire, it was more so filled with greed. 

One of the men pushed back his jacket, revealing a gun holstered on the side of his pants and I immediately patted Bucky’s chest with shaking fingers. 

“Bucky,” I muttered. 

He followed my eyes and I knew when he saw what I did because Bucky quickly went to head over to the man who was holding his gun. However, I held him back. 

“We can't afford to cause a huge scene right now. The less people know that I’m here the better.” 

Reluctantly, Bucky nodded and used his large frame as a shield, standing behind me once again. Our eyes locked when I placed a gentle hand on his cheek. 

“No one is going to try anything while you’re here, especially with Sam and Steve,” I reassured him.

I heard a snicker from behind me. 

“You think that you’re safe because you have THE Bucky Barnes at your side? There will be a time where he can’t be with you. I’d suggest you be careful.” 

I cocked my head to the side, lips parting in a smug smile. “Is that a threat?” 

Baron gave a one shoulder shrug. “What could you possibly do?” 

My knuckles collided with his chin, his body clattering to the hard floor below and he brought the stool down with him. The loud noise caught the attention now from everyone around us but I paid them no mind. 

Baron went to stand up but I placed the heel of my shoe deep into his chest, locking him into place on the ground. 

“Let’s get one thing straight, Zemo,” I dug my heel harder into his chest when I felt him struggle against me. “I don’t need them to protect me. Clearly, I have zero problem dealing with men like you.”  

Steve looked around us, people now crowding around us even closer, and gently grabbed my elbow. 

“Y/N, we need to go,” his voice was soft but urgent.

I watched as one guy with a knife gripped tight in his hand slowly stalked towards me which caused Bucky to wrap an arm around me and pull me into his chest. 

“Keep your head low,” he breathed in my ear. 

With my own arm wrapped around his side, I let him quickly lead me out of the club, Sam and Steve following very close behind. 

[tomkaulitzssgirl]

Hii! can you do a tom x fem reader and its like his 2007 - 2008 era and tom is like really manipulative, toxic etc and the reader finds out that he’s cheating but then her and tom get into a fight about it and the reader nearly breaks up with him but tom manipulates her and it ends with smut??

THAT BOY’S A LIAR | TOM KAULITZ

(i don’t remember if i had answered to this one but it was still in my box so i’m writing a new one)

you hadn’t planned on finding anything.

you weren’t the type to snoop — or at least you hadn’t been, until the late-night phone calls, the half-mumbled lies, and the way tom’s eyes stopped meeting yours when he came home smelling like vanilla perfume that wasn’t yours.

so when you picked up his phone from the hotel bathroom counter — the screen lighting up with a new message from ‘Lea 💋’ — your hands didn’t even shake.

you already knew.

when he walked back into the room, half-dressed, towel around his neck and acting like nothing had changed, the silence was thunderous.

you were sitting on the edge of the bed, phone in hand.

“you wanna explain why lea’s calling you baby and asking when you’re gonna come ‘finish what you started’?”

tom froze mid-step. his eyes flicked to the phone, then to you. and then he had the nerve to smirk.

“you went through my phone?” he asked, like that was the offense.

your blood boiled. “don’t fucking deflect. who is she?”

“someone who means nothing,” he said, waving it off, “you’re really gonna lose it over a couple texts?”

you stood. “are you seriously gaslighting me right now?”

“oh my fucking god, y/n, calm down—”

he stopped taking as soon as you hurled the phone across the room with everything you had. it hit the wall near the dresser with a sickening crack and shattered, parts of the screen exploding in a spray of glass.

silence.

then—

“what the fuck is wrong with you?!” tom roared, his voice rising louder than you’d ever heard it.

he was across the room in a blink, chest heaving, fists clenched at his sides, face twisted with a fury that lit every nerve in your body on fire.

you didn’t back away, you just stared at him, breathing hard, daring him.

his hand twitched — barely — like for one split second, he didn’t trust himself. he stepped in so close his chest nearly touched yours, his breath hitting your face, burning with rage.

“you wanna act crazy? huh?” he growled, “you wanna break my fucking stuff like a child?”

“then maybe you shouldn’t act like a man who doesn’t give a damn who he hurts!” you shouted back, voice cracking, tears burning at your eyes, “i hope it’s broken. just like you broke me.”

you barely had time to flinch before tom’s fist hit the wall — right next to your head. the sound was deafening, a dull, violent crack that shook the plaster and echoed through the room.

your whole body went still.

he didn’t touch you. but the message was clear.

the air between you snapped tight.

you stared at the dent his knuckles had left, then back at him.

his chest was rising fast, teeth gritted, jaw clenched like he was holding back something feral.

“i should go.” you said, voice raw and low, moving toward the door.

“no,” he snapped, grabbing your arm — not gently, “you’re not walking out on me.”

“let go of me, tom—”

“no!” he shouted, pulling you back toward him, “you’re not just leaving like none of this means anything!”

his eyes burned — not just with anger, but something deeper. desperate.

“you think i’d be like this if i didn’t care?!” he shouted, “you think i’d give a damn if it was anyone else?”

“you’re hurting me!” you snapped, trying to pull your arm free again.

he froze. loosened his grip slightly, just enough that you could breathe.

“i don’t know how to do this,” he muttered, pacing away from you, dragging his hands over his face, “i don’t know how to be good at this — at us. but i fucking love you, alright?”

you stared at him, breathing hard. heart pounding so loud you could barely hear anything else.

“you don’t treat someone you love like this.” you whispered.

the room was spinning. everything hurt.

“i’m not good,” he said, “i’m not stable. but when you’re here — it’s the only time i don’t feel like i’m losing my fucking mind.”

he reached for your face, slower this time. a silent ask. you didn’t stop him. his hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. his voice was lower now, rough. “please don’t go. please don’t leave me.”

the tension hadn’t gone — but it shifted. morphed into something heavier. something reckless.

you should’ve pushed him away.

you should’ve kept walking.

but you didn’t.

you closed the space between you — just enough for your lips to graze his.

that was all it took.

the kiss that followed wasn’t gentle. it was bruising, urgent, raw — filled with everything neither of you could say. the fight, the fear, the love twisted into something that felt like oxygen in a burning building.

you let it happen, let him pull you into him like he was afraid you’d disappear.

and even though everything inside you was still on fire, you stayed.

tom’s hands gripped your thighs suddenly, and before you could say a word, he lifted you — one fluid, heated motion — and tossed you down onto the bed. the mattress bounced beneath you, the room spinning with the force of everything you’d both been holding in.

your breath caught in your throat.

he stood at the edge of the bed, his chest rising hard, his eyes dark and burning with something between fury and need. you didn’t move — didn’t dare — not when he was looking at you like that, like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

he climbed over you slowly, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of you. one hand pressed into the pillow beside your head, the other sliding up the length of your thigh.

“you think you can throw my phone,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, “and then just walk away from me?”

“maybe.” you whispered, challenging him — even now, especially now.

he smirked — not the usual cocky smirk, but something darker. hungrier.

“you’re not going anywhere.”

his mouth was on yours again, all teeth and tongue and heat. you pulled at his shirt, nails digging into his back as his body pressed into yours, hard and deliberate. everything was fast, unrelenting — but underneath the chaos, there was something else. something trembling. when his hands slid up your sides, they slowed — fingertips lingering just enough to make you shiver. his mouth dragged along your jaw, your neck, his breath stuttering against your skin.

“say you’re mine.” he murmured.

you didn’t want to. not after everything.

you stared up at him, defiant even now, even with your body trembling beneath his.

“no.” you whispered.

he let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh — dark, disbelieving. then he leaned down, lips brushing your ear.

“wrong answer.”

the shift in him was instant. his hands moved with more force, more precision, like he was intent on showing you exactly what defiance earned. he pulled you back up into him, his voice low, firm, unrelenting.

“you want to act like you’re not mine? fine. i’ll remind you.”

that was all he said before he parted your thighs, your panties exposed because of the dress you were wearing. he immediately dived in, kissing your inner thighs, before slowly going up.

you tried pulling his hair but took your hands and pressed them aggressively against the bed.

“don’t fucking touch me.” he said just above your sensitive spot, before leaving a kiss above the clothing covering you.

you were now without breath, watching his every move like you were under a spell. and maybe you were, because you couldn’t understand how you went from wanting to leave him to this.

he looked at you with sultry eyes as he took the fabric between his teeth, pulling it down slowly, his gaze never leaving yours.

you moaned just from that sight. he was going painfully slow but it didn’t matter, you wanted to enjoy every second.

“now, should i give you what you want?” he whispered as his eyes lowered towards your private parts, licking his lips in anticipation.

you nodded frantically, pushing your hips up but he pulled away with a smirk, shaking his head.

“you think it’s that easy?” his hands traveled up and down your thighs, stroking them and squeezing them.

“yes. do it.” you said between gritted teeth and it only made him laugh.

he came up to your face, hands at the sides of your head intertwined with yours. “what? you think you’re in control now?”

“i’m always in control.” you muttered, trying to keep a steady voice, knowing damn well the truth.

he arched his brow, and you didn’t know what he had in mind, but suddenly he rolled over to the side, laying against the headboard.

“do it then.”

your chest raised up and down as you looked at him in confusion. “do what?”

his expression was smug and you saw his hand going down, palming himself through the baggy jeans.

“take control.” he sighed, “what? you don’t know how?”

you swallowed hard, nerves sparking in your body but trying to meet his dare with the bravery you didn’t quite feel. slowly, you stood up and straddled him, hands bracing on either side of his shoulders.

his eyes never left your face, and you felt him hardening under you. your mouth found its way to his neck, leaving wet kisses, cogently at first before beginning to suck on it, biting it, doing everything you could to mark him.

his hands squeezed your ass and he hissed at the sensation, smacking it to make you stop.

and you did. that was your first mistake.

tom chuckled, caressing the skin that now had his imprint. “that’s not so dominant of you, you know?”

you swallowed, wanting to tell him so bad to just take you and do whatever he wanted with you, to put an end to this, but you couldn’t, your pride wouldn’t let you.

so you ignored him and you began to undo his pants, taking his whole length out. he gasped at the feeling of your hand wrapping around it.

you started to move it up and down slowly, thumb tracing his tip, gaining a groan from him.

he closed his eyes, relaxing against the headboard as his hands never left your hips. you started to go faster, biting your lip because of the sounds he was making.

“oh shit…fuck.” he pushed hips up with another groan, mouth slightly parted as he watched your hand work.

when you finally thought it was enough, you lifted yourself up a bit and then slowly sat down his length, taking it in inch by inch as you came down on him.

both of you gasped at the same time and you heard his breath hitching. you waited a second before starting to move back and forth, hands pressed against his chest.

the heat between you pulsed with every motion — your heart pounding, your breath catching.

he licked his lower lip, hands going up to your hair, trying to pull it. feeling bold enough now and gaining confidence, you went to take his wrists and pinned them above his head.

but tom just smirked, that dangerous glint flashing in his eyes.

and with a sudden, effortless shift, he rolled you over on your back again, slamming himself deep in you without a warning.

you arched your back, a scream leaving your body at the force he used to pound into you.

“you really thought i would let you do that?” he asked you with a bitter chuckle, lifting your legs and placing it on his shoulders.

you felt him deep in you, hitting all the right spots you needed to be taken care of. you couldn’t stop moaning, screaming, whining.

at some point, he rolled his hips and that movement made you tear up. you cried out his name with tears rolling down your cheeks.

he fucked you like an animal, never stopping his pace, just going harder and harder, faster and faster.

at some point he turned you around with easy, slamming himself in you again while he kept you pinned against the pillow.

you couldn’t even speak. it was too much.

you couldn’t deny how much you loved the way he manhandled you. the way his hands gripped your hips like he was claiming something that no one else could touch. the way his eyes darkened with that fierce intensity that both scared and thrilled you.

he put you in every position he wanted without any hesitation or difficulty and you loved that. you loved being his.

“aw, look at you,” he said, tone dripping with mock pity, “all talk about being in control, and yet here you are getting fucked senseless.”

you whined again, gripping the pillow at his voice and tone. you loved when he talked to you like that. like you were just a dumb slut begging to be fucked.

“t-tom…i-i need to-“ you felt it, the way your stomached turned. you were close.

“oh you wanna come?”

you nodded frantically, turning around to look at him. he smirked and nodded, “then come, baby. come for me.”

you thanked him in your mind and finally let yourself go. it took him some seconds before following you, coming right inside you.

you were trying to breath, thinking you were done, but then he kept going. he started thrusting into you again, making you squirm and wiggle underneath him.

“t-tom! t-too much!” you yelled between moans and cries. he was overstimulating you. he wanted to make you weak.

“do you like it?” his voice was rough, fuelled with the need to fuck your brains out.

you nodded squeezing your eyes shut.

“then take it!” was all he said as he kept going in and out of you, abusing your now even more sensitive part.

your chest tightened as tears kept spilling down your cheeks, unbidden and hot.

you tried to blink them away, but the flood wouldn’t stop. the pleasure was breaking through every barrier you had, raw and unfiltered, and you couldn’t help but cry because of it.

“what? you said you wanted to come, didn’t you? s-shit.” he cussed, his movements growing more and more sloppy, and you knew he was just as close as you were again.

you clenched around him, mouth forming an ‘O’ shape, too tired to even let any sounds out.

and then suddenly, you let go again, eyes rolling to the back of your head, literally seeing stars.

tom came after you again. every last thrust was punctuated by a cuss word, until he fell right on top of you.

“fuck.” you heard him whisper against your skin.

for a few seconds, all you could hear was the sound of both your breathing, ragged and uneven, filling the room like an aftershock.

then, slowly, he shifted. with a low exhale, he rolled onto his back beside you, arm draped loosely over his eyes. his skin was hot, damp with sweat, braids sticking slightly to his forehead. for a moment, he didn’t say anything — just caught in the dazed, heavy silence that followed everything.

but then he turned his head toward you.

his brows furrowed slightly as his eyes scanned your face, still flushed, your body trembling faintly in the sheets.

“hey,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “you good?”

one hand reached out to brush your hair from your face — a surprisingly gentle gesture from someone who’d just been all fire and heat.

“talk to me,” he added, quieter this time, “too much?”

his tone wasn’t cocky now. just concerned. still out of breath, but soft in that way he rarely let himself be.

you let out a soft breath, still catching it between the aftershocks pulsing through your body. your limbs felt heavy, your skin warm, your heart slowing into a quiet rhythm.

tom’s eyes stayed locked on yours, worry simmering just beneath the surface despite the haze of sweat and satisfaction clouding his face. his thumb brushed lightly along your cheekbone, waiting for something—anything.

“i’m fine,” you whispered finally, giving a small, tired smile, “just… exhausted.”

he didn’t say anything at first, like he didn’t quite believe you.

you reached up and tangled your fingers in his hair, gently tugging him a little closer, your voice still low but firmer now. “if it had been too much, i would’ve said my safe word. you know that.”

he let out a slow exhale, tension easing from his shoulders, his body sinking down beside you again. there was still something raw in his expression—like he’d let himself get a little lost in everything, and now he was slowly returning.

you traced lazy circles on his chest, your voice barely above a whisper.

“i loved it, tom. every second of it.”

and finally, that crooked little grin ghosted across his lips again—the one he gave you when his walls cracked just a little. he leaned in and kissed your forehead, rough fingertips trailing gently down your side.

“good,” he murmured, “cause you damn near killed me.”

you laughed softly, curled against his chest, and for the first time in a long time, it felt quiet. safe. still.

even if only for tonight.

“i was an asshole. i mean earlier. i shouldn’t have… the way i talked to you, what i said… what i did.” his voice tightened like it scraped against something sharp inside him. “you didn’t deserve that.”

he glanced down at his bruised hand, then his gaze moved to the wall and the hole he had left.

you reached up and touched his jaw gently, coaxing his eyes to meet yours.

“i know.” you said simply. not to let him off the hook—but because you knew. and you saw him now, raw and unguarded.

tom swallowed hard, like the words were still caught in his throat. “i’m sorry.”

it wasn’t dramatic. but it was real.

and coming from him, that meant everything.

you nodded, voice soft. “thank you.”

his hand found yours under the sheets, fingers lacing with yours.

“i will try,” he added, almost a whisper now, “i wanna be better for you.”

you leaned in, pressing your forehead to his.

“you don’t have to be perfect,” you whispered, “just honest.”

he closed his eyes at that. let out a shaky breath. and for the first time that night, he looked like he could actually sleep.

wrapped around each other, in the messy aftermath of everything — apology, touch, trust — the silence was no longer heavy. it was whole.

[svnluns]

High | Christian Anthony

I was walking to the beach, and it was around 3 a.m. I couldn’t stop crying. My boyfriend broke up with me two hours ago, and my chest felt like it was caving in with every step. I didn’t even know why I was still crying, he’d never truly loved me. He was always cheating, always blaming me for things I didn’t do, while I was spending every hour rotting in my room.

The ocean came into view, stretching out under the dark sky. I walked onto the cool sand, letting the waves’ sound wash over me as I sat down. The wind tangled my hair, and I reached into my bag, pulling out my phone. I only knew one person who could help me through this.

I dialed his number, trying to hold back my tears. “Hey, can you meet me at the beach near my house? I need you.”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll be there in five,” he replied, his voice gentle but sure.

I set my phone down on my lap and noticed, almost absentmindedly, the bottle of vodka I’d grabbed on my way out. I hadn’t even realized I’d brought it. I took a long sip, feeling the burn in my throat, when I heard footsteps behind me.

I turned, and there he was,my savior. “Hi, Christian,” I said with a weak smile. I was finally getting what I’d been craving.

“Hey, y/n.” he said, walking closer, his gaze soft. “I know why you called me.” He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a pre-rolled joint and a lighter, passing them to me.

He settled down next to me, pulling out a small bag of white powder. It was obviously cocaine. He gave me a small smile, one I knew meant he was willing to share.

“So, what’s going on?” he asked, his eyes finding mine. “I could tell you were crying on the phone, even though you tried to hide it.”

I took a shaky breath. “He broke up with me,” I mumbled, rolling my eyes as if I didn’t care. “Apparently, he has ‘doubts.’ And he also thinks I’m a drug addict?” I scoffed, bitterness biting through my words.

“You’re not an addict. You just, have fun yk,” he said, trying to cheer me up. “But honestly, let’s forget about him tonight, yeah?”

I lit the joint, taking a long inhale, letting the smoke fill my lungs and cloud my mind. The waves rolled in and out, mirroring my own breathing as we sat in silence. After a few moments, we traded, Christian passed me the little bag, and I took a pinch, inhaling. The rush hit hard and fast. Was cocaine always this strong?

Being around Christian and his friends always made me feel like I belonged. People talked, saying that things between Christian and me seemed… different. That maybe it was more than just friendship. Maybe they were right.

“y/n?” Christian’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts. He was watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.

“I was just thinking about us,” I admitted, looking down, feeling the warmth of his presence beside me. “Not in a weird way,” I added quickly. “Just… the fact that you’ve stayed with me through everything. I don’t think anyone else would’ve.”

Christian reached over, giving my hand a gentle squeeze. “Of course, y/n. I’m here for you. All of us are, Mitchel, Clinton, me,we’re here for you, no matter what.”

A wave of gratitude washed over me. I didn’t know how to explain it, but he looked different tonight, maybe more than just a friend. Maybe it was the high, or maybe it was just the truth.

“I love you so much,” I murmured, glancing up at him with a small smile.

His eyes softened as he looked at me. “I love you too,” he whispered.

And then, slowly, he leaned forward and kissed the corner of my mouth, hesitating as though waiting for a sign. I felt him pull away for a second, but before I could even think, he leaned in again, this time kissing me fully. His lips moved against mine, intense and filled with something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

I kissed him back, feeling his smile against my lips. It felt so wrong, but it was everything I needed.

For the first time that night, I didn’t feel alone.

[pankowcrumbs]

Cherry Red X Harry Styles

MasterList

Harry Styles Masterlist

AN: Sabrina carpenter style Y/N

There’s a moment just before the lights go up on stage where everything is quiet. My heart races, and I can hear the crowd screaming my name, waiting. They don’t know what song I’m about to perform. They think they know, but this one isn’t on the setlist. Not publicly, anyway.

But I’ve got a point to prove. And Harry Styles is sitting front and centre in the audience.

Wearing his smug little Gucci suit and trying not to look guilty.

But let me back up.

Two months ago, I was on top of the world. Headlining sold-out arenas, doing late night shows, whispering into microphones about sex and heartbreak and lipstick stains. I’d always had a thing for the theatrical. Skimpy outfits, glitter on my thighs, sweat on my chest. People liked the fantasy of me confident, untouchable, in control.

And Harry? He made me believe it. He called me his "firecracker" and told me I was the kind of woman men wrote albums about. Said my voice made him ache. That being with me was like "trying to catch lightning in a jar." He always had a way with words.

Until he found someone else to whisper them to.

He was on tour in Tokyo. I was in LA finishing vocals on what was supposed to be a love album. We were texting, FaceTiming, sending each other songs and shirtless selfies at least I was. I should’ve known something was off when he stopped replying late at night. When the “I miss you” texts started sounding copy-pasted.

Then came the video.

A blurry clip, shaky but unmistakable. Him, stumbling out of a club. Her, blonde and giggling, clinging to his arm. Then her lips on his neck, and his hand… yeah. All over her.

It spread like wildfire. His fans defending him. Mine calling him a dog. My PR team scrambled for damage control, telling me to keep quiet. But I wasn’t some helpless ex to pity.

I was a songwriter.

And oh, did I write.

The track’s called Cherry Red.

It’s got this sultry bassline, the kind that makes your stomach twist. I laid down the vocals in one take, still raw, mascara stained, wearing one of his old t-shirts that I later threw in the bin. It starts slow almost soft.

“Said I was the only one

now she’s got your hotel key, darling

and I’ve got this heartbreak on my tongue.”

Then the chorus kicks in.

“Did you like her lips on your collarbone?

Did you moan her name in a tone that used to be mine?

Hope it burned when you came.

Blink and you’re done always the same "

It’s not subtle. Not meant to be.

Tonight, I’m performing it live for the first time at the Brit Awards. The same award show Harry Styles is presenting at. The same one he’ll be sat at third row, slightly left of stage. I know because I made my team get the seating chart. He can't miss me if he tries.

I check my reflection one last time. Black latex corset, thigh-high boots, a sheer mesh skirt that leaves nothing to the imagination. My hair’s slicked back, my lips are red cherry red. Obviously.

The lights drop. The crowd hushes.

Then: a single spotlight.

The crowd erupts when they see me.

I lean into the mic and smile.

“This one’s for the boys who think they can cheat on a bad bitch and get away with it.”

The first notes of Cherry Red hum through the arena.

He flinches when he realises. I see it. I live for it.

The stage turns crimson. My dancers weave around me like smoke, slow and taunting. I sing every lyric with venom laced in honey. The crowd is eating it up. And when I hit that chorus when I belt the note that nearly broke me the night I wrote it I stare him dead in the eyes.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?

Wrote this bridge in your dressing gown,

My fingers know things you still haven’t found"

The audience screams. Some are filming. Most are losing their minds. The camera cuts to Harry his jaw clenched, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. He’s trying to play cool. Failing miserably.

Then I do it.

"Hope it burned when you came, Thirty seconds, what a shame."

I wink. And wave while I sing the second verse.

Right at him.

Twitter explodes before I’m even offstage. #CherryRedChallenge is trending. Someone posts a slowed-down video of Harry’s reaction with the caption: “This man is NOT surviving tonight.” I retweet it with a cherry emoji.

My publicist texts in all caps:

“THEY LOVE YOU. HE LOOKS LIKE HE WANTS TO CRAWL UNDER THE TABLE.”

Good.

I down a glass of champagne backstage, still buzzing. Sweat glistens down my spine. I feel invincible. Electric. Like I just took back every bit of power he tried to steal with one drunken night.

He messages me, of course. Can’t help himself.

“Was that really necessary?”

I don’t reply.

The next day, I’m everywhere. Vogue posts a breakdown of my outfit. Rolling Stone calls it “the most iconic revenge performance since Lemonade.” Even The Guardian is weighing in with thinkpieces about "feminine rage and reclaiming pop culture."

Harry finally calls. I let it ring. Then I answer.

“Have something to say?”

He sighs. “You know I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You just accidentally fell into another woman?”

He’s quiet. Good. Let him sit in it.

“You’ve made your point,” he says eventually.

“Oh, darling,” I purr, “That wasn’t the point. That was just track five.”

The album drops two weeks later. It’s called Scandalous. Every track is a punch to the gut, sugar-coated in synths and catchy hooks. Fans dissect the lyrics like gospel. People debate who every line is about. I don’t confirm anything but I don’t deny it either.

The media calls me “pop’s new savage queen.” Harry goes quiet on social media. Good. Maybe he’s thinking twice next time he reaches for a drink and someone else’s waist.

One fan tweets: She gave us the tears, then gave us the fire. She’s unstoppable. Another: Men should be afraid. I would be.

A month later, I’m walking through JFK when I bump into someone. Literally. My sunglasses fly off, and so does my coffee lid.

“Fuck sorry...” I start, annoyed.

It’s him.

Harry. In a hoodie and sunglasses, trying to go incognito. Tall and awkward and beautiful and heartbreakingly familiar.

“Y/N,” he says softly.

I cross my arms. “You’ve got some nerve.”

He nods. “I deserve that.”

We just stand there, the air thick with things unsaid. He looks tired. Sad, even. But I don’t trust it. Not anymore.

“I miss you,” he says finally.

“You miss the girl who used to write love songs about you. She’s dead.”

He nods again. Then, a small smile. “But the girl who writes hate bangers about me is doing pretty well.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Damn right she is.”

And then I walk away.

I don’t need closure. I don’t need his apologies, his late-night texts, or the way his cologne still messes with my head.

I’ve got my voice. My pen. My stage.

And somewhere, in a sold-out arena, girls are screaming lyrics he inspired but I made legendary.

So if he ever forgets what he lost, he can just turn on the radio.

Because I made sure he’d never stop hearing me.

It takes him three weeks to work up the courage to show up at my door.

I’m in an oversized shirt, no pants, sipping a mimosa and scrolling through memes of myself. The internet’s still obsessed with Cherry Red. Someone posted a side-by-side of me at the Brits and Harry’s reaction, with the caption: “She’s the storm, and he’s the fool who tried to dance in it.”

Too right.

The knock is soft. Almost shy.

I don’t answer straight away. Let him wait. When I finally open the door, I don’t say a word. I just raise one eyebrow and lean against the frame.

He looks… nervous.

“Hi,” he says.

“Brave of you.”

He exhales. “I’ve been an idiot.”

“Multiple times.”

He nods. “I don’t want anyone else.”

I take a long sip of my mimosa.

“You had me. And you fumbled it for a one-night stand with a girl who probably thinks 'Vinyl' is a kind of skincare.”

He cracks the tiniest smile, then immediately swallows it.

“I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you,” he says. “If you’ll let me.”

I tilt my head. “Why should I?”

“Because no one will ever worship you like I do. I was stupid. But I know I’ll never do better. You’re it for me.”

He steps forward, lowers his voice.

“You’re the anthem, Y/N. I want to be the bridge.”

A slow grin spreads across my face.

“Bit poetic for a man who got out-sung and out-fucked by my own fingers.”

He winces. “Deserved.”

I let him in.

But not all the way.

That night, I write “Don’t Embarrass Me Again.” It’s sultry, a little slower than Cherry Red, but venomous in a playful way. Teasing. Powerful. The kind of song that warns you with a smile.

“Came back crying with flowers and fame,

Told me you changed, but I’m still the flame.

I’ll let you in, but don’t pretend

You forgot how this ends.

Don’t embarrass me again,

You’ve already seen what I write with a pen.

I can turn loving to hating so quick,

One slip, and I’ll make your new girl sick.

So don’t get cocky or overstep,

You’ve got a second chance not a safety net.

You’re lucky I’m even still calling you ‘babe’,

Act up again, I’ll dig you a grave."

The song is a hit before it even drops. I tease it on TikTok with a clip of me mouthing the line,

You’re lucky I’m even still calling you ‘babe’,

Act up again, I’ll dig you a grave."

in lingerie and his old tour jacket.

The comments are chaos. “She forgave him but said try me again and I’ll body you publicly.” “This is how you take your power back and STILL let them beg.” “She’s not healed she’s evolved.”

Harry? He’s obsessed. Texts me constantly. Takes me to dinner and stares at me like I hung the moon in red light. Posts a pic of my hand in his lap with the caption: “Don’t Embarrass Me Again. Out Friday.”

Even his fans are on my side now.

He’s different now.

More quiet in crowds, louder in his praise. Always watching me like he still can’t believe I let him back in.

And I make him work for it.

No half-assed apologies. No sweet-talking his way through interviews. I make him carry my heels when I’m tired. Stand backstage while I perform. Take photos of me for press and not with the front camera, please. I don’t let him forget who I am.

He knows I’m the main character. He’s just lucky to be written back in.

One night, after a gig in New York, we’re lying in bed. I’m scrolling through my own tag. He’s tracing lazy circles on my hip.

“You ever gonna stop turning me into lyrics?” he murmurs.

I look over and smirk.

“Don’t embarrass me again, and you might just get a love song.”

He grins.

“I’ll take my chances with the hate ones.”

Three months later, I close Coachella with Don’t Embarrass Me Again. Fire on stage, fans screaming every word. And there he is front row, arms crossed, nodding to the beat like a man who knows exactly what he almost lost.

After the final chorus, I blow him a kiss and mouth: “Still watching you.”

And he mouths back: “Good. I want you to.”

[sincerelyneo]

little run down: i want to thank the wonderful @hazyhae for tagging me to do this—it looked super fun, and i think it’s so cute to reflect on your works. i will say, though, my layout won’t be anywhere near as cute as theirs because i’m lazy and completely lacking any once of artistic talent. so we’re stuck with comic sans.

i didn’t write as much as i wanted to this year, and i went MIA for six months without a word—sorryy. but somehow, i still ended up with a total of 23 works. if you’d like to check them out, i have a very interesting masterlist for you to peruse.

“every fic you write is a song fic”…well sorta kinda 😋

FIRST WORK OF 2024: woman- renjun (27/3)

notes: i wrote this because i’m a firm believer that renjun is so hs1 coded. i was obsessed with the line “i’m selfish, i know” from woman, so it felt fitting.

my writing in this just annoys me, like paige shut uppp and stop yapping, my lord. my earlier fics are so wordy and long winded and it bothers me so much.

LAST WORKS OF 2024: igloo - renjun (17/11)

notes: started with renjun and finished with renjun yup. i love kiof, and when i heard igloo, i was like, this needs a fic—but i couldn’t settle on an idea i liked. originally, it was gonna be a toxic enemies-with-benefits fic for jeno, but i scrapped it because i wasn’t feeling it. then all of a sudden, it was november, and everyone and their mothers were writing nnn fics, and i was like… hm, okay.

i’m not really a lover of no nut november fics, but the lyrics were too fitting for the idea i settled on. so, alas—igloo.

LONGEST FIC OF 2024: fireproof - jeno (8.4k)

notes: is this cheating because i technically posted it in 2023 on my old blog? yeah. but it’s my wrapped, and i make the rules. my blog is a dictatorship, and whatever i say goes. also, if i hadn’t picked this, woman was the next longest, and i’ve already talked about her.

my writing in this is honestly horrific, and i think my old blog fics make me feel the most insecure as a writer. still, so many people asked me to repost it here, so i did—but i really wish i’d edited it first lol.

SHORTEST FIC OF 2024: sunflower vol 6 - hyuck (1.4k)

notes: harry styles wrote this song about haechan and i think about that all the time so i wanted to write something short and sweet. this is my only sfw fic as of now…

MOST POPULAR OF 2024: mad at you - mark

notes: umm…thank u for making this my most popular fic. ily <3

one thing about me… i’m a sucker for miscommunication, angst, and arguing in my fan fiction. a third-act breakup? sign me the hell up every single time. i love that this is my most popular fic of the year because i love the hurt/comfort trope.

PERSONAL FAVE OF 2024: heaven - chenle

notes: chenle is my bias, and it’s so hard to find fics where he’s a silly, lovesick lover boy, so i had to take matters into my own hands. i know i literally just said i love angst, but sometimes all a girl wants is tooth-rotting fluff with her smut, and i think i pulled that off pretty well in this fic. idk…

notes: i posted at least 3 fics for each member this year because i have a lot of ideas, and i like to spread them evenly—i also know the struggle of trying to find fics for your bias. however, hyuck + chenle definitely got a little more love (nobody’s surprised).

haechan (5 fics total: 12.1k words)

chenle (4 fics total: 16.0k words)

warning: i can be a little flaky with my writing. sometimes an idea hits, and i’ll write it in one sitting; other times, i’ll start something and forget about it for months. so, don’t be too disappointed if some of these never see the light of day.

guilty as sin? — park jisung (college!au, golden boy x nerd)

The hot upperclassman on the basketball team is every girl's fantasy - well yours. He's tall, and sweet and lean and hot and the object of all your late-night scenarios. And you like it like that. He's simply a thought, a dream, escapism and completely unaware of your existence. Well, he was, until you're assigned to tutor him. And now you have to teach the guy you've been getting off to at night how to do algebra...or fail the class yourself.

unadulterated loathing — na jaemin (enemies to lovers)

Every winter break, you and your best friends rent a cabin to escape the stress of college for a week. Except this year, your best friend is bringing her new boyfriend, Jeno, and with him comes his best friend, Jaemin—the one person you cannot stand.

ballad of a homeschooled girl — lee haechan (college!au)

Jumping from 18 years of homeschooling to living in college dorms would be hard for anyone; so imagine that mixed with a party animal roommate, a first crush and the cocky arrogant Lee Haechan who you just keep running into at inconvenient times. And he’s so irritating. Ugh. Could this get anymore awkward? 

if you steal my fic ideas i will be in your walls. 🤨

oh and…i forgot to mention: @sincerelyriize

[incognitomoustache]

Tangentially related, but I started to more actively listen to Eminem again and lmao, just how much "Stan" is censored on the main Eminem YT channel is wild. Towards the end it becomes basically unlistenable.

Let me show you - I'm including all verses for context (for those that aren't as familiar with the song), and also to showcase what wasn't censored. Everything bracketed in red is muted out of the song in the censored version:

verse 1:

Dear Slim, I wrote you, but you still ain’t callin’ / I left my cell, my pager and my home phone at the bottom / I sent two letters back in autumn, you must not’ve got ’em / There probably was a problem at the post office or somethin’ / Sometimes I scribble addresses too sloppy when I jot ’em / But anyways, [fuck it,] what’s been up, man? How’s your daughter? / My girlfriend’s pregnant too, I’m ’bout to be a father / If I have a daughter, guess what I’ma call her? / I’ma name her Bonnie / I read about your Uncle Ronnie too, I’m sorry / I had a friend [kill] himself over some [bitch] who didn’t want him / I know you probably hear this every day, but I’m your biggest fan / I even got the underground [shit] that you did with Skam / I got a room full of your posters and your pictures, man / I like the [shit] you did with Rawkus too, that [shit] was phat / Anyways, I hope you get this, man, hit me back / Just to chat, truly yours, your biggest fan, this is Stan

verse 2:

Dear Slim, you still ain’t called or wrote, I hope you have a chance / I ain’t mad, I just think it’s [fucked] up you don’t answer fans / If you didn’t want to talk to me outside your concert, you didn’t have to / But you coulda signed an autograph for Matthew / That’s my little brother, man, he’s only six years old / We waited in the blisterin’ cold/ For you, for four hours, and you just said no / That’s pretty [shitty], man, you’re like his [fuckin’] idol / He wants to be just like you, man, he likes you more than I do / I ain’t that mad, though I just don’t like bein’ lied to / Remember when we met in Denver? / You said if I’d write you, you would write back / See, I’m just like you in a way: I never knew my father neither / He used to always cheat on my mom and beat her / I can relate to what you’re sayin’ in your songs / So when I have a [shitty] day, I drift away and put ’em on / ‘Cause I don’t really got [shit] else / So that [shit] helps when I’m depressed / I even got a tattoo with your name across the chest / Sometimes I even [cut] myself to see how much it [bleeds] / It’s like adrenaline, the pain is such a sudden rush for me / See, everything you say is real, and I respect you ‘cause you tell it / My girlfriend’s jealous ’cause I talk about you 24/7 / But she don’t know you like I know you, Slim, no one does / She don’t know what it was like for people like us growin’ up / You gotta call me, man, I’ll be the biggest fan you’ll ever lose / Sincerely yours, Stan—P.S. We should be together too

verse 3:

Dear Mr. I’m-Too-Good-to-Call-or-Write-My-Fans / This’ll be the last package I ever send your ass / It’s been six months, and still no word—I don’t deserve it? / I know you got my last two letters, I wrote the addresses on ’em perfect / So this is my cassette I’m sendin’ you, I hope you hear it / I’m in the car right now, I’m doin’ 90 on the freeway / Hey, Slim, I [drank] a fifth [of vodka], you dare me to drive? / You know the song by Phil Collins, “In the Air of the Night” / About that guy who coulda saved that other guy from drownin’ / But didn’t, then Phil saw it all, then at a show he found him? / That’s kinda how this is: you coulda rescued me from drownin’ / Now it’s too late, I’m on a thousand [downers] now—I’m drowsy / And all I wanted was a lousy letter or a call / I hope you know I ripped all of your pictures off the wall / I loved you, Slim, we coulda been together—think about it! / You ruined it now, I hope you can’t sleep and you dream about it / And when you dream I hope you can’t sleep and you scream about it / I hope your conscience eats at you and you can’t breathe without me / See, Slim—[*terrified screams*] sh[ut up, bitch!] I’m tryin’ to talk / Hey, Slim, that’s my girlfriend [screamin’ in the trunk] / But I didn’t [slit] her throat, [*girlfriend screams*] I just [tied her up]—see? I ain’t like you / ‘Cause if she [suffocates] she’ll suffer more and then she’ll [die] too [*girlfriend screams*] / Well, gotta go, I’m almost at the bridge now / Oh, [shit], I forgot—how am I supposed to send this [shit] out?! [*more screaming*]

verse 4:

Dear Stan, I meant to write you sooner, but I just been busy / You said your girlfriend’s pregnant now, how far along is she? / Look, I’m really flattered you would call your daughter that / And here’s an autograph for your brother; I wrote it on a Starter cap / I’m sorry I didn’t see you at the show, I must’ve missed you / Don’t think I did that [shit] intentionally just to diss you / But what’s this [shit] you said about you like to [cut] your wrists too? / I say that [shit] just clownin’, dawg, come on, how [fucked] up is you? / You got some issues, Stan, I think you need some counselin’ / To help your ass from bouncin’ off the walls when you get down some / And what’s this [shit about us meant to be together?] / That type of [shit]’ll make me not want us to meet each other / I really think you and your girlfriend need each other / Or maybe you just need to treat her better / I hope you get to read this letter, I just hope it reaches you in time / Before you hurt yourself, I think that you’ll be doin’ just fine / If you relax a little, I’m glad I inspire you, but Stan / Why are you so mad? Try to understand that I do want you as a fan / I just don’t want you to do some crazy [shit] / I seen this one [shit] on the news a couple weeks ago that made me sick / Some dude was drunk and drove his car over a bridge / [And had his girlfriend in the trunk, and she was pregnant with his kid] / And in the car they found a tape, but they didn’t say who it was to / Come to think about it, his name was—it was you / Damn…

Basically, the whole point of the song gets lost, and while it’s easy to fill in the gap in your head in some parts (like curses), other parts just genuinely become confusing if you don’t know what is muted out. Mainly the whole “having his girlfriend in the trunk”-thing...Which is probably the point, but regardless, the context clues are still there.

(….though, I think the most confusing part is why Stan wanting him and Eminem to be together is censored out in the final verse - especially since it’s left uncensored in the previous verses. Only possible reason I can come up with is that implied gay=bad (this was in 2000)…but why then only censor it in the final verse? Because Stan is supposed to be “the bad guy”?)

Anyway, all this reminded me of this post and how certain words being censored just makes those subjects more taboo to talk about (like suicide and self-harm). It’s also interesting how domestic violence and (more than) implied suicide isn’t censored out - just the words themselves. The context is even left pretty much intact. For instance:

“I had a friend **** himself over some ***** that didn’t want him”

Stan’s friend did something to himself because he was unwanted and it was something that was bad/sad. I'd say even little kids would understand as much. You think they haven't heard the word "kill" before? It's not like it's a curse or slur - in fact, I'd say that it's a very cructial word to have in any language. Censoring it feels very Newspeak - replacing "bad" words with "ungood" ones.

“Sometimes I even *** myself to see how much it ***** / It’s like adrenaline, the pain is such a sudden rush for me”

Stan does something to himself and it causes pain.

I’d say that in both of these cases it’s not exactly difficult to fill in the gaps - all that’s left for the listener is to ponder exactly which verb - maybe how Stan’s friend killed himself ("hang"? "shoot"?) or what derogatory word Stan used for the girl who didn’t want said friend ("bitch"? "whore"? "tramp"? "slut"? the possibilities are endless). All you’re doing is making the listener think up more “bad words” than just the ones that were censored.

Anyway, I'm not very good at articulating my thoughts. Here's links to the censored as well as the explicit version of the song.

[kinsey3furry300]

Caved and wrote fanfiction about the damn gay owl that lives rent-free in my brain.

One man’s trash: a Helluvaboss Fanfic.

“Hey Mox, I need your advice on something. You’re a gun guy, right? Need your advice on what attachment to get for the shotty, trying to make the right pick. Do you think this will fit on the front rail.”  Said Blitzø, spinning on the office chair in his room, playing with his phone. It was 11am on a work-day, and no one was dead yet.

“That depends on which shotgun you’re talking about, sir. Weaver, Picatinny, or Carmine rail?” asked Moxxie, leaning over the desk to look at the phone. “What attachment exactly were you thinking of- Ewww! Jesus! Fucking why?!”

 “Ahahahaha, nice. But honestly, joking aside, if most shotguns and rifles have a flashlight attachment, why not a fleshli-”

 “Are you honestly this bored, that one day without work is enough for you to start trolling your workers, sir? And while we’re at it, could you not involve me and Mils in every sex toy purchasing decision you make? I do not need a point-by-point breakdown of what you and Stolas thought, faxed to me when I am visiting my father-in-law. Especially not with pictures.”

“Unclench your puss Mox, it’s not like there’s anything better to do right now. Anyways, where is Mils? She cheating on you with her secret second husband?” He said, wiggling his eyebrows and playing with a stress ball. It made a humorous squeaking sound.

“Desist, sir. Besides… would you ever actually say that to her face?

“Only If I’d got bored of ever having a face again, Mox. She honestly terrifies me.” Blitzø said, affectionately. “She still with the in-laws? Is she sick again, or something?”

“Um, yeah she said she wasn’t feeling so hot, so she wated to stay over an extra night. I… I think she might be worried about her sister, they’ve been taking a lot lately and-”

“Yeah yeah yeah, don’t care. So look, that means it’s just us boys, right, and seeing as work has dried the fuck up, whatdya say? Boys’ night out on the town! Me and you and Stolas hit some bars, manly bonding, go fucking wild now the Mrs. is away, just the three of us, what d’you say?”

“What am I, fucking invisible?” yelled a voice from the other room.

“Sorry Loony-poo, you can come too if you want sweetie!”

“Ew, fuck no Blitz, I’m at a party with Tex and Russ and the guys. There’s a dog-race down in Greed and fucking Vikki is entering, I can’t wait to see her wrap her dumb-ass car around a fucking lamp-post!”

Moxxie narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to make a joke about Hounds and lamp posts, when the voice yelled “And don’t even think about saying it, fatso!” He closed his mouth, shocked, but nodded, a little impressed.

“Okay honey, stay safe! And remember, it’s fucking Greed so if anyone dies in a car crash… film it: Mammon plays like 60 bucks per-clip for those funniest accident compilations he makes! So Mox, manly man time with the manly men?” asked Blitzø, going ham on that stress-ball I need to buy him stim toys. Thought Moxxie. Before he tries gun-tricks in the office. Again.

 He considered the offer.

“Well, now you mention it, Sir, there is this pop-up art gallery up in Pride that I’ve been meaning to check out: they have a retrospective on Dagobert Peche, his role in modernism and proto-pop, and the interesting things he’s been doing since he died, and I-”

“I am not above calling you a homophobic slur, Mox. Christ on a stick, I’m dating Stolas and that’s the gayest combination of syllables I’ve ever heard a grown man articulate and-”

The door banged open.  Loona gasped. “What the Fuck Stolas! What happened?” she yelled. Moxxie and Blitzø ran in. Stolas was kneeling in the centre of the room, crying loudly and uglily, and visibly covered in trash, as well as holding a garbage bag.  And he was sobbing, really going for it.

“Stolz! What happened to you babe, I swear if it was those kids down by the liquor-store I’m going to fucking kill them! Who did this to you, honey? Let go of the bag.” Said Blitzø, kneeling and grasping his hands.

“I…. I should never have gone there!” sobbed Stolas.

“Babes, put down the trash-bag. I… what? The fuck!?” “It seems to be stuck to his hands, sir. Magically.” Added Moxxie, kneeling by Stolas to examine him and trying to get him to drop the bag without actually touching the trash-covered owl.

“I Should never have gone there!” sobbed Stolas.

“I… gone where, honey?” asked Blitzø.

“W-w-Well.” Said Stolas, trying to control his breathing. “We had no customers, so I just thought I’d take a quick walk...”

“Dammit, were you trying to see Via again? I told you honey, you can’t just, damn, I- we need to be smarter about that Stolas… what happened?” asked Blitzø. “From the top?”

“From the top?” said Stolas, crying. “Okay, well-”

++ earlier that day++

Stolas Looked over the cracked phone’s lock-screen one more time, and signed.

It was awfully good of Blitz to lend him a phone whilst he was trying to get back on his feet again, although just why he had so many partly destroyed phones was a worrying question for another time. Maybe it was because of his work? And yes, it was annoying to be so reliant on him for so much. To be… tethered like this (how the tables have turned) and to be fair, he knew the only reason Blitz had parted with this junker of a phone was so he would be contactable and could be dissuaded if he did something stupid like, say, storm out of the office to go see Via again…

You’re getting in your own head. He realised, glancing one-more at the Lock-screen: Him and Blitz and Via, at loo-loo land. Not a great photo, Blitz was normally a better photographer than that, but he supposed it was a spur of the moment thing. The photo was focused on him, Via was hardly in it, and she clearly knew it.  Via… Sweet Lucifer, how had he not been able to see at the time that she didn’t want to be there? I… It was a shitty photo of what, in hindsight, was shitty day where he’d failed his daughter.

One of many. He thought.

And it was also, since he got banished, the only photo he had of her: he’d not been permitted to grab anything from the house, he didn’t have a social media presence himself, Via had set her sinstagram account to private years ago after getting creepy messages from weirdos, and it’s not like Blitz had had any particular reason to keep photographs of the daughter of the guy he was in a transactional relationship with, so this was it. One shitty photo of his daughter scowling. Seventeen years, and that was all he got.

He'd wondered, in the past, how creepy dads ended up kidnapping or stalking their own kids. It seemed monstrous, but when you found yourself in that situation, unable to even see them…

He’d set himself some ground rules. For both of their stakes, he wasn’t going to try and see her in person again… not after last time. She needed space. He needed time. They both did. And he wasn’t going to stalk her, IRL or online, that was a path to madness. But he needed something to hold onto. Just a damn photo of her.

And that’s how it’s come to this, he thought, half amused.  Prince Stolas of the Ars Goetia, plotting to rummage thought his own garbage in the hope that his bitch of an ex-wife has thrown out a usable photo.

This would be funny if it wasn’t so desperate.

The logic was sound, though. Stella had never exactly been sentimental, and was more than spiteful enough for this to work. Her and her awful brother had hardly been able to wait until the day after his banishment before they started throwing out his stuff. He’d noticed it when he’d walked in, to confront them that day on Sinsmass: they’d a literal dumpster where they’d been chucking his houseplants and portraits, over by the servants’ entrance. In hindsight, knowing Stella he was surprised she hadn’t just bunt it all: she’d bought nearly a hundred taxidermy owls the day she first learnt that he’d was sleeping with an imp just to burn them, and that was deranged behaviour, so he supposed he ought to thank his lucky stars that his prized possession seemed to be escaping the torch.  He’d been back several times since Sinsmass to check, and even summoned the courage to walk past and throw in an empty soda can the day before as an excuse to lift the lid: they were definitely dumping his possessions in the dumpster at the back of the place, and if he was lucky, he might be able to scrounge a photo or something else that reminded him of Via.

Just one photo. That’s not too much to ask for.  He told himself, crouching in the alleyway opposite the back of his own former palace. Just one photo, and I’ll leave happy. I just need something that shows her smiling, that’ll get me through then next few months.

Blitzy No, never that he corrected… Blitz was being very kind. Millie and Moxxie, and even Loona were being very kind. Everyone was being very kind and gentle when they spoke with him… the way you spoke to a man on a ledge. He appreciated it, there was no denying that. And they weren’t exactly wrong… his attempt to fight Andrealphus hadn’t exactly been a suicide attempt, not exactly, but it hadn’t hadn’t been one.   Since he’d seen Blitz dragged before Satan with his head on the block, he’d said fuck it to whether he lived or died several times, and yet every time, not only had he still lived, but things had gotten appreciably worse each time. He’d hit rock bottom. So even though he knew what he was about to do was stupid, and creepy, and cringy, and extremely risky, given Andrealphus had made it very clear what would happen if he caught him again… if it got him through just one more week of this, then was fine by him. When you were not only on that ledge, but dangling off it by your fingernails, every inch was worth fighting for.

One of those fringe benefits of rock bottom that no-one ever warned you about, was that insanely dangerous and anti-social behaviour suddenly had a certain quiet charm all of it’s own.  He thought to himself.

He crouched down, tail-feathers spread for balance, checked for cars, and then said fuck it one last time.

He ran.

Or at least, he attempted to.

Some of the local alley rats had apparently noticed his presence, however. And perhaps objecting to this territorial incursion, or perhaps remembering that he had snacked on one or two of them last time he was here, reconnoitring and planning out his grand heist, they attacked at about the same moment he sprung into action. As a result, what should have been him gliding across the two lanes of traffic with the grace and silence of, well, an owl, ended up with him yelling a surprised: “Ow, Bugger-fuck!?” and doing a little spin on the spot as one latched onto his ankle, followed by an undignified hopping jig into the middle of the road before he could shake the little buggers off.  Then, his timing being thrown off, came the taxi. Given his height the vehicle barely came up to his waist, and he was pretty sure that he was technically still immortal to anything that didn’t involve angelic steel, he had no particular desire to try and deal with all this with shattered limbs, so he sidestepped it sharply, spat out some interesting language he’d learnt from Blitz, and, unable to control his momentum, spiralled and spun awkwardly into the wall next to the dumpster, yelling.

Perfect stealth mission.  He thought, as the taxi honked and sped off, the driver yelling something very unpleasant and anatomically improbable about his parentage. Although knowing father, not outside the realms of possibility, he thought, rubbing his head.

“Yes? And, well… same to you, but with three horses!” he yelled back, before sighing. Blitz would have nailed it, the stealth and the cussing. He was good at this sort of thing.

Blitz was also good at talking him out of this sort of desperate nonsense, which is exactly why he’d not told him about this, he thought as he flattened himself into the wall, and looked left, then right, spinning his head in a slow 360.

Strangely, no one seemed to have noticed the crazy person fighting rats and swearing at strangers in the middle of the road. Just another beautiful day in hell. He let out a sigh of relief, and cracked open the dumpster.

Oh… the ficus titanicus hadn’t made it. A pity, it was within a few weeks of flowering, he thought moving the dead plant aside gently, and groaning, sadly. He seemed to have once again underestimated his wife, and the lengths she would go to when it came to malice.

Everything had been doused in bleach, both chlorine and peroxide, presumably to ensure that no thrown away food would remain edible for hells ever-shifting homeless population. Or was this normal? Did I do this too? He wondered, realizing he’d never asked the house staff what happened to the things he threw out. The last time he’d been here, scouting, there had been visible, undamaged books in the trash but now…  even what had been spared the flame was pulped paper, slowly dissolving in the peroxide, the words bleeding black.  Lucifer below, had she been culling his library? That seemed a bit much, even for her. He coughed, holding a wrist to his mouth, the chemical fumes were so acrid you could hardly smell the dumpster itself, it was a lot.

“No, no no no!” he muttered. “Come on, you’ve thrown out so much of my stuff already this can’t be it!” he muttered, with increasing franticness, as he climbed over the rim and stood in the dumpster, desperately raking the caustic muck with his claws, hoping for… something! Anything! This is crazy person behaviour: month two without your meds, and I see things are going swimmingly a voice in the back of his head said, quite calmy. He ignored it. Sane person behaviour hadn’t exactly worked so far, so why not mix things up? Lungs, feet and claws burning, he found a portrait at the bottom of the pile, his own face slowly dissolving into the kitchen scraps and the strata of dead maggots the lined the bottom of the dumpster. It would have been poetic if he hadn’t been so fucking frantic to find just one picture of Via.  He wiped off some trash to get a better look at the painting, and pulled it up. The paint sloughed off as soon as the angle changed, distorting the work. The upper part, which showed him remained in place, although it was blistered, but the lower half of it, which showed Octavia, parted company with the canvas entirely and flopped off into the muck.  Even a painting of her didn’t want to be seen with him, apparently.

He screamed, and smashed the painting over the edge of dumpster, taking gleeful satisfaction in the destruction of his own smug, happy, stupid crowned face. Oh. This is going well, he thought.

It got better.

There was, a loud clatter, and that was when he realised he’d been tuning out the sound of an approaching vehicle for some time. The clatter, he realised was the loading gate at the back of the palace opening, less than six feet away from him.

A truck full of imps, several of his former butlers, two Security Hellhounds, and a taller figure were standing there and looking at him with various expressions of horror. Almost, you’d think, like they’d just found a crazy man rooting around in their trash.

He would have said that was the most embarrassed he’d been in his entire life, were it not for the fact that as he turned his head slightly, he saw who the taller figure was.

“Vassago?” he asked, horrified. No, mortified.

Vas stared for a long moment, beak open, clearly just as horrified as he was by the situation. He was a good egg, and they’d always been close, but clearly neither of them was mentally prepared to find Stolas, formerly a prince of the Ars Goetia, having a full-blown mental breakdown and playing in their bins.

Vassago looked around. There was a truck backing up to the loading gate, clearly to deliver or collect something from the palace, and so there were at least a dozen imps and two hellhounds as witnesses. Stolas could see on Vas’s face the moment he realised that there was no way this wasn’t making it’s way back to Stella, and a second after that, his face hardened. He looked down, clearly humiliated to be dealing with this.

“Move it, pordiosero, this isn’t a charity.” Vas said, clearing his throat. “This is private property get out of their trash or I’ll have security chuck you out, Entiendes?”

“Vas… I.” Stolas started.

“Don’t Vas me cabrón. I don’t know you. Get lost.” He said, looking at his feet. “Just go, before this gets ugly.”

“Sir, that’s Stolas.” Muttered, one of the hellhounds, “We have orders to-”

“You think I wouldn’t recognise Stolas?” said Vassago, “Are you talking back to me?” he asked, scowling. Stolas realised that he was pissed. No, furious.

“You think I wouldn’t recognize someone I’ve known my entire life? Shut the fuck up gilipollas. The person I know, wouldn’t be rooting around in someone’s trash like a crazy beggar. The person I know, wouldn’t have fucked up this badly and gotten into a mess like this, so shut the fuck up. The person I knew wouldn’t have embarrassed themselves like that in front of everyone that matters in hell, and thrown away their only daughter in the bargain.”

“Vas, they were going to kill Blitz.” Said Stolas, trying to make him understand.

“And?! Whose fucking fault was that? I cannot believe that the person I knew would be stupid or selfish or cruel enough to put someone he loves in a position where they could get executed, let alone not have a plan for what to do if that happened! I cannot believe that anyone I know would endanger someone they cared about like that, and then not have a plan to get out of that that doesn’t involve throwing his fucking daughter to these scavengers to sink their claws into for the next hundred years. So whoever you are, you’re clearly not the person I thought I knew!”said Vassago, his voice rising several octaves, near hysterical.

“I… I..” said Stolas, fighting back tears.

“So here I am, going through Stella’s junk because apparently she can’t be trusted with a powerful magical library that belongs to the entire Goetia family, and transferring out all the important items before she can trash them, when I should be comforting my friend, and his daughter but I can’t because he’s gone and done something so incredibly reckless, that if I were to even acknowledge his exitance, it would end badly for the both of us. And on top of that, there is a crazy person routing around in the trash like a rabid mapache. So whoever you are, my day is already bad, and you are making it very difficult right now, so just go!” he yelled. “Climb out of the dumpster, and just go pordiosero.”

Crying, and feeling dirtier than he ever had, Stolas climbed out of the dumpster, barely able to see, and wondering how he’d make it home in this state.

“Hey, no, you don’t just get to walk away.” Said Vassago. “You, grab him.”

A rough hand grabbed his arm. Rex, Stolas vaguely thought. One of his own security detail, or at least they used to be.  He looked down, and the hellhound wrinkled their nose, and looked away, embarrassed.  Even they couldn’t look at him, he realised.

“You have any idea how lucky you are I was here and not Stella or Andy, tramp?” Vassago asked. “That you showed up when I was getting rid of the last of the stuff the belonged to that deadbeat Stolas that used to live here? You come back here, if they catch you here, they’ll kill you, you know that don’t you?”

“I…. I don’t care.” Cried Stolas.

“You…. You asshole!”  yelled Vassago. “There is a very sweet little girl living here, who has already gone thought far too much recently, and the last thing she needs is to see someone, even a stranger like you, killed on her doorstep, you moron! Understand?” he yelled, grabbing a random handful of trash and chucking it at Stolas in frustration. “What you do here affects her too! Hold him still, he clearly isn’t getting the message.” He scowled, storming back into the loading gate, and grabbing a black trash bag. “You want trash? Take some!” he yelled, throwing a bag at his head and narrowly missing. “You want to do this? You really want to go, cousin? I’ll give you trash!” he yelled, throwing another bag, that hit Stolas in the chest and exploded. The hellhound holding him flinched, but did not let go. One of the imps, someone who Stolas had known for 15 years and always tipped, bonus every birthday, laughed.  And why wouldn’t they? Stolas realised. A current prince of the Ars Goetia, standing in the trash and throwing a spectacular camp gay hissy fit, while also throwing garbage at a former prince? This was content you couldn’t get even on pay-per-view, not even on those weird nasty channels the V’s ran. Vassago fished around in the loading gate, amongst the crates and boxes looking every bit a crazed as Stolas felt, before grabbing a specific large trash-bag that seemed to fit his needs, and then stomped over.

“You need a reminder not to come back here, it’s not good for your health, and you’re not the only one who could get hurt, understood?” he said, and if Stolas had been able to see through the tears he might have picked up on something unsaid in the eye contact he was being given. “You want trash? then take it.” said Vassago, pressing the bag into his hands. Stolas felt the power wash over him, the old familiar tingle of magic. Funny how soon you forgot what it felt like.

“You will take this home with you, and be unable to drop this or otherwise discard it until you reach whatever passes as home for you now.” Commanded the Deamon Prince, eyes glowing, his hands over Stolas’s, warm. “You need to be reminded of who you are, and the consequences that await you and this family if you come back here and get caught like this again.” The power peaked, and Stolas gasped and fell to his knees, still holding the bag, unable to drop it. Vassago turned his back on them, but then hesitated a moment, looking like he was about to say something.

He didn’t, instead he walked back over to the crew of imps and began giving them commands, removing the last traces of Stolas from what had once been his home.

Prince Stolas of the Ars Goetia, or someone who had once been him, fled the scene, crying.

+++

“Oh that fucking asshole!” yelled Blitzø. “I’m going to kill him! I’m going to… Mox, look up a recipe for roast parrot. I going to fucking kill him!”

“I, no, it’s okay.” Said Stolas. “He was right, I wasn’t thinking. If, it Andrealphus had caught me there, he’d have killed me in front of Via. I was stupid, it was so stupid to go back there. I just… I thought he was my friend why would he be so cruel about it? I can’t even let go of this stupid trash bag!”

“Hey, hey there Stoltz. Its okay.” Blitzø said, clasping his hands. “You… you trust me right? You feal at home with me, don’t you babe?”

Stolas coughed, trying to laugh thought the tears. “Yes, and that’s the only reason any of this is at all bearable.”

“Then if I’m home to you, just let go.” Stolas looks surprised for a moment, and the smiled, and dopped the bag. He then gasped as Blitzø went in for a hug.

“Oh, Blitz don’t I’m filthy, you’ll get dirty.” He said, smiling thought tears and burrowing his face into his shoulder.

“Oh, yeah, you fucking stink right now. Well, too bad that you need a hug more than you need a shower, so you’re getting hugged first. Besides, gives us an excuse to shower together… if you get my drift.”

“Ew, dad don’t have sex with him in the bathroom again, it’s fucking weird.” Said Loona, gagging.

“Loony, just, just go see a movie tonight, I need the apartment if you get me? Moxxie, lose the trash bag, I don’t think we need any reminders of how bad this day had been so far.”

Moxxie nodded, picked up the bag, and then froze, moving it this way and that, feeling the weight. He paused, and looked at how it was sealed, neatly taped shut with electrical tape rather than knotted. He unpeeled a corner and examined it, very cautiously.

“Stolas, sir, you said that Vassago went and picked out a specific bag before magically gluing it to you?” he asked.

“Yes? Oh god, it was so heavy. Couldn’t he have picked a lighter one?”

“And… and you say he was removing the last of your things from the palace?” asked Moxxie, shaking the bag gently.

“Oh, don’t remind me. It will look just awful in there now, you have no idea what Stella and Andy will do to a room unsupervised…”

“I… not my point. Blitz, sir, you remember how you always complained about me double bagging the trash?”

“Yes, Moxxie, because this is hell, and no-one cares if the bags rip. Just throw it out the window like everyone else. The bags cost money. You want to double bag things at home you can, but not in the fucking office.”

“What about triple bag?” he asked. “Or quadruple?”

Blitzø snorted. “Mox, even when we were disposing of body parts we didn’t quad bag. You’d only do that if you were insane, or desperate that whatever was in the bag stayed dry.”

“Yes. Exactly what I thought.” Said Moxxie, frowning.

“Why?” asked Blitzø, still hugging.

“This bag is quad bagged sir. It’s also marked with a sticker. Prin- er… Stolas, sir, you said you’d been to check out this dumpster before.”

“Oh god, don’t remind me…”

“Did anyone see you?” Asked Moxxie.

“I… I don’t know. I think I was fairly inconspicuous…”

“Honey, I love you, but you’re ten foot tall and a former prince: you’re not incon-fucking-anything, someone definitely saw you.” Said Blitzø

“Ugg, don’t say that! How embarrassing!”

“No, I mean… I… I think sir, that someone wanted you to have this specific bag. Like they were planning it.” Said Moxxie.

“I… what makes you think that?” asked Stolas.

“The sticker is your Sigil, sir. I think Vassago wanted you to find this specific bag, and you just blundered in on him whilst he was planting it.”

There was a pregnant pause.

“I… he did insist a leave with it.” Said Stolas, after a moment. “I mean, he even cursed me so I couldn’t drop it until I reached home.”

“Yeah, and even if he was trying to embarrass you or teach you a lesson, that’s still pretty fucking weird.” Said Blitzø.

“Plus” said Loona.” “Stella’s little imp butlers were there, it’s not like he could have just been nice to you and hand it over, he’d have to make a scene if he knew he was being watched and it would get back to the other Goetia.”

They all looked at the bag for a moment, then at Stolas, who nodded.

“Open it.”

Moxxie nodded back, and held out his hand for a knife, and only when one didn’t instantly drop into his palm he remembered that Millie wasn’t there. I miss you honey. I hope you’re okay. He thought, reaching for his lapel. A belt was the obvious place to keep a concealed knife… too obvious.  You could hide a good-sized blade behind a lapel or rolled cuff, or in coat-tails, if you were clever about it and if you used a buttonhole flower or pin to hide the way the extra weight would make the jacket sit. Since his last run-in with Striker, he’d decided to invest in some little tricks, just in case anyone (other than perhaps Millie) ever tried to choke him again.

He pushed the idea that the only reason he’d ever stopped wearing a lapel knife in the first place was because it reminded him of Dad deep, deep down, and cut the bag, at the bottom like he did with letters, so best to avoid any booby-trap. The innards spilled out.

Stolas gasped. He wiped his hands on his pants to clean then and then delicately reached over, trembling, and picked up a book. Purple. For a brief moment he’d thought it was his grimoire, before realising it was nothing so trivial, and far more precious.

“My photo album. I… Octavia’s baby photos are in here. Oh, Vassago…”

“He… he must have known he couldn’t help you openly, so he improvised.” Said Blitzø. “Clever.”

“I, there’s that, there’s some of my romance novels… carnivorous plant seeds? These are shop-bought, I didn’t own these, he must have ordered them special… oh gods he’s packed my good bathrobe too… that’s nice. I, I think there’s some money here as well, or look, Blitzy, dried Koi snacks! I, oh Vassago, you good egg. Clever, clever… I thought I lost that years ago, you always were good at finding things Vas...” said Stolas, rummaging around, spreading the contents out on the ground. There were some sentimental things, but they were mixed in with practical, useful items: His anti-depressants, and a pre-paid prescription chit for more of them, as well as things of a more esoteric nature.

“Is that a fucking protective amulet?” asked Blitzø, “I’ve seen one of those before!”

“Shadow Warding Sigil,” Stolas said, standing to hold it to the light. “Not protection, concealment, stops you being perceived by you enemies unless you try to directly harm them oh… Vassago did warn me that there would be consequences if I was caught again, do you think that’s what’s he meant? Oh Vas, you clever boy…very nice.  And look, details of the security changes Stella has made to the palace, now that is useful… what’s this?” asked Stolas, picking up a small hard-drive.

“Did you own a computer?” asked Moxxie, taking the hard-drive and truing over in his hands

“I… I preferred books, but there was one in the house I used. A small laptop.”

“Mammonsoft?” he asked, looking at the hard-drive.  Generic, cheaply made in Greed. Clunky.

“Um, No?” asked Stolas, a trifle amused. “It was a touch more bougie than that dear. Serpent and Apple, iPride 10 series. Snow-duck? Cloud-duck? Backflip-duck? I forget the exact model.”

“This is from a desktop, a big one, probably old: it’s a mechanical, not a solid state. And this.” Said Moxxie, picking up a phone.  “Yours?”

“Ugg, Stolas I know you’re gay as shit but rhinestones, seriously?” asked Blitzø.

“Believe it or not, that’s not mine. I’m not saying I wouldn’t go for a flamboyant designer phone case, darling, but that’s a bit… pink… for my tastes. Via’s?”

Loona snorted. “No self respecting goth or emo would be caught dead with that ugly ass phone case, and when’s the last time you saw her with something pink without black accents, Stolas? When she was five? And also, Fucking Channel? The fucking nazi collaborator? I thought her dumb fashion house for stuck-up pricks up in Pent city kept getting fire-bombed? Ugg, no. Besides, that is not a teenager’s phone. Not with how often she’s on Sinstagram.”

“You spotted it too?” asked Moxxie.

“Spotted what?” said Blitzø, squinting at the phone case suspiciously.

“There’s no camera, sir. No front facing, and no main. A smartphone with no camera functionality at all. And it’s not broken, it’s designed like that.” He examined the back, and then pried the casing off, carefully, in case of some hidden trap.

“Pay-as-you-go sim,” he declared, after a moment.  “No serial numbers on the phone’s innards, no makers mark, and no SD card slot. I’ll bet there’s no bluefang either, and everything’s probably end-to-end.  It’s a burner. The case is tacky, but the phone itself is a very high-end burner.” Moxxie then examined the case again. “And those aren’t rhinestones Blitzø: I think these are real?” he held it out to Stolas, who glanced at it for a moment.

 “Diamonds, bad ones but still diamonds, spinel, and pink sapphire. All under a tenth of a carat, hand-cut, in rose-gold: the child-labour special.” The Owl said, dismissively. “Precious stones are one of my specialities.” He added, after a moment. 

“Humm, and who in your house would have a high-end encrypted burner phone with a pink case that screams more money than taste, Stolly?” Asked Blitzø, wiggling his eyebrows.

“It’s encrypted. Password protected. We get two wrong attempts, and it wipes the memory, sir.” Said Moxxie.

Stolas went very quiet for some time. Face unreadable.

“130389.” He said, with confidence. “There won’t be face recognition without a camera, and the fingerprint reader won’t be set up: avian’s don’t have fingerprints.” He said, finally.

“130389” asked Blitzø “Are you sure?”

“Certainly: it won’t be our anniversary, and if it’s Via’s birthday, then I’ve not given her enough credit as a mother. No, she’ll have put her own birthday, I’d bet my life on it.”

“Thirteen? You rich folks have a secret month you’re not telling the rest of us about, or something?” asked Blitzø.

“The Ars Goetia use European date conventions, sir. Day-month-year.” Said Moxxie, a second before Stolas could. He fiddled with the phone, nervously.

Blitzø moved to hug Stolas again, putting an arm gently around his back. Or at least that was the plan: now that Stolas was standing, due to the height difference he ended up putting it across his lower thigh. “Who, hang on there, hold our collective horses, guys… I mean, I know she’s a bitch, but Stolz, do you really think your ex-wife is dumb enough to set the pin on her secret, illegal encrypted burner phone to her own bithda-”

“I’m in.” said Moxxie.

“God-dammit, how’d we ever get beaten by the stupid cow?” asked Blitzø, rubbing his eyes. “What did we get?”

Moxxie grinned evilly, and handed the phone over to Blitzø. “Oh, not much sir… just Striker’s contact number and Linked-in, among some other things…”

“Oh god look at that profile picture, what a nerd! HA!”

Stolas noticed something tucked in between the discarded phone case, and what would have been the back of the phone. He picked it up, and turned it over in his long feathered fingers, squinting at it. An almost blank business card for what looked like, what? A techie boutique? A factory? It didn’t actually say what the business was, just a name and an address. Up in Pentagram City.

“Who the Fuck is Carmilla?” he asked.

Might to a part 2 named "Another man's treasure" if I feel compleled to.Enjoy. EDIT: Made the part 2:

https://www.tumblr.com/kinsey3furry300/782096998396510208/caved-yet-again-and-wrote-a-part-2-to-the-damn-gay?source=share

[femalestyles]

stunt (h.s.)

masterlist

TW: austin

wc: ~2.7k

-

19: birmingham, al

“Can we talk?” Austin asks.

I freeze. For a moment, I pretend I didn’t hear him, my fingers tightening around the strap of my laptop bag as if I can will myself into invisibility. I had been so consumed dealing with Harry and all of his chaos, that Austin had faded into the background. Faded, but not gone. He was always there, lurking in the corner of my mind like a bruise that wouldn’t heal, but I didn’t have to face him.

We hadn’t spoken—really spoken—since that night. That heated night in his hotel room where I’d walked out with my pride barely intact. Since then, we’d kept our distance, not acknowledging each other outside of the occasional judgmental stare. And I’d liked it that way. It was cleaner, easier even.

“I’m busy,” I mutter, not sparing him a glance as I shove my laptop inside my bag with a little more force than necessary. If I don’t look at him, I don’t have to remember the way his eyes used to make my stomach twist. I don’t have to wonder if he regrets what he did, or if he ever cared at all. I don’t have to analyze how much his betrayal affected me, how it made me doubt my own instincts. He could stay small, inconsequential, the equivalent of a task you keep putting off. 

But then his hand moves and hovers above my wrist. Not quite touching, but close enough to make my blood boil. I go still. Every instinct screams at me to yank my arm away, but I don’t. Instead, I stare at his hand, daring him to push his luck.

They say it only takes as much pressure to break a finger as it does to snap a carrot. I wonder if he knows that. I wonder if he realizes how close I am to testing the theory.

“Jules…”

Nicknames can be born from all sorts of places. Sometimes, it’s the way you act, or a standout trait you possess. It’s just a name—two syllables—but it carries decades. In high school, my English teacher would call me Jane, after Jane  because my pieces were always whimsical adventures of a girl free of the weight of the world. In kindergarten, it was Skipper, thanks to a year-long phase where I literally skipped everywhere I went. To my dad, it was his precious Jewel—his shining stone, like a diamond or an emerald. That’s the thing about nicknames; they’re a breadcrumb trail of every person who’s ever claimed to know me.

Jules, to most.

Juli, to some.

Cooper, to one.

I hated how easily it still rolled off Austin’s tongue. Like he still had the right.

“What?” I snap, louder than I mean to, the word bursting out before I can stop it. My bag thuds against the table as I drop it with a huff. His flinch is almost laughable. My head jerks up, and our eyes meet for the first time and I almost roll my eyes. He looks like I’ve physically slapped him.

I guess one Cooper sister already did hit him. Maybe he thought it was a family trait.

His hands twitch at his sides before he shoves them into his pockets. His eyes are wide.

What did he expect? A hug? An “It’s okay, don’t worry about cheating on me!”

The last time we spoke, I told him that I hated him. Not metaphorically. Not implied. I used the word. Hate. If that wasn’t hint enough, then he needed a bigger fucking map. 

“I just…” he starts, and here it comes. That pathetic sigh, the downcast eyes, the sheepish expression that once softened me. It used to work like a charm, easing away my anxieties. Now it only made my irritation grow. “We used to talk. Before we were dating…”

“Before you cheated on me,” I cut in bluntly, not with anger, but like I’m fixing a factual mistake.

His shoulders slump and he lets out a groan. It’s deep, dramatic; the way a teenager does when he’s not getting his way.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” he mutters, dragging his hand through his hair. The frustration in his voice is so familiar I could script it. This was the Austin cycle: pout when he’s sad, beg when he’s scared, and when the world doesn’t bend the way he wants it to—throw a tantrum.

“This hating each other thing,” he continues, gesturing vaguely between us, “it’s getting so tiring. We need to be able to work with each other.”

I stare at him. For a second, just a second, I wonder if he actually believes that’s possible. If he really thinks peace is as simple as pretending the knife in my back doesn’t still twist whenever I see him.

“Sorry that my anger has been such an inconvenience for you.” There’s no sympathy in my tone—just quiet venom, the kind that simmers beneath the surface and scorches when it finally bubbles up. I finally turn to face him fully, folding my arms tightly across my chest.

He’s standing a foot away, like he’s testing the waters, unsure how close is too close. His head is bowed, that stupid mop of sandy blonde hair falling into his eyes. His hands disappear into the front pocket of his hoodie, a picture of false humility. He glances up at me through the fringe, all wide-eyed and sorry like he’s the victim here.

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” he murmurs, his voice soft, almost coaxing.

God, he’s good at this. The soft tone, the sheepish posture. He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing—I know that now. I’ve seen the teeth behind the smile.

“You made it like this,” I hiss, voice low but lethal as my eyes narrow.

He sighs and drags a hand through his hair. That’s the tell. That nervous, frustrated tic I recognize like the back of my hand. He’s growing frustrated with me, with how much effort it’s taking to talk to me.

There it is. Show me the real you.

“It wasn’t working anymore. You know that,” he groans, his tone shifting from delicate to defensive. 

“Oh, so your solution was to sleep with half the fanbase?” I shoot back, my voice rising now, finally letting some of the fire leak out. There’s a cruel kind of satisfaction when the words land, when I see the way his jaw tenses and his eyes flicker with pain. His mouth opens slightly like he wants to defend himself, to protest that it wasn’t like that, but nothing comes. 

“Can we please just have a civil conversation?” he says finally, voice tight. He inhales deeply, grounding himself. This is his attempt at taking control, at rewriting history. Deciding we were going to talk, Austin pulls up the chair beside him, taking a seat at the conference table.

I don’t follow suit.

“Whatever.” 

“I’m sorry.”

The words hang in the air, softer than I’ve ever heard him speak. Austin never did anything quietly. He had one of those booming voices that echoed across every room he stepped into, begging to be heard. We didn't go to high school together, and yet I knew exactly who he was. The boy with the easy smile and the loud laugh, always performing, always absorbing the spotlight even when it wasn’t his to take.

But now? His apology comes out quiet and weak. And it’s because of that that I actually believe it.

And then, for the first time, Austin Black says something I actually agree with.

“We weren’t happy.”

I don’t respond, not out loud at least. I just glance away, pretending to search for something in my bag as my fingers toy with the strap. He knows he has me now.

This is a truth I came to on my own terms, slowly, over the past few weeks. I resisted it at first—clung to my anger, the betrayal, the sharp, satisfying edges of it. Maybe that’s why I never really grieved losing Austin. The breakup left me gutted, sure, but it was the destruction of my trust that truly wrecked me. Still, he was right, I wasn’t happy.

I didn’t know it at first, in the days after we broke up. Honestly, I didn’t know it until weeks later—until that bizarre, chaotic day at the museum with Harry—when I found myself breathless from laughter, heart pounding from something other than anxiety and all I could think was I haven’t felt anything like this in a long time.

“That doesn’t give you the right to cheat on me,” I sigh quietly as I pull out the chair across from him and sit, the metal legs scraping softly against the conference room floor. I finally meet his eyes. He gives me a sad smile. 

“I know, Jules,” he says my name again, the way he used to, and for the first time, it doesn’t hit. It doesn’t make my stomach twist or my chest ache. Instead, I feel nothing. “I’m sorry that I hurt you,” he continues, voice steady now. “I truly am. But we can’t keep going like this. It’s exhausting.”

When a relationship ends, you go through phases—each shaped by how and why it fell apart. In this case, my first phase was anger. After the initial shock wore off, I was livid with Austin, for cheating on me, for embarrassing me. After that came the shame. That phase lasted the longest and hit me the hardest. I spent weeks holed up in my room, unable to face anyone, including myself. 

Eventually, I reached acceptance. I knew there was no going back, and more importantly, I didn’t want to. Now, all I could do was look back on our relationship and see it through a different light—one where we had spent months going through the motions, not putting in effort from either side. 

That leaves me at a crossroads. I can either continue to hold onto that rage, funnel it into my hatred for Austin. Or, I could let it go. The truth of the matter is if I decide to stay angry, I’m the only one who suffers. Austin would move forward, he wouldn’t carry the weight of a grudge. I would be the only one carrying the torch, burning myself in the process.

I study him. There’s no fire in me now. Just a tired ache at the edges of my ribs. “You always thought your career mattered more than I did,” I say quietly. “That your career was more important than mine.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is,” I say, firmer this time. “You never made room for me. Not really. I was just the person who kept your schedule tight and your image clean. Your safety net.”

He doesn’t argue again. Instead, he exhales, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. “I’m sorry,” he says again, voice low. “I know how much you do. For me, for the guys. Look at what you’re doing now, still cleaning up after Harry’s messes.”

It’s my fault. It’s my mess.

“Why did you do it?”

Maybe I’m some kind of masochist because lately I’ve been thriving on emotional torture.

There’s a heaviness to the air around us. It’s clear that he has an answer, but he’s trying to figure out the best way to lay it out for me.

“When we first got together, it was exciting. We couldn’t get enough of each other,” he says, locking eyes with me. “But as time passed, it became about our jobs—how being together made everything harder.” He pauses, placing his hands on the table, thumbs moving anxiously. “With those girls… it was easy. They liked me, and I got swept up in that. I guess I just wanted something that didn’t feel so complicated. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s the truth. That’s where my head was.”

I think this might be the first honest conversation we’ve ever had. For the first time, I’m looking at Austin and I know that he’s being completely honest with me.

I nod, absorbing everything he just told me. If it was a month ago, there may have tears and screaming, but we’re past that now. I think I needed the confirmation that I didn’t do anything wrong, that there wasn’t anything wrong with me in order to truly let our relationship go.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice barely audible as I bite down gently on my bottom lip. Austin’s eyes lighten to a caramel brown and there’s a second where I can see into his brain again, understand what he’s thinking. He hadn’t expected this reaction. I think he’d braced for tears, or screaming. Instead, he looks relieved.

“Honestly, I don’t know how to be your friend,” I admit. “We never really were…” My words trail off as I exhale slowly, releasing the last bit of weight I’ve been carrying. “But I can try to not hate you anymore.”

His shoulders relax as the tension dissipates. I realize then that this isn’t just about giving him closure; no, it was about giving myself a break. The stuff with Harry was way more intense, and I don’t think my heart could handle having to hate Austin every single day—it was exhausting.

“What about from a PR standpoint?” He asks, hesitating like he’s scared to shatter this fragile bubble we’ve entered. I can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. 

It was a fair question. We needed to talk logistics. But we had barely gotten past the part where I told him I didn’t hate him anymore. 

He smiles nervously at my giggle, knowing it sounded so ridiculous in the scheme of things.

“I mean…” I say, lifting my shoulder in a small shrug. “Our relationship wasn’t super publicized to begin with. We kept things pretty lowkey,” I pause, then add with a hint of dry humor, “Just maybe don’t get caught making out with any coeds yet.” 

Okay, too soon. 

We both cringe right as it leaves my mouth, but break out in a round of laughter. It feels lighter than anything between us in a long time, even when we were together. I don’t know if there’s a world where Austin and I could ever be friends, but it felt easier to breathe already without having to hate him. 

Austin glances down at his phone, the smile lingering on his face fading. “I should go. I’ve got a flight to catch to Pennsylvania,” he explains, rising from his chair.

I just nod, standing up. “Going home from the holidays?”

“Yeah,” He smiles, stretching his arms up over his head. “Holly is home from college, and our parents want everyone together.” I had only met his sister once during the tour, but she was sweet enough. I wonder what he’ll tell them about me. About us. “What about you?”

Even when we were together, Austin didn’t ask about my family much. He knew it was complicated and didn’t want to open a can of worms.

“Minnesota, to see Lex,” I wince as I say her name, remembering the last time the two of them interacted. As if he feels it too, he reaches up, scratching his jaw.

A silence settles between us, but this time, it’s comfortable.

“Thank you,” he says finally. “Seriously. For everything.”

I just nod, offering a small, crooked smile. 

He starts to turn away, and I catch myself watching his back like I’ve done a thousand times before, except now, there’s no pang, no ache, no wishing he’d turn around.

Still, something softens in me.

“Hey,” I call after him.

He pauses, halfway through the door, and turns.

“Happy Thanksgiving.”

His expression shifts, surprised for a second, then warmer than I’ve seen in a long time. “You too, Jules.”

As the door shuts behind him, I’m wondering if a new one could finally open.

-

taglist: @indierockgirrl @behindmygreyeyes @sassamanda77 @st-ev-ie @emsma11

[hawthornesbiggestfan]

Prologue – Not Her First Heartbreak

chapter warnings: read here wc: 915 words i believe taglist: @rosietrace @alisaismother and tba synopsis: alisa was once a lover girl too. but some situations shift even against will.

ALISA

By the time she was 17 years old, Alisa Marisol Ortega had been through more breakups than she could remember. 

There was Golden Boy, whose move to Australia had been the result of a messy divorce; Fake Tattoo, who’d cheated on her after she admitted she wasn’t ready to take it to the bedroom; and then there was her personal favourite–Frenchy, who had an accent that wrapped around her heart and always knew the right things to say. They still shared inside jokes the way they did during their time together. 

But this breakup felt different in every way possible. This was the level of pain reserved for losing an earring, that one special thing you can never replace–the kind that lingers like intoxicating yet comforting perfume.

Even worse, the breakup had emitted tears even after two days, a rare occurrence in the canvas of her otherwise resilient life. 

Could anyone blame her, really? What had started out as harmless, spontaneous make-out sessions in his truck slowly burnt up into feverish summer nights tangled in sheets, sharing secrets until sunrise. They had planned to keep things casual, but the looks they shared felt too special, too significant. 

Dominic Salvatore wasn’t her first boyfriend, no.

But he was the one who had taken her on that dreamy road trip to the woodlands, the one who she’d trusted enough to introduce him to her Mama’s grave, the only who felt like a splash of color in a world of black and white. 

And now, here he was, standing beside her, singing the guy’s part in “Need You Now” at a local karaoke bar they knew exceptionally well, now thick with the smell of beer and fried food.

Neon lights reflected off his skin like some sort of stained glass window, and in that moment, it felt as though he could see right through the mask she put on.

Dominic didn’t do shame.

Karaoke was his territory, his castle of self-expression, and he would never refuse a duet. Even if the duet was with his ex-girlfriend. A decision made by their pressuring group of friends. Alisa held her breath like a promise, waiting for her turn as her heart pounded like the speakers did. I won’t back down, she assured herself. Not now.

“I think you might be the love of my life,” he had told her the first time they’d made love, their bodies intertwined under the soft glow of his bedside lamp, fragile and vulnerable beyond measure. “You’re gonna be the death of me, Lee-lee.”

Every note of the song hit her like a bullet, directed at her heart and unravelling the precisely fabricated front she put on. “Guess I’d rather hurt than feel nothing at all,” she sang, the weight of their harmony heavy on her heart. When the song reached its climax and applause erupted around them, Alisa downed two shots of tequila despite all vows to leave any burns in her throat to be done by crying specifically. 

“You know that feeling after a long swim, where your body just floats?” he asked her once before, his voice a low rumble sending a storm of shivers down her spine. “You make me feel that way.”

Alcohol, sex, and drugs couldn’t compare to the connection they’d shared. “I love you, Alisa,” he whispered, the words bringing her heart to a pause, “and you should consider that as a sign to run.”

The goodbye had come three weeks ago, just as the summer slipped away and senior year lurked like a ghost. Yet, the ache of heartbreak hung onto her like the last traces of her mother’s perfume; a ghost that haunted every corner of her mind. 

They had to break up. His already ignorant father had gone officially absent, and Dominic found solace in little bags of white powder, his mighty flame fading into a spark that could go out with even a huff of breath. He never hurt her, not with words or actions, but to watch him spiral ways he never would’ve killed a part of her enough to want to leave.

I made the right choice, she repeated like a self-assuring mantra. It wrung her heart dry that the right choice meant leaving. 

They were so alike, yet so horribly different. He saw life as a challenge and ran headfirst into pure chaos, while laughing at the humour behind it all. She took on life with measured precision, staying within the rules she’d chalked up herself.

His hair was black as midnight with the exception of a red streak he’d dyed in at the beginning of summer, contrasting with her brown locks akin to the bark of trees. His skin glistened like sun-kissed sand at the beach, while hers was a t-shirt stained with one too many coffee spills.

She would move on, he would too. High school romances were just momentary events braided in the strands of youth.

At least, that’s what Alisa told herself as she forced herself to dismiss the heat of his gaze shooting across the bar, igniting her skin even from a distance. 

It was unbearable, the way he never looked away. He always had that habit, even in the giddy beginning of their relationship. His dark eyes penetrated through her armour, a cutting gaze that transferred secrets no one else knew. 

He was wrong, their first time together. He would be the death of her.

im not the best at dialogue so bear with me.

ill be posting the next part as soon as possible, pls note that i am a student and also the laziest person you'll ever meet hence why i write slower than the sloth in zootopia xx