#Tangs got the spirit of it that’s what matters

[angelcake10023]

Outfit Swap Sillies 🔄

[sanjisprincesswifey]

romance alphabet ⋆ trafalgar law

summary: what it's like to fall in love with the surgeon of death

a ⋆ affection; how affectionate is he? how does he show his affection?

at the start of the relationship, law almost never shows any affection toward you. he’s helplessly awkward when it comes to lovey-dovey stuff, but after a couple awkward encounters, he’ll gain some confidence and start providing you acts of service.

it’s honestly the little things with law; he’ll bring you a blanket and pillows to nap in his office; he always makes sure you eat, even going as far as to make you meals when you’re hungry; anything you desire, law will provide.

b ⋆ best quality; what's his best quality as a romantic partner and why?

law is an incredible listener. he is always paying attention to what you say no matter the time or place. he always remembers the smallest of details, which of most you didn’t even remember yourself. by knowing every detail about you, it’s his way of showing you how much he cares.

c ⋆ confession; would he confess his feelings first? if so, how would he confess?

lmao no. he’d rather roll over in his grave than tell you he likes you.

the only way you’d find out is through someone else (bepo).

d ⋆ dating; what is it like to date him? how is he as a romantic partner?

in the beginning, it feels as if your relationship is stagnant, nothing really changes from just being friends. until one late night when he asks if you want to see his coin collection or his comic books and it’s like his whole personality does a complete 180 on you, seemingly out of nowhere. suddenly you’re dating a complete nerd who is (un)secretly obsessed with you.

law’s definitely the type to remember all the little things you say, has a journal full of your favorite things, but rarely opts to be overly romantic. he would give you a present that reminds you of someone special to you and treat it as “no big deal.”

all in all, he’s a bit embarrassed to be romantic, but he’s definitely got the spirit.

e ⋆ emotions; how emotional is he with you? does he show his emotions right away or does it take time for him?

you’re lucky if you get a passive aggressive sigh from law for a very long time. he doesn’t start dropping his walls until a couple months to a year, again, if you’re lucky.

poor baby is so afraid to show you any real emotion because of all his unresolved trauma, so just be patient with him.

f ⋆ flirt; how good is he at flirting? does he flirt well or often?

oh my god, no; it’s the opposite in fact. he’s terrible, genuinely terrible.

he’s awkward, stuttery, sweaty, and kinda just stares at you when he can’t get any words out.

on the rare occasion he’s mediocre at it is when he’s drunk and no other time, you cannot convince me otherwise.

g ⋆ gifts; is he a gift giver? what kind of gifts does he enjoy giving you?

yes, but he’s not so much for the pageantry so they’ll be subtle; a new blanket on the bed for you, a framed photo of the two of you suddenly appearing on your nightstand, stuff like that.

h ⋆ hugs; does he hug you a lot? what are his hugs like?

he loves to hug you only when you're in the privacy of his room on the polar tang. he doesn't care much for the affection otherwise, that's what he tells you anyway. you later learn he's just embarrassed to be so romantic otherwise given his reputation.

since law towers over you, he practically throws his body weight into you when you hug. he wraps his arms around your waist, tightly clinging to you as his head droops into your shoulder. the majority of his body weight is now shoved into your shoulder like the big 26-year-old baby he is.

i ⋆ i love you; does he tell you that he loves you first?

again, i have to laugh, but no. maybe subtly, but never, ever directly and he will never say the actual words. he’ll be more ‘romantic’ or whatever his version of romantic is (being more attentive), and then the crew will catch on. law definitely talks about you way too much to the crew and they'll all realize that he loves you before you do.

j ⋆ jealousy; does he get jealous a lot? if so, for what specific reason?

oh, yes; probably one of the most jealous men in all of one piece, in my opinion.

law is deeply insecure, afraid of love, and has abandonment issues and if he feels even a twinge of jealousy it’s like his heart breaks on the sight.

however, it does take a little bit to get him jealous! he’s not threatened by normal interaction, but if someone was a bit too overly affectionate with you (read: luffy, sanji, or eustass), that’s enough to make him jealous. it’s the act of seeing someone be vulnerable with you the exact same way he is with you that drives him nuts.

k ⋆ kisses; what part of you is his favorite to kiss? how often does he enjoy kissing you?

his favorite is any place that’s intimate and vulnerable; being able to claim you as his because no one else gets to touch you where he does.

you can find law in the crux of your neck almost every night, it’s one of his favorite spots because he can practically breathe in your scent and lovingly kiss the area as much as he likes without getting tired.

after your relationship reaches the point where he’s no longer uncomfortable to show affection it’s like every second of the day with him. you wouldn’t think it by the look of him, but law adores kissing you even if it’s a quick kiss to your forehead in passing. it’s kind of his way of showing you love even when you aren't directly saying it and he gets super whiny when you don’t show him the same affection in return.

l ⋆ love language; what’s his love language?

acts of service. law thinks of it as an incognito way to show affection even when he’s around others. it’ll range from throwing a blanket on you when you “accidentally” fall asleep in his office to offering to aid you on specific tasks “just in case.”

m ⋆ memories; what memories of you two are the most precious to them? why do they treasure them?

it has to be the first night he said, ‘i love you.’ it’s after you had fallen asleep in his arms, your light snores echo around the room.

he has an elbow propped up against the pillow holding his head and the other arm draped around you. your bare skin is so warm against him, it was such a strange sensation compared to the cold air that usually envelopes him in his room.

your calm expression twitches slightly indicating that you had to be dreaming and law hopes it was about him.

his gray eyes were so soft; his facial muscles felt so foreign in such a gentle position, but he couldn’t help it when he was holding you so close to him. knowing that the person before him loved him so much.

that meant so much to him because it was the first time in 14 years that law had finally regained the love he had lost so long ago.

n ⋆ nicknames; what nicknames does he prefer to call you, if any at all?

law is such a ‘doll’ kind of guy. it just falls from his lips like butter and he’s so quick to start calling you that too.

o ⋆ on cloud nine; what is he like when he's in love? how different does he act when he's in love?

when law falls in love with you, it is probably the most confusing time in your relationship. it’s kinda like when the grinch’s heart grows three sizes but instead of accepting it, it scares the hell out of him. he’s extremely avoidant of you and won’t explain anything so you gotta corner him in his office.

he’ll get scared, possibly shed a tear or two and tell you just how terrified of love he is. you can’t really blame him, so you tell him you obviously love him too. he turns into such a clingy, obsessive guy after that. he loves having your attention; his walls really come down and he’ll show you all his nerdy collections like comic books and coins.

when law is finally ready to admit that he’s in love with you, he is the softest and most pure a man could be. he’s vulnerable and feels safe with you, so that means he’s extra protective.

p ⋆ pda; does he openly express pda? how affectionate is he in public?

unfortunately, law hates pda. in fact, law is very adamant on keep your relationship personal and private. due to his traumatic past, law chooses to keep you a secret so as to not put you in harm’s way.

though when you make the alliances that law does, he comes to realize that word will get out eventually. law attempts to threaten luffy to keep your relationship under wraps but, c’mon, it’s luffy.

q ⋆ quirks; what are some things you’ve learned about him since being in a relationship?

he’s very particular about everything; he always needs a solution to every problem. for instance, whenever you two have a disagreement, he’ll be unsatisfied until he has a direct solution for your issue and become frustrated if there isn’t one.

because of his particular-ness, when it’s his turn to plan date nights, they are often planned to a t. you will leave a certain time, the activity will take place at a certain time, etc., you think it’s completely adorable even when he’s frustrated when you’re a minute or two behind schedule.

r ⋆ romance; is he a romantic partner? is he cliché or creative?

contrary to popular belief, law can be quite romantic. he’s a ‘flowers just because kind of guy’ and is extremely creative in the gift-giving sentiment.

he opts for purchasing presents you’d actually enjoy, taking his time and putting energy into a photo album or scrapbook. the gestures from law are always well thought out; it’ll always be work he’s proud of.

s ⋆ smooch; what was your first kiss like? where did it happen and was it planned?

your first kiss is something law wishes you didn’t remember. he waited 26 years to kiss someone, did either of you really think he’d be any good at it?

it, of course, was a bit awkward. you never assume someone could mess up a kiss but somehow, he did.

you were in his office, chair placed closely next to his as you read over whatever book he was fixated on this week.

it was late, the both of you were sleep deprived beyond compare, but every time law glanced over at you reading the page he was, he swore his heart jumped out of his chest.

though the kiss itself was not planned, he spent at least 15 minutes mentally calculating if he should make his move.

when he finally mustered up the courage, he turned to you in an awkward position and just kinda stared between your eyes and your lips.

it doesn’t take long for you to notice your boyfriends gawking and before you can ask him if he’s okay he smushes his lips to yours.

of course, having no prior experience, he doesn’t really move his lips at all and just sits there for a couple of seconds until you pull away.

he’s confused, but he’s definitely got the spirit, so you give him some leeway and show him how it’s done.

the both of you laugh about that memory now, but he still feels embarrassed if he thinks about it for too long.

t ⋆ true love; does he believe you were destined to be together?

nope. he doesn’t believe in fate or astrology or anything of the sort but is definitely open to it if you do.

even if doesn’t believe in any spiritual destiny, he constantly finds himself thanking whoever may be up there that he is lucky enough to have you.

u ⋆ ultimatum; what is a dealbreaker in his relationship?

law needs loyalty. he needs to know that you are his and, more importantly, that he is yours. the hardest part about falling in love for him is that he is terrified that you’ll leave him and having your loyalty reassures him (most times anyway) that you’ll always be by his side.

v ⋆ value; how important is the relationship to him? what is it worth in comparison to other things in his life?

okay, don’t shoot the messenger, but at the start of your relationship law didn’t think that highly of it. due to his lack of emotional affection to or from anyone, he honestly saw no important significance for being in a relationship.

in classic law fashion, nothing really changed between you two until he realized how much your absence affected him. the romantic longing in his heart was such an unfamiliar feeling he mistook it for some kind of heart condition.

eventually law comes to realize that, maybe, someone who is as closed off and lonely as he could fall in love and then he is putty in your hands. the minute he knows he loves you, you become his number one priority. he tries to maintain some of his natural disposition, but he is so desperate to be loved by you that he does anything and everything for you.

w ⋆ wild card; a random relationship headcanon!

law is borderline obsessed with you. he’ll know things about you that you don’t even remember telling him. he’s kind of a freak if we’re being honest.

he steals clothes from your room because they smell like you, takes photos of you without your knowledge so that he can keep them for later, and bought your engagement ring the day he knew he loved you.

obviously, he has no intention of ever telling you any of this because he doesn’t need you to know just how desperate he is for you to love him.

law knows that you’re his and either he’s marrying you or he’s dying alone, no other option.

x ⋆ x-factor; what drew him to you?

law loves how different the two of you are. you aren’t opposites by any means, but the way that your emotional intelligence and situational awareness (especially when it comes to such a brooding man such as himself) differ so greatly from his that it entices something within him. he doesn’t consider you the opposite of him, but he views it as what he lacks, you offer.

he knew you had these qualities from the very beginning, that’s why he asked you to join his crew, but seeing how well they transfer over to your relationship made him swoon even more.

y ⋆ yearning; when does his find himself missing you?

though he never prefers to be put in situations that are rambunctious or crazy, law finds himself missing you most when he’s in them. something about having you there, holding his hand or talking to him makes the situation so much better.

z ⋆ zzz; what is his favorite sleeping position? is he the big spoon or the little spoon?

something about spooning always gives law so much comfort. he loves to cling to you, to have you pulled so tight to chest that you can feel his heartbeat through your back.

while the warmth and closeness being the big spoon provides him is extremely comforting, law does prefer to be the little spoon. when you’re as private and apathetic as law is, he’s practically begging to be held by you. since he rarely gets a good night’s sleep, being in your arms is the best melatonin substitute.

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[killeromanoff]

I KNOW YOUR GHOST | prologue

summary: Declan O'Hara is intrigued by Cassandra "Cassie" Jones, Freddie’s niece, who’s trying to carve her own place in the Rutshire media world. After her bold broadcast challenges the status quo, Declan finds himself unexpectedly drawn to her unapologetic spirit and the fight she's ready to wage. Will their paths collide in ways they hadn't anticipated?

pairing: Declan O’Hara x Cassandra 'Cassie' Jones (Female OC)

warnings: Mild language, Some political and media industry-related themes, Power dynamics, Age-Gap (Cassie is 25 yo)

w.c: 9.8k

notes: would you want me to continue the series

[here], [chapter one], [chapter two]

oo. what the hell was I doin'?

The air in the radio station’s office was stagnant, thick with the mingling scents of stale coffee, damp paper, and the faint tang of cheap cleaning spray. The room was cluttered—stacks of forgotten paperwork teetered on desks, old coffee mugs lined the corners, and a dusty fan in the corner rotated half-heartedly.

A cluster of staff milled about near the break room door, chatting idly as they shuffled papers or scrolled on their phones.

Cassie stood apart, her notepad clutched tightly against her chest, a contrast to the chaos around her. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, though a few stray strands framed her face. She wore a plain navy blouse and slacks that were practical but pressed, betraying her effort to maintain a professional appearance in an environment that hardly seemed to care.

Mr. Crawford sat slouched at his desk, a man whose very posture radiated disinterest. His graying mustache twitched slightly as he leaned back in his chair, fingers laced over his stomach, the top button of his shirt undone. He smelled faintly of sweat and cigarette smoke, with an undertone of something sharper—perhaps the remnants of last night’s whiskey.

Cassie’s eyes flicked to the desk in front of him. It was a mess of coffee-stained papers and pens chewed down to the plastic, with no sign of the kind of attention she hoped to command.

“Mr. Crawford,” she began, her voice calm but firm despite the tightness in her chest. She gestured slightly with her notepad as she spoke, “I’ve done the research. This story—about the council’s missing funds—it’s got everything. Corruption, negligence, people suffering because the money meant for community projects vanished into thin air. Listeners would eat it up.”

Crawford didn’t bother glancing at her notes or meeting her eyes. Instead, his gaze drifted lazily to the window behind her, as if the striped sunlight cutting through the blinds offered him more intrigue than the words she’d painstakingly prepared.

Cassie sighed, her grip tightening on the notepad as she shifted her weight. She watched him for a moment, taking in the deep-set lines of his face and his air of detached superiority. A pang of doubt gnawed at her resolve, but she quickly shoved it aside.

“It’s not the right fit, love,” he said finally, his words accompanied by the faint wheeze of his breath, “People don’t tune in to your show for all that doom and gloom. They want something lighter. Cheerier. Something that makes them smile while they’re making dinner.”

Cassie’s stomach churned at his words, a familiar mix of frustration and resignation settling over her. Lighter. Cheerier. The phrases clanged in her mind like hollow bells, reminders of how often her ideas had been whittled down to something palatable, something safe.

Her show—once a source of pride—had become a shadow of what she’d envisioned when she first started. She’d imagined herself uncovering stories that mattered: injustices, hidden truths, the kind of reporting that made people sit up and pay attention. Instead, her work had been boxed into a mold. Segments about bake-offs, local fairs, and feel-good community spotlights.

To her credit, she’d done her best to inject some life into it. Her voice carried a natural rhythm, a way of pulling people in even when the content was mundane. If the story was about a garden club’s latest flower show, she’d spin it into a tale of passion and rivalry. If it was a town charity event, she’d find the human angle, weaving a thread of emotion through the narrative.

Her listeners seemed to love her for it, but it wasn’t enough—not for her.

This wasn’t the kind of work that made a difference. It wasn’t the kind of work that could.

“I can make it engaging,” she said, her voice firmer now, her hands gripping the edges of her notes, “It doesn’t have to be doom and gloom. It’s about accountability, about the truth—”

“Drop it,” he interrupted, leaning forward slightly as he spoke, his eyes flickering with annoyance. He rubbed his temple, as though her persistence was giving him a headache, “You stick with what you’re good at—human interest, fluff pieces. Now, for tonight, you’ll cover that story about the charity bake-off. The station promised them a mention.”

The lead weight in her chest grew heavier. Stick with what you’re good at. The words stung, a sharp reminder of how small her ambitions had been made to feel.

Her mouth opened to protest, but she hesitated. This was the game, wasn’t it? Push too far, and she’d get a reputation—difficult, too ambitious, “not a team player.” She let the words die in her throat, swallowing the frustration that threatened to rise.

“May I at least drop it with you?” she asked instead, her tone even but tinged with determination. She held out her notes, “Just give it a glance before dropping the idea completely?”

Crawford didn’t even glance at her. He busied himself straightening a stack of papers with a theatrical air of importance.

“Sure,” he said with a shrug, though his tone betrayed no real intention, “Leave it on my desk.”

Cassie placed the notepad down carefully, the motion deliberate, almost defiant. Her heart was pounding in her chest, her mind racing through every frustration she’d swallowed working here. She thought of her show—the one she’d once been so proud of.

It was supposed to be hers, a reflection of her passion for storytelling. Instead, it had been molded into something safe, toothless. Segments on community bake-offs and local fairs. Puff pieces designed to please advertisers and offend no one.

And yet, even in that confined space, she’d tried. She’d poured herself into every script, every broadcast, weaving intrigue where there was none, giving even the dullest stories a pulse. Her audience deserved that much.

But what about her?

Cassie straightened, her eyes meeting Crawford’s impassive expression one last time.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice clipped.

She turned on her heel and left the office, her pulse a mix of anger and resolve.

The studio felt colder than usual, the faint hum of the equipment doing little to fill the oppressive silence. Cassie stepped inside, shutting the door firmly behind her. The gesture felt more like shutting herself in a cage than anything else.

Her seat creaked as she sank into it, the familiar sounds of the studio offering no comfort tonight. The charity bake-off notes were already on her desk, neatly arranged, as though mocking her with their pristine lines.

She picked them up, her hands moving on autopilot. She read through the bullet points about the local bakery donating proceeds, the heartfelt quotes from participants, the token mention of the funds going to a children’s hospital. It was the kind of story that would barely take five minutes to write, but she couldn’t bring herself to put pen to paper yet.

She leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting to the control board in front of her, where the green lights flickered faintly.

This wasn’t why she’d chosen this path. Journalism had always been about chasing the truth, shining a light where others dared not look. But here she was, with her voice reduced to narrating bake-offs and community fairs, as though the world didn’t need accountability or courage—just distraction.

Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment as her mind drifted. She thought of the council’s missing funds, the questions no one else dared to ask, the answers that could have made a real difference. That story could have mattered, could have uncovered truths that changed lives.

But instead, she was here.

With a deep breath, Cassie forced her focus back to the present. She adjusted the microphone, the familiar motion grounding her.

Flipping the switch, she spoke into the void, her voice steady despite the resentment simmering beneath the surface.

“Good evening, Rutshire!” she began, her tone warm and inviting, practiced to perfection, “This is your host, Cassandra Jones, but as you all well know, you can always call me Cassie! Always bringing you the stories that make our little corner of the world shine.”

It wasn’t just words. It was how she said them, the little pauses, the way she adjusted her tempo, making it sound effortless. One time, one lady at the mall had stopped ehr when she recognized the Jones' voice, telling how listen to her voice always made her day.

And, well, her show usually started at 4 PM, so that was something.

“Tonight, I want to tell you about a community coming together for something truly special: the annual charity bake-off. Bakers from all over Rutshire have gathered to compete—and to give back. This year’s proceeds will go to the Rutshire Children’s Hospital, providing resources and care to the kids who need it most.”

Her voice filled the space with an easy warmth, the facts rolling out with a smoothness that made them seem lighter, more immediate. Even in her dissatisfaction, she knew how to shape a story, how to give it weight when needed.

“This isn’t just about the competition,” she continued, a slight shift in her tone adding a layer of sincerity, “but about the kindness and generosity that make Rutshire such a special place to call home.”

Her delivery was careful, but not forced, as though she was telling a friend a story she didn’t mind repeating. She wasn’t changing the facts—she was simply breathing life into them.

And as she knew how to do it, she continued to deliver the news, despite the anger lingering in her chest.

The streetlights flickered as Cassie drove through the quiet, familiar streets of Rutshire. The sound of the tires humming against the asphalt felt almost too loud in the silence that surrounded her. She turned the radio dial absentmindedly, tuning out the stories of community events and local happenings. She’d heard them all before—enough to make her feel like a bystander in her own life, watching the world pass her by through the windshield of her car.

Her phone buzzed in the cupholder, and she glanced at the screen. It was her uncle.

“Hey, kiddo,” his voice greeted her warmly through the speaker. She smiled instantly, the sound of his voice always bringing a momentary relief, even if it couldn’t erase the tension curling in her chest.

“Hey, old man,” she replied, the words more automatic than anything else.

“You were great tonight, Cass,” Freddie said, his enthusiasm practically spilling through the phone, “I swear, you made that bake-off sound like the bloody Oscars.”

Cassie glanced at the radio, hearing her colleague's voice spill into the car. The words blurred together in a familiar, comforting hum, but something inside her had already tuned out. She wasn’t sure whether it was the exhaustion, the frustration, or just the monotony of it all, but she felt herself disconnecting from it all, like she was hearing it from a distance.

She responded quietly, “Thanks, Uncle Freddie,” her tone calm, but there was a touch of distance she couldn’t quite mask.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. She could almost picture Freddie’s face, that half-grin of his, layered with the usual care he always tried to hide.

“I mean it, Cass. You’ve got something they don’t understand. The way you tell a story—you give it life! It’s like… You make people see the world differently.”

Cassie’s grip on the steering wheel tightened almost imperceptibly. Freddie was right—she had always known how to make the smallest detail come alive, to make people care. It had been her strength, her passion, the reason she’d chosen journalism.

But tonight? Tonight, it felt empty.

The bake-off story—it was just noise. Safe. Easy. The same thing every year.

Cheerier.

“You’re just saying that,” she murmured, the words slipping out more quickly than she intended.

“No, I mean it,” Freddie’s voice was insistent, a little softer now, “I just wish they’d give you more of a chance. You’ve got a lot more to say than just… Fluff pieces, you know? You deserve the stories that matter. You deserve to be out there, really making a difference.”

Cassie shifted in her seat, her eyes momentarily caught by the reflection of her car in the store window. The soft glow of the streetlights cast long shadows across her face.

“I know,” she said quietly, though the words felt like a knot in her throat.

She wasn’t sure if she was talking to him, to herself, or to the version of her who had walked into this career full of hope. The one who still believed in making an impact. That person felt like a stranger now.

“You’ve got a future ahead of you, Cass. You’ve always been someone who stands out,” She could lsiten to his smile as he said that, it made her smile a little more too, “Don’t let them box you in. You’ve got the kind of talent that can really change things. Don’t forget that.”

Cassie let out a slow breath, her hands pressing against the wheel a little harder. She could feel the familiar stirrings of something—determination, maybe, or something like it. She wanted to be the person Freddie thought she was.

She wanted to be more than this.

“Thanks,” she finally said, her voice quiet, the words slipping out before she could second-guess them, “I’ll figure it out.”

Another long pause on the other end, and then Freddie’s easy chuckle broke the silence.

“I know you will. You always do, just don't blow anything up.”

Cassie chuckled, “Yeah, I'll try. Talk to you tomorrow, Uncle.”

“Take care of yourself, Cass.”

She hung up the phone, feeling the absence of his words linger in the air for a moment longer than she expected. The road ahead seemed endless, but for a fleeting second, she couldn’t help but wonder if Freddie was right. She had more to say. Maybe she always had.

But that didn’t make the choice any easier.

The radio continued to chatter in the background, her colleague’s voice now a steady hum as Cassie kept her eyes on the road. She wasn’t sure how to get from here to where she wanted to be, but as the glow of Rutshire faded into the distance, she knew one thing for certain.

She wasn’t going to stop trying to figure it out. Not yet.

The bar was quiet for a Thursday morning, the usual hum of conversation replaced by the soft clink of glassware being set down and the low murmur of the few early risers. It wasn’t the busiest time, but it never really was. The regulars were there, still half-closed in the warm haze of sleep, some nursing their first coffee of the day, others leaning over papers or whispering in low tones, trading stories or reflecting on the night before.

The wooden floors creaked softly underfoot as Cassie made her way to the bar, the familiar sound echoing through the empty space. The air smelled faintly of old beer, with a hint of stale cigarettes lingering in the corners, mixed with the sharper scent of freshly brewed coffee. It was a blend that, for her, felt as comfortable as her own breath.

The radio filling the background quietly.

She slid onto a barstool with practiced ease, her body instinctively relaxing into the worn leather of the seat.

The lights above were dimmed just enough to give the room a cozy, intimate feel, casting shadows across the shelves stocked with bottles that had seen more than their fair share of nights like this one. Behind the bar, Baz moved with a rhythm born of years spent here, every motion fluid, like he was a part of the place itself.

She didn’t need to ask for her drink. Baz, like always, seemed to know exactly what she needed.

He set a pint of something dark in front of her, the foam just right, and it took her a second to realize how much she’d been waiting for it. She didn’t say anything, not at first. She just lifted the glass to her lips and took a long sip, the bitterness of the beer almost too fitting, like it was somehow tied to the frustration simmering beneath her skin.

She let it settle in her chest for a moment, her eyes scanning the room, but it was more to avoid looking at Baz than anything else.

He had that way of making her feel seen, even when she wasn’t sure she wanted to be.

“How’s the radio business these days, darling?” Baz’s voice was soft, but it carried a weight she couldn’t ignore. They both knew she’d been struggling with it lately, but it was easier not to talk about it. Not yet, anyway.

Cassie shrugged, swirling the beer in her glass, her fingers brushing the cold surface as she considered how to answer. Her mind was a mess, but she wasn’t about to unload it all here, not when it felt like everyone else in this room had their own things to ignore.

“Same as always,” she said, her voice flat, “Same stories. Same people. No one cares about the real stuff. It's all fluff.”

Baz didn’t respond right away, just watched her, like he could tell there was more beneath that statement. She could feel him studying her, but she refused to meet his eyes.

She wasn’t ready to talk about it—not yet. The last thing she wanted was his pity.

“People like fluff,” he said, finally breaking the silence, “It’s easy. It doesn’t make them uncomfortable.”

Cassie didn’t say anything at first, letting his words sit aside as she took a breath. The frustration inside her bubbled up, but she swallowed it down.

She didn’t need another lecture today. She didn’t need him to tell her how hard it was for everyone, or how nothing ever really changes.

“That’s the problem,” she muttered, finally meeting his gaze, “People don’t want to hear the truth. They want the easy stuff. And I’m tired of giving it to them.”

Baz raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter as he wiped down a glass, “Yeah? And what are you gonna do about it?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said, her voice tinged with irritation, “But I’m not gonna sit around hoping that one day someone decides I’m good enough for the stories that actually matter.”

Baz tilted his head, studying her again. He wasn’t trying to offer solutions. That wasn’t his style.

He let her say what she needed to say, and gave her space to feel frustrated. That's why he was a damn good bar owner.

“Maybe they’re just not ready for it,” he said, his voice softer now, almost as if he wasn’t talking about her job anymore.

Cassie let out a short, bitter laugh, “And maybe I’m not waiting for them. I’m done with that.”

She tasted her words as they left her mouth, bitter. The truth was, she didn’t know what she was waiting for anymore.

Maybe she just wanted a break. Maybe she was tired of always trying to make people listen. But she couldn’t say that out loud. Not to Baz.

He leaned back, watching her carefully, his face unreadable.

“Alright. So what’s your plan?” His hand moved almost absentmindedly to the radio dial, turning it until a voice crackled through the static.

The sound was unmistakable—a voice she recognized instantly. One of her colleagues, mid-monologue, delivering the day’s take on whatever sensational headline they’d latched onto. It was faint, almost drowned by the static, but the cadence was familiar: deliberate pauses, calculated inflection, designed to hook listeners and keep them invested.

Cassie felt the prickle of discomfort at hearing it, even slightly. The words blurred together, more noise than substance, but the undertone of it all—performance, rather than authenticity—was clear to her. She tried not to let it distract her, but it was there, a quiet reminder of everything she’d been wrestling with.

She looked down at her drink, swirling the liquid in slow, thoughtful circles.

The question hung heavy between them. What was her plan?

Did she even have one? Cassie didn’t know. All she knew was that she couldn’t keep doing this—circling around her own indecision, feeling like she had to apologize for wanting more.

“I don’t have one,” she admitted finally, the words coming out quieter than she’d intended, “But I’m not just gonna keep... Doing this. I can’t.”

Baz didn’t say anything for a moment, just let her have the silence. The low hum of conversation from the other side of the bar, the clink of glasses, all of it felt like a world away. Cassie’s fingers tightened around her glass, her mind racing, but somehow, she felt just a little bit lighter now that it was out in the open. Maybe it didn’t solve anything, but at least she could stop pretending.

She glanced back at her friend, meeting the pity she knew she would face. The way his lips turned up and his brows furrowed.

She hated it.

“I mean—Sometimes, I think it’s all pointless,” her voice was barely above a whisper, almost like she was talking to herself, “We keep doing the same thing over and over, pushing the same stories, and nothing really changes. It's like no one even wants to hear anything different.”

She paused, a fleeting thought crossing her mind. “What if we gave them something that actually mattered? Would they even acknowledge it?”

Baz didn't respond immediately, his focus on wiping down a glass. His hands moved methodically, as though the task required more attention than it really did. Cassie could tell he was listening, though—she could feel it in the way the air in the room seemed to hold still for just a beat longer.

He gave a quiet hum of acknowledgment, his eyes not leaving the glass as he set it down with a faint clink.

“Does it matter?” he asked, thoughtful, “You give them what they want, or you give them what you think they need. But in the end, they’ll either care, or they won’t. Can’t control that.”

“It does matter!” she answered, her voice firming with resolve, her frustration bubbling to the surface, “It’s about giving them something that goes deeper than just the surface. No more chasing headlines. No more easy, shallow stories. I’m talking about something real. Real pain. Real stories. Something they can actually connect with—something that doesn’t sound or look fake.”

Baz raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he leaned back slightly, clearly entertained.

“You mean like… Venturer?” His tone was playful, but the glimmer of curiosity in his eyes wasn’t lost on her.

He had always known that Cassie had a sharp mind, a hunger for real stories—the same hunger that Freddie, Rupert, and Declan had been searching for almost a year. But Cassie had never been one to engage directly with Venturer.

She had always preferred to keep her distance from the spotlight, staying on the outside where things were quieter, less exposed—at least publicly.

A little thing in the shell, as Baz himself used to say, back when she had first come to Rutshire. She’d always been the one who stayed in the background, content to watch rather than dive into the drama.

I don't want my face in the screens, she had told him once when her uncle first brought up the possibility of her joining the team. It was a simple, firm declaration. She’d never wanted that kind of attention.

But Venturer was different. It was a project created by her uncle and his well-known friends. She’d never spoken to them directly about it, except when her uncle and Baz mentioned it.

She had been watching from afar, keeping an eye on their ideas as they slowly began to take shape and go live on TV.

“I watch it sometimes when I get the time,” she said, her tone measured, almost as if she were brushing off the question. But there was something in her voice, a subtle shift, that didn’t go unnoticed.

Baz paused, his smirk softening just a touch. The playful teasing faded slightly, replaced by a flicker of genuine curiosity behind his eyes. He leaned back slightly, considering her words.

“You don’t just ‘watch it,’” Baz said, a knowing glint in his eye. “You’re paying attention. Venturer might not be your thing, but you’re still watching.”

Cassie shifted uncomfortably, feeling the weight of his gaze but refusing to back down.

“It’s hard not to notice something that’s everywhere,” she replied, though her words were lighter now. “But I’m not exactly in the business of playing their game. It’s not my scene.”

Baz raised an eyebrow. He didn’t press her further but lingered on the point, his curiosity deepening. He knew her well enough to see that there was more beneath the surface—more than she was willing to admit, even to herself.

Baz chuckled softly, his lips curling into that familiar smirk, “Now I’m curious, what do you think? You think we’re actually doing something worth watching?”

Cassie paused for a moment, weighing her words carefully.

“Maybe,” she said slowly, her mind wandering back to her uncle’s involvement in the project, the high-profile connections he had cultivated, and the way the whole thing had grown into something she hadn’t expected, “I mean, yeah. I think there’s potential. It’s raw, unfiltered... Something real.”

Baz raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued now.

“And you’re just gonna keep watching from the sidelines? Not gonna get involved yourself?”

The question rang in the air, a challenge, but Cassie wasn’t ready to answer it just yet. Instead, she shifted in her seat, suddenly uncomfortable with how personal the conversation had become.

Yet, she narrowed her eyes at him, getting a glimpse of his smirk... Now it made sense why he had mentioned Venturer for starters

“I already have a job, Baz.”

“A shit one,” he pointed out, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the bar. His voice was calm, but the words hit with precision, “Your colleagues don’t appreciate your talent. I’ve seen the way they sideline your ideas, and I’ve heard the segments they let you do. It’s filler, Cass. They don’t take you seriously, and they never will.”

Baz leaned forward, his elbows resting on the polished wood of the bar. The faint overhead light caught the edges of his smirk, giving him an almost mischievous air. He let his words linger between them, studying her reaction.

Cassie tilted her head, her brow arching slightly. She wasn’t about to let him needle her without a fight.

“And would you?” she asked sharply, leaning forward just enough to close the space between them, “TV is more misogynistic than radio, and we both know that.”

Baz didn’t flinch. He always enjoyed a challenge, Cassie remembered.

“Sure, it is,” he admitted, “But at least there’s a chance to be heard. Right now, you’re stuck spinning your wheels while everyone around you is taking credit for your work.”

The voice of her colleague on the radio grew clearer, the words breaking through the haze of static. Cassie’s brow furrowed slightly, but she didn’t fully register it yet.

“And you think TV’s the answer? Let’s not pretend it’s any different. Bigger platforms, bigger egos—it’s the same game, Baz… A worse game.”

“Maybe,” he said simply, shrugging, “But if you’re gonna fight the fight, why not fight it somewhere familiar?”

The radio crackled again, the voice cutting through more clearly now.

“... An in-depth investigation into the council’s misallocation of funds...”

Cassie’s fingers froze on the glass, her breath catching in her throat. The words were faint, still mingled with static, but they pierced through her thoughts like a sharp knife.

Her eyes snapped to the radio, her pulse quickening. Baz followed her gaze, his brow furrowing slightly.

It couldn't be, could it? Cassie’s mind drifted back to days ago, what she had written in her notes as she listened to her colleague—Dan’s words. Each one of them felt like a stone sinking into her chest, heavy and unavoidable.

The bar suddenly felt too small. The low hum of chatter, the clinking of glasses, and the faint music from the jukebox seemed muffled, distant, as if the world outside the static of the radio had faded to nothing.

Cassie’s breathing hitched, shallow and uneven, and for a moment, she thought she might choke on the frustration swelling in her chest.  

The air around her, once familiar and warm, now felt stifling. She looked down at her glass, still in her hand, the amber liquid trembling slightly as her grip tightened. The sharp scent of beer mixed with the faint aroma of fried food coming from the kitchen, but it was all background noise to her racing thoughts.  

Baz’s voice came through the haze, low and careful.

“Cass? What’s wrong?”  

Her eyes snapped to him, wide and searching. The concern etched on his face barely registered. Instead, she pointed toward the radio, her voice tight.

“Turn. That. Up.”  

Baz hesitated for a fraction of a second, then obliged, twisting the knob until the words filled the air.  

“... Our findings reveal years of systemic negligence, with ties between high-ranking officials and private contractors raising serious questions...”  

It was all there. Her angles, her research, her work. Her chest tightened painfully, and she forced herself to take a deep breath, though it felt like dragging air through a straw.

Her grip on the glass loosened, and she set it down carefully on the bar, the slight clunk louder than it should have been. She straightened, her mind a storm of disbelief and simmering rage.

Her surroundings came back into focus, but only just—the stained wood of the bar beneath her hands, the creak of an old stool shifting as someone moved nearby, the flicker of a neon beer sign casting a faint red glow over the wall.  

“That’s my story,” she said, the words escaping her lips before she even realized she had spoken.  

Baz frowned, his eyes narrowing as he tried to make sense of her reaction, “What are you talking about?”  

“That’s my bloody story,” she repeated, her voice firmer this time, but trembling slightly at the edges, “The council, the mismanagement, the contractors—it’s all mine. I pitched it yesterday. Crawford told me it wasn’t ‘cheerier” to air.”  

The weight of it hit her fully now. She leaned on the bar for support, her hands pressing into the smooth surface as her mind raced.

How did this happen? How had her work ended up on the air, delivered by someone else?

Baz leaned forward, his expression darkening, “You’re sure? I mean... Maybe it’s just a coincidence?”

“No,” she snapped, “It’s not a coincidence, Baz. I know my work. I know every word of it.”

The room seemed to tilt slightly, and Cassie shook her head, trying to clear the haze. She felt exposed, vulnerable, as though the betrayal wasn’t just professional but personal.

Cassie straightened, her jaw tightening as fury replaced the shock. She grabbed her bag in one swift motion, the strap digging into her shoulder as she turned toward the door.

Baz stood up straighter, his hands resting on the bar.

“Cass, hold on. What are you going to do?”

She paused, her hand gripping the edge of the chair she’d just abandoned.

“I’m going to the station. He doesn’t get to do this.”

“Cass, think about this—”

“No.” She cut him off, her voice steely, “I’m done thinking, Baz. It’s my story, my work, and I’m not letting it slide.”

The bar’s warm light felt glaring as she strode toward the exit, each step sharp and purposeful. The cool night air hit her face like a slap, grounding her just enough to keep moving.

Baz watched her go, her sharp movements cutting through the warm haze of the bar like a blade. For a second, he considered following her, but the determination in her stride stopped him.

Instead, Baz turned toward the phone mounted on the wall behind the bar. The old rotary clattered as he picked it up, his fingers moving with practiced ease to dial the number.

He waited, glancing toward the door she had just stormed through, her words still ringing in his ears.

The line clicked after a few rings.  

“Freddie,” Baz said quickly, his voice lower than usual, tinged with urgency, “It’s me.”  

“Baz?” Freddie’s voice came through, “What’s going on?”  

Baz leaned against the counter, one hand running through his hair as he glanced toward the door again.

“It’s Cass,” he said, the words coming out in a rush, “I think you better head to Crawford's radio station right now.”

A longer pause this time, Baz guessed he had probably awoken the man, “What do you mean?”  

Baz exhaled sharply, gripping the phone tighter.

“She will probably throw a bomb and explode the place, Freddie. They had stolen her story.”

The pale morning light filtered through the windows of the station's parking lot, casting long shadows against the asphalt. Cassie pulled her car to a sharp stop, the tires crunching on loose gravel. Her pulse raced as she stepped out, the crisp morning air biting at her skin. Everything about the scene felt surreal, the stillness outside a stark contrast to the storm building within her.  

The station was already buzzing with its usual morning energy. The faint hum of muffled voices and clattering keyboards carried through the slightly ajar front door. Cassie pushed it open, her steps firm and unrelenting as she entered. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a sterile glow over the cluttered interior—a mess of half-empty coffee cups, stray papers, and tangled wires.  

Her boots clicked sharply against the tiled floor as she passed the break room. A few of her colleagues turned to glance at her, their expressions ranging from vague curiosity to mild discomfort. They must have sensed her fury, the way her jaw was set and her eyes burned with a fire they hadn’t seen before.  

Dan’s voice drifted faintly from the studio down the hall, calm and self-assured as always. But to Cassie, it sounded smug, taunting, every syllable dripping with betrayal.  

She reached the studio door just as the ON AIR sign flickered off, signaling a break. Her heart pounded as she pushed the door open, stepping inside to find Dan, Crawford, and a sound technician huddled together.

Crawford leaned lazily against the control panel, his disinterest palpable, while Dan adjusted his tie, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Well, if it isn’t our rising star,” Dan drawled, his voice dripping with condescension, “Come to bask in the glory of our latest hit segment?”  

Cassie’s hands curled into fists at her sides.

“That segment,” she said evenly, though her voice trembled with barely-contained anger, “Was my pitch. My research. My story.”  

Crawford sighed, rubbing his temple as though this confrontation was an inconvenience rather than a betrayal.

“Look, Cassie,” he began, his tone patronizing, “it’s not about ownership here. It’s about the station putting out the best possible content. Dan’s delivery works for the audience. He knows how to connect—”  

“He knows how to steal, you both do!” Cassie snapped, cutting him off, “You told me my story wasn’t good enough to air, and now suddenly it’s headline material because he’s the one presenting it?”

Dan chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair.

“Oh, come on, Cassie. It’s not like you were going to do anything with it. Consider it a team effort.”  

Her vision blurred with rage. Every patronizing word felt like a slap, each excuse twisting the knife deeper.

“You don’t get to take credit for my work,” she said, her voice rising.  

Crawford straightened, his expression hardening.

“Lower your voice,” he barked, glancing toward the technician, “We’re going back on air in two minutes.”  

That was all the time Cassie needed.  

Before he could finish, Cassie moved. Her body acted before her mind could second-guess. She shoved Dan’s chair aside, ignoring his startled yelp as he stumbled. Sliding into his place, she locked the door with a sharp twist and adjusted the microphone in front of her.

“Cassie!” Crawford bellowed, pounding on the glass partition, “What the hell are you doing?”

She ignored him, her fingers flying over the console to flip the switch. The red ON AIR light blinked on.

Behind the glass, Crawford was screaming at the technicians.

“Get her off the air! Now!”

One of them shook his head, panicked, “We can’t. She’s got full control of the board.”

There were two or three good things on being Freddie Jones’ niece.

Her voice filled the airwaves, clear and commanding.

“Good morning, Rutshire. This is Cassandra Jones, and I’ve got a story to tell you. But it’s not the one you just heard. No, this one is about the station you’re listening to right now—the lies it tells, the stories it hides, and the people it silences.”

Crawford was livid, his fists pounding against the door as he barked orders at the technicians.

“Cut the feed!”

The lead technician hesitated, sweat beading on his brow.

“Sir, we’d have to shut down the whole station.”

“And lose every listener we’ve just gained?” another technician added, pointing to the monitors that displayed the surging audience numbers.

Crawford froze, his fury replaced by a flicker of fear.

The air in the O’Hara kitchen carried the sweet warmth of butter and vanilla, the scent clinging to every corner like a comforting memory. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting golden streaks over the marble countertops and glinting off Taggie’s delicate array of mixing bowls and utensils. She worked with precision, her hands deftly folding batter as she tested a new recipe.

The rhythmic scrape of her spatula against the bowl mingled with the faint hum of the radio in the background.

Rupert sat at the breakfast table, a picture of calculated ease, the newspaper spread before him like a shield. His brow furrowed slightly as his eyes darted across the columns, though his attention seemed to wander.

Declan leaned against the counter, coffee in hand, his stance casual but his gaze sharp, fixed on nothing in particular. The radio had been little more than background noise—a familiar companion to their morning routine.

But now, the sharp edge in the voice crackling through the speakers commanded Taggie's attention.

She paused, her hand hovering over the mixing bowl, her brow furrowing as she caught a particularly biting phrase.

“Turn that up,” she said abruptly, setting down her spatula.

Rupert raised an eyebrow but complied, folding his newspaper neatly and nodding toward Declan. With an easy motion, Declan leaned over and turned the dial, the static fading to bring Cassie’s voice into sharper focus.

“...And then, they gave it to someone else,” she was saying, her tone laced with indignation and barely restrained anger, “They handed my work, my research, my hours of effort to someone who didn’t earn it. All because they thought it would sell better with his name on it, it would be more profitable if it was told by a a man.”

The room fell still, the normally comforting buzz of kitchen activity replaced by the biting truth in her words. Taggie wiped her hands on her apron, her lips pressing into a thin line as she listened intently. Rupert leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin, his expression shifting to one of genuine interest. Declan remained by the counter, his focus sharp on it, his notes forgotten as his journalist instincts stirred to life.

The words coming from the radio didn’t just cut through the air; they lingered, deliberate, each one a carefully aimed arrow.

“Last year, we buried a story about toxic waste being dumped into local waterways—because the company responsible was a top-tier advertiser. Families got sick, kids missed school, and what did this station do? Nothing. Because money speaks louder than people’s lives here.”

Taggie paused mid-motion, her hands hanging limp as Cassie’s voice seeped into the room. She exchanged a glance with Rupert, who had set his paper down entirely now, his features tight with unspoken thoughts.

“This station silences voices,” Cassie continued, the edge in her tone palpable, “It buries stories that challenge you, stories that could make a difference. It’s not about the truth here. It’s about control—about keeping power in the hands of those who already have it.”

Rupert sighed heavily, rubbing a hand across his jaw, his posture tense as though her words had struck a personal chord.

“She’s playing with fire,” he muttered, his tone cautious but far from dismissive, “Crawford’s the type to hold a grudge, and he won’t forgive this. He’s too protective of his image.”

“She’s brave,” Taggie countered, her voice steady and soft, though there was no mistaking the steel underneath. She held Rupert’s gaze, her expression calm but resolute, as though daring him to dismiss her opinion, “It’s reckless, yes, but sometimes that’s what people need to hear.”

Rupert raised an eyebrow, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. He didn’t agree—not entirely, anyway—but he didn’t interrupt. Instead, he let her words linger in the air, the kitchen momentarily quieter as though everyone was considering them.

If not everyone, him. His gaze lingered on her for a second too long, his smirk fading into something softer.

Declan, leaning against the counter, remained silent, his brow furrowed slightly as his focus stayed fixed on the radio. The steam from his untouched coffee curled lazily upward, but he didn’t notice. His mind was elsewhere, still tethered to the sharpness of Cassie’s voice.

“Who is she?” he asked after a beat, his tone clipped but carrying a subtle curiosity that he didn’t bother to hide.

“Cassandra Jones,” Taggie replied, her voice quiet but sure, “Freddie’s niece. She’s been here for a few months now—moved from Chicago.”

“Oh, Baz told me about her,” Rupert chimed in, the smirk returning as he leaned back slightly in his chair, “Thought she’d be too meek for a place like this, but... Seems I underestimated her. She’s got a sharp tongue, I’ll give her that.”

Taggie’s expression didn’t shift, but there was a subtle light in her eyes as she straightened slightly.

“I listen to her show at night,” Taggie said simply, her voice steady, her eyes lingering on the now-silent radio, “It was time for everyone to listen to her. I’ve always liked her opinions. She has a way with words.”

Rupert chuckled lightly, shaking his head as he turned his gaze between Taggie and Declan.

“Well, you’ve got a knack for spotting wildflowers with potential, I’ll give you that,” he said, his tone teasing but not dismissive. There was a trace of warmth in the way he looked at her, an acknowledgment of her insight even if he wasn’t quite ready to say he agreed.

He liked it when she spoke with certainty, even if it rubbed against his own instincts. And he didn’t miss the way she looked back at him, a smile creeping out of her teeth.

Declan didn’t join in the exchange, his brow furrowed as he stared at the coffee cup in his hands. His grip tightened slightly, a subconscious response as Cassie’s voice echoed in his thoughts. She’d been bold—too bold, perhaps—but her precision, the deliberate weight behind every word, lingered like a static charge.

Declan’s lips twitched faintly, but he didn’t take the bait. His attention stayed fixed on the now-fading voice, the static swallowing the last of Cassie’s words.

As the room settled into silence, Rupert glanced at him, one brow raised, “You’re awfully quiet, O’Hara. Something on your mind?”

Declan set his mug down, his fingers tapping lightly against the counter.

“She knows how to get attention,” he said simply, “That’s half the battle.”

Rupert’s smirk widened, “And the other half?”

Declan didn’t answer immediately, his gaze flicking to the window as though searching for something just out of reach.

“Making sure it’s not wasted,” he said finally, his voice quiet but resolute.

Taggie sighed, resuming her whisking, though the motion was slower, her thoughts clearly divided between the batter in her bowl and what her father had just said.

“—Let me tell you about the sponsors,” Cassie pressed on, her tone dropping into something colder, “The ones who dictate what you hear, who decide what stories matter and what gets erased. We’re not reporting the news—we’re selling it. And the price? Your trust.”

The kitchen was silent save for the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock and the faint crackle of the broadcast. Taggie moved mechanically now, her hands resuming their work with a distracted air. She caught Rupert’s eye briefly, the unspoken question hanging between them: Is Freddie’s niece insane?

Declan, still silent, felt the faintest flicker of something sharper stir in his chest. It wasn’t anger, exactly, though it wasn’t far off. It was recognition—of a battle he had seen too many times in his own career. She wasn’t just fighting a corrupt system; she was taking a wrecking ball to it, piece by piece.

“She’s naming names,” Declan muttered, almost to himself.

“And burning bridges while she’s at it,” Rupert countered, though his usual air of superiority was absent. He tapped his fingers against the table, the sound rhythmic and deliberate.

Declan’s gaze stayed fixed on the radio, his smirk fading as the weight of Cassie’s words settled over him. The easy posture he had held moments before shifted, his arms crossing over his chest as though bracing against the storm her voice carried. The kitchen, once bustling with the hum of morning tasks, had gone eerily quiet. Even the faint scrape of Taggie’s utensils ceased, the air heavy with the raw intensity spilling from the radio.

The cadence of Cassie’s voice had changed—deliberate now, each word like a match striking against flint. It wasn’t just anger fueling her, Declan realized. It was something deeper, sharper. Conviction.

“She is burning, for sure,” he murmured, his tone low but deliberate, “if you want people to see the light…”

Rupert raised an eyebrow, his amusement faint but present. “I didn’t peg you for being an optimist.”

“I’m not,” Declan replied, his voice clipped, his gaze unwavering. His fingers tapped absently against the counter as if keeping time with the rhythm of Cassie’s words. “But I know what it takes to shake people awake. And she’s doing it.”

On the radio, Cassie’s voice dropped, slower now, as though the weight of her decision was settling over her in real-time. The ticking clock above the stove seemed to grow louder, filling the gaps between her sentences, each tick amplifying the tension.

“I can’t stay here,” Cassie’s voice rang out, steady but carrying the weight of exhaustion, each syllable laced with unyielding defiance, “Not in a place that values profit over principle, that rewards complacency and punishes integrity. This is my last broadcast. Consider this my resignation, live on air.”

There was a brief pause, the kind of silence that felt alive, as if the entire town had stopped to hold its breath. The rustle of papers and panicked murmurs on the other side of the broadcast began to rise, chaotic and desperate.

“Get her off the air!”

“That’s enough!”

“Someone call the police!”

The background noise crackled through the radio, growing louder as the urgency escalated. Rupert leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes narrowing as he absorbed the cacophony.

“And one last thing,” Cassie’s voice cut through the static again, this time tinged with a grim sort of triumph, “Fuck you, Charles Crawford!”

Declan’s brows shot up, amusement breaking through his otherwise unreadable expression. Rupert, on the other hand, let out a low whistle, shaking his head as though he couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or exasperated.

“Crawford’s probably tearing his hair out by now,” Rupert remarked dryly, his tone carrying a trace of grudging admiration, “Can’t say I envy him.”

The tension in the room was palpable, lingering in the air like smoke after a fire. Taggie, who had been meticulously smoothing the edges of her apron, paused mid-motion. Her fingers fidgeted slightly, betraying the concern that clouded her otherwise calm expression.

“Do you think they’ll arrest her?” she asked, her voice quieter than usual, hesitant.

Rupert didn’t answer, his attention briefly caught by the steady drip of a coffee pot on the counter. His silence wasn’t unusual, but the shift in his expression—an uncharacteristic tightness around his mouth—hinted at unease.

Declan’s silence, however, felt heavier. He remained still, his brow slightly furrowed, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He wasn’t ignoring the question; he was somewhere else entirely, his mind dissecting every word Cassie had spoken, the deliberate rhythm of her sentences still echoing in his ears.

She hadn’t just revealed truths. She’d weaponized them, sharpened them into blades that now hung in the air, slicing through the fragile facade of the station. He imagined the chaos unfolding on the other side of her microphone—Crawford’s voice, raw and furious, barking orders; the panicked scurrying of technicians trying and failing to regain control. It was the kind of pandemonium Declan had seen countless times in his own career, though rarely so publicly.

Publicly, people called him the 'Irish Wolfhound'. The moniker stuck for good reason—he was relentless, tenacious, and unyielding in the chase. But Cassandra? She wasn’t hunting like he did.

She was circling, sharp-eyed and calculating, waiting for the exact moment to strike.

He exhaled sharply, breaking his stillness as though the weight of realization had settled more deeply over him.

Her voice wasn’t just a broadcast. Cassandra was declaring war.

Declan inhaled sharply, breaking his stillness.

Rupert considered the question for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as though pondering a move on a chessboard.

“Oh, they’ll arrest her,” he said, his voice laced with certainty, “Crawford won’t let something like this slide. He can’t afford to.”

Declan, leaning against the counter, let his arms fold loosely across his chest. His posture was relaxed, but there was a sharpness in his gaze, a flicker of something darker beneath the surface.

“She’s forced their hand,” Declan said, his tone calm but deliberate, “He’ll want to make an example of her—show everyone what happens when you push too hard.”

Rupert hummed thoughtfully, folding his paper with deliberate care and resting his hands on it, as if weighing something unseen. There was an unspoken suspicion behind his narrowed gaze as he studied Declan—a sharpness that cut into the quiet space between them.

Rupert’s gaze flicked to Declan, a subtle spark of curiosity glinting in his eyes.

“And yet,” Rupert began, his words slow and deliberate, “you don’t sound like someone who thinks she’s in over her head.”

Declan’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

“She’s not,” he said simply.

Declan’s gaze set over the radio, his expression unreadable but far from indifferent. The static-filled silence that followed Cassie’s broadcast had settled over the room, heavy and charged, like the air before a storm. He rolled his shoulders slightly, as if shaking off the weight of it, but his thoughts stayed fixed on her words.

It wasn’t just what she’d said—though that had been sharp enough to leave a mark—it was how she’d said it. There was precision in her delivery, the kind of unyielding conviction that struck a nerve. Declan knew that tone. It was the sound of someone who’d spent too long being told to sit down and shut up, finally deciding they’d had enough.

He sipped his now-lukewarm coffee, his eyes narrowing slightly as Taggie’s voice broke into his thoughts.

“You sound like you admire her,” she teased, her smile faint but knowing as she turned back to her bowl.

Declan gave her a sidelong glance, his smirk half-formed.

“I don’t know her,” he replied, his tone light but carefully neutral, “Hard to admire someone you’ve never met.”

Taggie’s laugh was soft, her focus returning to her batter, “Doesn’t mean you can’t be impressed.”

Rupert chuckled quietly, folding his newspaper and leaning back in his chair with an air of satisfaction.

“Oh, he’s impressed, all right,” he said smoothly, casting Declan a sly look, “Rarely seen the Wolfhound so quiet after hearing someone on the air.”

Declan shot him a look, more amused than irritated.

“She’s reckless,” he said, his voice steady, as if stating an undeniable fact, “That kind of move doesn’t just burn bridges; it torches the whole damn village.”

“And you respect that,” Rupert countered, leaning forward slightly, his sharp eyes glinting.

Declan didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he set his coffee down with a deliberate slowness, the soft clink of the mug against the counter punctuating the silence. His thoughts churned, though he wouldn’t have admitted it outright. There was a spark to her, something raw and untamed that he hadn’t expected.

He’d seen plenty of people with ambition—had worked alongside them, had watched them rise and fall, often under the weight of their own egos. But Cassie’s drive didn’t seem rooted in vanity or ambition for its own sake. It was sharper than that. Purposed.

She reminded him of someone—maybe himself, years ago, when he still believed in tearing down the walls instead of navigating them.

“Reckless doesn’t mean wrong,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful.

Rupert tilted his head, watching him with an expression that bordered on amusement.

“Interesting,” Rupert murmured.

Declan ignored him, his thoughts still circling. Cassie Jones. Freddie’s niece, apparently. That explained part of it—Freddie was nothing if not sharp-tongued and stubborn. But there was more to her, something he couldn’t quite piece together yet. She wasn’t just loud or brash; she was precise, deliberate, and unafraid to be messy if it meant getting to the truth.

He could still hear her voice, cutting through the static with an unshakable conviction. It wasn’t easy to pull that off—to sound angry and controlled at the same time. It took skill.

Talent, he corrected himself silently.

“Think she’ll stay in Rutshire after this?” Taggie asked, her tone light, though her curiosity was evident.

Declan tilted his head slightly, considering.

“If she’s smart, she won’t,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact, “Crawford will make sure she’s blacklisted. She’ll have to find somewhere else to land.”

And yet, as he said it, he found himself hoping she wouldn’t. There was something compelling about her fight, her refusal to accept the constraints of her situation. He didn’t know what she’d do next, but he had the sense it would be something worth watching.

Declan’s smirk returned, faint but unmistakable. She’s not going to fade quietly, that’s for sure.

The air in the kitchen had grown heavier, the faint crackle of static from the radio fading into the background as Cassie’s voice disappeared. Declan stood by the counter, his coffee forgotten as his gaze lingered on the now-silent speakers. The energy of the room shifted, a quiet tension filling the space like the lull before a storm.

Rupert stretched his legs under the table, his smirk widening as he tilted his head to watch Declan.

“You’re planning something,” Rupert said, his tone light but knowing, “You always get that look when you’ve found a new target.”

Declan’s lips quirked into a faint smile, though he didn’t take the bait.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he replied smoothly, lifting his coffee mug again, though he didn’t drink, “I’m just thinking.”

“About a voice you just heard on the radio,” Rupert added, teasing. Taggie glanced at him from her bowl, her hands resuming the rhythm of her whisk.

Declan shot a sideways glance at both of them  but didn’t respond, letting the words hang in the air.

Taggie tilted her head slightly, her whisk pausing for just a moment.

“Did you like her?” she asked, her tone gentle but curious, as though she already had her own answer but wanted to hear Declan’s.

Declan shot a sideways glance at both of them, his expression guarded.

“I don’t even know her,” he countered, his voice calm but with a faint edge of irritation, “She’s Freddie’s niece, not a bloody headline.”

His daughter raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching into a small, knowing smile, but she said nothing. Taggie had learned long ago that her father’s defenses ran deep when it came to matters of people getting under his skin.

“Maybe not yet,” Rupert interjected, leaning forward in his chair, his sharp eyes glinting with amusement, “But she’s got the spark for it. We all heard it. She knows how to make herself heard.”

Declan didn’t respond immediately, though Rupert’s words hit him right away. He could feel them, like a distant echo, her voice still hummed in his head.

His gaze shifted briefly to the radio, now silent, as though it might still hold some faint trace of her words. He could see it—hear it again in his mind. Cassie Jones wasn’t just speaking; she was carving something from thin air, her words deliberate and measured, each one leaving an impression, like fingerprints on glass.

It had been a long time since Declan had felt this… Intrigued. Intrigued by a woman’s voice on a radio, of all things. Not just any voice either, but one that demanded attention without raising it too high.

She was clear, unwavering, the kind of person who knew what they were saying and made sure you heard it. The kind of person who didn’t need to scream to be heard.

Just shove a door and hit her feet into the ground.

He exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening slightly. His hands were still, but the irritation now felt more like a defense against something else, something unfamiliar that he wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge.

“Well, she must have locked herself in the station room to make that happen,” Declan said, his tone dry and dismissive.

He didn’t mean it; not exactly. It was just a reflex, the kind of armor he put on when people were asking too many questions that he didn’t know how to answer. But even as the words left his mouth, there was something deeper beneath them—a grudging acknowledgment of the effort, the willpower it must have taken to command that kind of attention.

To make those words land the way she did. Well, if they pressed him, he would admit he admired her indeed for being brave enough to be reckless.

Rupert smirked, leaning back in his chair with the ease of someone who had already sized up the situation.

“And you respect that,” he said, his tone lighter now, though his gaze didn’t waver from Declan’s face.

Declan didn’t look at him immediately. His gaze was fixed on something distant, the fleeting memory of her voice still running through his mind. He could feel the tension in his chest, a strange knot that wasn’t there before.

It wasn’t anger, exactly—it was something else. Something unspoken. Something he was still trying to conceive.

“She’s got something,” Declan muttered, his tone quieter now, almost reflective. The words tasted different in his mouth than they did when he first said them, no longer a dismissal but something closer to recognition. There was a shift in him, something subtle but undeniable.

“And you respect that,” Rupert repeated, his smirk softening into something more genuine. There was no mocking tone now, just the faintest trace of admiration—something Declan could sense without needing it spelled out for him.

Declan finally met Rupert’s gaze, his expression unreadable, but the flicker of something new in his eyes betrayed him. He didn’t answer right away, but the silence between them spoke volumes.

Cassie Jones wasn’t just another voice on the radio. That was a fact.

And for the first time in a long while, Declan wasn’t sure what to do with that.

[quitealotofsodapop]

Mentioned in a Post a while back about a Jttw/LMK AU I had regarding the "Yellow Robed Demon" Arc when Tripitaka got turned into a tiger.

Book Summary;

Tripitaka manages to escape his capture (for once) and passes on a message to the King of Baoxiang from his daughter, Baihuaxiu, explaining that she was kidnapped and made the forced bride of a demon (ironically making it a magical version of what befell Tripitaka's mother when he was a baby).

Kui Mulang rolls in with a human glamour and goes: "Nu-Uh! I'm but a humble human hunter. THIS guy is a tiger demon who attacked a girl some time ago. I save her and we've been living a simple life for the last 13 years!" (Lie)

So the dude pulls an Uno-Reverse and transforms Tripitaka into a tiger (or in some versions, glamours him into one). The King and his subjects believe this 100% since Tripitaka and the Pilgrims don't look so great without Wukong there to act as PR (he was exiled at the time for the White Bone Spirit incident).

Tripitaka is apparently aching-beautiful no matter his form though;

Wukong even feels kinda bad for his Master, since the transformation is so good that he can't even see through it with Gold Vision. Also imagine a sad giant kitty, that would bum anyone out.

Of course things are resolved by the end of the arc; the gang reunite with their monkey, Ao Lie gets his own badass chapter, the Princess is saved, Bajie kills the couple's two half-demon wolf children, the Yellow Robed Demon is revealed to be Revatī - the Wood Wolf of Legs after Wukong catches the demon commenting on his performance during the Havoc (Wukong has a few Columbo moments in the book like this), and Tripitaka is transformed back into his squishy monk self.

Bonus - Tripitaka as a tiger from a book illustration + the 1999 cartoon.

The book illustration + description suggests he's a rare Pseudo-melanistic "Black Tiger" seen in India, possibly an Indo-Chinese Tiger, or a South China Tiger with a darker back.

So here's where the timeline shifts...

The Wood Wolf of Legs ain't happy to be dragged away from (what he believed to be mutual) his true love on earth + his two kids, so he curses the Tang Monk to not only retain part of the glamour he imposed upon him, but to transform him fully into a carnivorous feline demon. Also as an extra "F-k you!" to the Jade Court he and his past love fled from, since the Queen Mother is a celestial tigress herself.

The Pilgrims freak out, obviously.

Guanyin is called up and is like;

Guanyin: "Well, you did unjustly punish and exile your best bodyguard because you didn't trust his judgement, seeing him only as a murderous beast... so *your* punishment is to deal with the rest of your Journey as one of the very same creatures you see as mindlessly bloodthirsty." Tripitaka, now cursed to stay a catboy: "Dang it." (≽^╥⩊╥^≼)

He still gets to wear the robes and walk upright -think Master Tigress from Kung Fu Panda but as a wimpy, twink-shaped, monk.

Tripitaka aint' having fun. He's a life-long vegetarian who's suddenly an apex hypercarnivore. He tries his best for the longest time to stay on the veggies (and durian weirdly enough since tigers like those), but eventually he will need to chow down on some bleeding protein.

And his team literally consists of the main diet of a tiger...

Wukong, a monkey: "Master isn't looking too good." Zhu Bajie, a pig: "I don't like the way he's been looking at us. I burnt my finger making the campfire and he looked ready to pounce!" Sha Wujing, a fish: "I'm not surprised. Cats are of few beasts that absolutely require meat protein to survive." Ao Lie, currently a horse: "If he goes feral, I vote we sacrifice the pig first." Wujing & Wukong: "Agreed." Zhu Bajie: "HEY!!" (₍•̀ ⚇•́ ₎) Tripitaka, meditating hard: "Perhaps if I eat a watermelon, it would sustain my desire for flesh?"

What worse?

Tripitaka is still considered smoking hot. Now by demon standards too!

The Trio of Lion Camel Ridge prepare to attack the Pilgrims when;

Azure Lion: (*sees that the Great Monk is actually a beautiful tiger.*) Azure Lion, lowering his sword: "Guys, do not mess this up for me." Peng & Yellow Tusk: (*annoyed groans!*)

[ottpopfic]

When Jason dies he cuts the line. Actually, he forgoes the line altogether, immediately stepping out of queue and trudging forward in search of his husband

They didn't die too far off of each other, but with their track record he needs to know that he's there, he needs to make sure that he and Leo are here together, that it's not all for naught

He's not hard to find, in the procession of transparent souls he's suppressing opaque. Leo is looking up at what should be the sky but is instead the expanse of rocks and stalag tights, waiting

Waiting for Jason

He's in his early thirties, the same age he was when they got married. In realizing that Jason feels himself change to match him, and in the back of his mind he knows he's going from the nineteen-year-old boy searching to the man who has everything.

And most importantly Leo is on fire, or more he's made of fire. He's pure elemental, magma and embers and flame. There has been so few times that Jason has seen his husband completely engulfed in his gift, but it's the closest he can compare it to. It's around him, its inside of him, it is him

He's never looked so beautiful

Jason finds himself running, how could he not? There he is, the love of his life, standing there waiting for Jason with the part that he's always craved getting his hands on on ripe display. Leo must hear his footfalls against the craggy stone, because he turns to him. And his eyes, by the gods Leo’s eyes, they glow brighter than anything in the darkness of the tunnel.

Leo reaches for him as he gets close, and then Jason slams into him so hard his husband staggers. It doesn't matter, Jason steadies them as he squeezes his Leo tight to his chest. And he's warm, warm like a spirit shouldn't be, like Leo brought his elevated body temperature down with him, his husband clutching him back as tight as he can breath hitching as he tries not to cry

He smells the same too, not the parts that come with having a body, the shampoo and deodorant and oils. It's the hint of smoke, it's the tang of metals, it's that underlying something that is all Leo. Jason sticks his face into his hair, the licks of flame tickling against his cheek, and breaths him deep

“Are you really smelling me right now?!” Leo tires to tease, but his voice is choked

Jason pulls back the breath to see Leo’s face “I knew it”

“Knew what?”

“That it was in your soul” Jason breaths, catching his husband's chin between his fingers “Your fire was always in your soul”

“Jason-“

Jason kisses him, and in turn he kisses Leo’s fire in the way he's always wanted to. It doesn’t hurt, and it doesn’t burn, it just feels like it’s supposed to. It feels like Leo and it feels like home

[yes-these-obsessions-are-healthy]

Because I can’t leave well enough alone or stop obsessing over the music scene in Zaun, I have a few headcanons as to the soundscape of the city.

1. Zaun and Piltover operate in a quasi-Steam/cyberpunk and steam “utopian” punk environments, respectively. For Zaun especially it operates like something sewn together with late 19th century industrial slums (NYC, London) mixed with Blade Runner vibes. Pop, alternative rock, industrial, hip-hop and rap, but also punk, exist.

2. Personally, personally, and with some cues from @lullabyes22-blog fic Forward, Never Forget, I imagine the musical landscape of Zaun changed dramatically within 40 years (roughly the lifetime of Vander and Silco). 200 years ago, Zaun’s primary music genres were folk, vaudeville, work songs, shanties, and novelty songs. Economic stranglehold by Piltover ensured that “high minded” and “perfected” genres we associate with the wealthy, operas, ballets, and the like were difficult or even inaccessible for Zaunites to compose for, but obviously commonplace in Piltover as representative of their cultural DNA. The influx of refugees into Zaun from the Rune Wars, the subsequent squeeze, impoverishment, and exploitation in slum city living, also coincided with the flowering of many spirited genres of music: swing, jazz, blues, and respective dances deemed far too scandalous and libertine for Piltover.

So as I said, in order for it to make sense why a city seems to be comprised of Edwardians standing next to literal punks, steam and otherwise, we need to internalize the miraculous phenomenon that within Silco and Vander’s lifetime, a century’s worth of musical development (1910s - 2020) occurred within Zaun. Somehow, some way, rock, metal, pop, hip-hop, rap, club, funk, dance, industrial, punk, etc. developed and flourished like kudzu. Essentially: If old white people in our real world were ever on record saying this-and-this music was corrupting the youth, then it was in Zaun. If it challenged authority or made you wanna shake and bop up and down or grind, it was music from Zaun.

3. So this means Silco and Vander would’ve borne witness to the music scene go from Puttin’ on the Ritz and Lindy Hop and If I Had a Hammer to You Really Got Me (The Kinks) and War Pigs (Black Sabbath) to Sex Pistols to Sylvester and Sly & the Family Stone to You Spin Me (Right Round) and Depeche Mode and The Clash and Public Enemy to Wu Tang Clan and Smells Like Teen Spirit and Rage Against the Machine and Selena and West Coast-East Coast rap divergence to RECESSION CLUB/POP, fucking IMAGINE FUCKING DRAGONS and wispy atmospheric female artist pop and DUBSTEP.

Literally this creaky-looking Peaky Blinders/Scarface sharkrat man would have to have grown up from going as a child listening to jazz to being in his early 40s and hearing Imagine fucking Dragons on the wind in the public square for some reason and Pusha T doing his thing. Do you understand what I’m saying how crazy that is.

It’s crazy to think about. Usually music genres fall to the wayside as developments are made and genres evolve out of them and into others, but Zaun exists in a world where the past is the present. Everything is alive and sustained all at once, like undying undergrowth, the coexistence of subculture. Little by little, the Old Guard may shift a bit, but the fashion and sensibilities and tastes will never completely die out, no matter how much further Zaun progresses within its bubbling urban cauldron of rust-and-reuse.

[owlight]

Trafalgar law x Gn!reader [reptiles are cool]

Summary: law is trying to get much needed sleep,but unfortunately to him ,(y/n) got other plans for the evening

Word count: 842 (: short but sweet

Tags: fluff,reader likes reptiles,Law is very sleepy but trying to be a supportive boyfriend , fun facts about reptiles,adhd coded reader ngl, not fully read proof

Also Thank u @nekomacheercaptain for listening to my lizards rant and for the the headers pics ily 💞🦭

Law lay on his bed, exhausted after a long few days of having to travel in Wano ,fight big mom and Kaido then having to deal with more mess after,he can't believe he is finely back on the polar tang for some actual rest. He closes his eyes, humming himself to drift off to sleep, but his thoughts kept wandering back to the events of the big fight,the last meeting with Luffy and his crew...tch he will secretly misses them....Just as he was about to slip into unconsciousness, he felt the bed shift as his lover climbed in beside him,With The energy of a rabbit for some reason

"Hey Law, are you awake?" his lover asked, their voice full of excitement,unlike everyone else,(y/n) time at Wano county could been described as a whole adventure of their dreams,they really enjoyed the country and they were so fascinated with Kaido Dragon form,they almost didn't move away from the fight and law had to room Thier ass to safety ,ever since the crew came back to the polar tang,(y/n) occupied themself in the library...law should have Guessed there was a reason for that

Law sighed, knowing that sleep was now out of the question,since (y/n) was clearly as awake as Luffy high on Sugar"What is it?"law asks as he keeps his eyes closed, perhaps hoping his lover would see him trying to sleep and have mercy on him

"I was reading about reptiles today and I wanted to tell you all about it" they said, bouncing with enthusiasm , clearly not noticing law trying to sleep,law almost snort at Thier enthusiasm it's so...giddy to witness,he open one eye to look at them,seeing Thier face basically glowing ,Law raised an eyebrow, not particularly interested in the subject matter but he wanted to humor them for now "Do you have to do it now?"he asks,voice sound bit too sleepy to his taste

"Yes, I have to tell you now! Before I forget" they exclaimed, grabbing Law's hand and pulling him into a sitting position,law groans as he sits ,he looks at his partner with as much as focus as possible"Did you know that some snakes can sense infrared radiation?"they tell law with so much excitement it threw law off his sleepiness for a moment,he blinked, trying to process the sudden burst of energy "No, I didn't...I didn't know that" he mumbles

"It's true ! It's so... interesting! Do you think a snake devil fruit user can do that too-actually and And did you know that most lizards can change color to match their surroundings?,that's why sometimes you see them looking colorful then out the blue they are kinda dim as they move around ,it's so cool that's chameleon are not the only ones in that aspect " they continued, their words tumbling out at a rapid pace ,law sleepy mind trying to catch up with them as best as he can,they continue "And some Some species of lizard will go their entire lives without drinking water! That's why there's so many lizards in alabasta living so freely!"

But you know Law couldn't help but be amused by their excitements about the subject Despite his exhaustion, he found himself smiling at their enthusiasm as they spoke,so much spirit and excitement, it's adorable in his opinion.."That's fascinating" he said with humor in his voice.

"I know, right?" they said, settling back against the pillows,law himself watches them laying down on the bed "There's so much to learn about them, I'm going to start a journal to write all about them from now on,from each island we visit,I have already few pages written down... it's going to be awesome" they tells him with excitement lacing Thier voice

Law leaned back against the headboard, then he moves to lay in bed,head hitting the pillow, he was feeling his eyelids droop as he spook"I'll have to take your word for it, let's talk more about it tomorrow shall we?right now I need to sleep before I end up speaking non Sense" law mumbles with tiredness in his voice

(Y/n) pouted, but reluctantly settled down beside him and Started cuddling him, Law wrapped an arm around them, feeling their warmth and the gentle rise and fall of their chest as their breath slowed down, showing they are going to be good for him for now and let him sleep,law closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep holding them tightly to him as they smiles gently closing Thier eyes as well joining him to sleep, law last thought and feelings was him feeling grateful for the presence of his lover, even if their interests were vastly different most of the time,he can't help but love them for how they are.

[lilith-little-world]

Sneak Peek of Chapter One(?) Pt. 2|| The Isekai’d Oracle

I know I haven't posted anything for a while. Got super busy, did a ton of research, and had slight writer's block. Yesterday I finally was able to write something only to have a... cooking accident. I'm fine just burn my hand from some boiling water and a slight cut on the other. Doesn't hurt and the red mark from the burn went away.

Anyways I don't know if I want to keep this in. Feels like it's too out of place since it's should be all from the reader's perspective but I do like how we see from the other’s point of view. It feels refreshing to not have all of it in the reader's. It also keeps you guys wanting to read more. Since few of the other characters know more than the reader, yet are somewhat clueless about the oracle's plans for this so-called good ending. So it kind of balances each other out, hopefully.

Also, I watched S4 and holy shit. Mei’s a thousand-time grandfather is hot. I want him.

It was a rainy day. Dark clouds consumed the skies, thunder shaking the world. People continued on with their day, not letting the rain stop them from their tasks. Mk and Mei playing around at the restaurant, messing with Tang. Pigsy tries to scold them for it but was too busy making noodles. Sandy watches from afar drinking tea since the storm had made the waves too out of control for him to stay on the boat.

The demon bull family stayed back home and kept their distance away from the city and heroes. After their embarrassing defeat. Macaque hides in the shadows waiting for the storm to pass. While Wukong relaxes at the temple, hoping that the storm won't cancel today's training.

It was a normal day so far.

Yes, nothing new or life-changing. Everything was peaceful. Then there was the blast.

In an empty street, sparks of a dull peach color form in the middle of the road. Until slowly turning into a small golden ball of energy. Catching the attention of the passerby.

Getting brighter and hotter, the ball of energy exploded. Blinding the street in golden light. As the shockwave shot through the city, shaking the ground and clearing the skies.

Buildings shook, people and objects fell, and cars swerved or came to a sudden stop. The once busy and loud city was silent for a moment. Not knowing what that blast was, especially for the gang.

“What was that?” Mei asks, clinging to a chair to steady herself.

“Maybe it was an earthquake?” Tang said questioningly. Not even believing it was that simple.

“No, it's not.” Mk states, staring at the entrance. Any joyous expression pushed off his face. That amount of energy shouldn't have shaken his soul like that.

It made him anxious.

“Then what was that?” Pigsy shouts annoyed. Picking up the noodles from the floor.

Mk stayed silent. That energy was familiar, yet he couldn't wrap his head around where he felt it before.

“I don't know…” Those words didn't feel right coming from his mouth. He sighs before pushing those feelings to the side.

“-BUT, I'll just ask Monkey King. He knows everything.” Mk said with a smile. He shouldn't worry too much about this after all. He can't lose his cool in front of his friends.

“You look stressed bud, here, have some tea.” Sandy gently pats Mk's back, giving him a cup.

“I'm fine honestly, that earthquake startled me.”

“Aww, don't worry Mk.” Mei wraps her arms around him. Giving the young man a rather tight hug.

“It was pretty scary, and out of nowhere. At least no one got hurt, right?” Mei smiles trying to cheer up Mk.

“Yeah, at least no one is hurt.”

However, he wasn't the only one shaken. Far from it. How could they? When their last encounter with the oracle was less than pleasant. No, they rather forget about the incident.

Iron Fan pulls out a small withered box. Time had worn down, and the fragile container.

“Are you sure about this? Was that blast from that spirit?” The Bull King asks.

“Yes, my love, no matter how many years pass. I will always remember that energy, even though it's a lot duller.” She takes off the cover, finally seeing the contents.

Few pieces of paper, with dates and instructions. Neatly stacked and tied together with a red ribbon. She pulls out the small paper that sits on top of the stack.

“Sorry for not making it interesting, especially when I made you wait so long to open it. There isn't anything impressive in the bag I gave you as well. Just some clothing and a few accessories. Hope you two are doing well. Remember, follow the instructions precisely, if not, I'll get very upset!” Iron Fan reads out loud the note.

“She’s vague as usual.” The Bull King mumbles outs.

“Aren't all seers and oracles? For being able to see the future, they like to be mysterious, it's their whole gimmick.” She takes out the stack of papers, ready to follow the oracle's Instructions.

“How do you feel about this? I haven't forgotten that reaction from earlier.”

There was a slight pause in her actions.

“I'm fine, it's all in the past, but best if we follow the instructions she gave us. We don't want to have another outburst.”

“Seers are truly unfortunate beings.”

Iron Fan stayed silent, sadly agreeing with her husband's statement. Luckily, from the notes that have been written. It seems there wouldn't be an outburst. Relief washes over her, letting out a sigh. The Bull King stood close and placed a hand on her shoulders.

Then it left the two mystic monkeys, who didn't know how to react. Yet concluding on the same action. Staying far away from the oracle, but for different reasons.

Macaque sees the poor woman as a bad omen and rather ignores it.

Wukong, on the other hand, thought he was the bad omen. Convinced that if he shows up, it will end badly for her. This time he won't help her. It was for the best. Wukong truly believes that she is strong enough to survive and complete the task she needs to do.

“Good luck little oracle, may your journey be painless and uncomplicated, this time around.” He said softly, before closing the door behind him.

Not daring to look back at the city or her.

[whatm0vesyou]

Burna Boy - I Told Them… thoughts of a music fan

Like all truly great artists, Burna Boy’s music, confidence, hard work, spirit, and just his being have the power to inspire and bring together not just Nigerians and Africans, but the whole entire world. 

I can’t tell you I understand every word he says in his songs. But I don’t have to, which I believe speaks to his comments regarding lyrics not mattering on Afrobeats. He and his collaborators have an incredible way of conveying and evoking joy greatly through sounds and melodies. And like joy, sometimes you don’t need to rationalise music. You only have to feel it. 

What matters is that his music makes you feel good, it makes you feel confident, it makes you dance. And Burna Boy’s music, including his latest album, does just that. He’s not trying to tell you who he is, what he does, or what he can do. It’s a record that signifies “I was here. I was right. I told you all from the beginning. And now I’m celebrating the success with this album.” You get a glimpse into his perspective that got him where he is through the voice recordings of Wu-Tang Klan, Virgil Abloh and J. Cole’s verse. 

Yes, it might not be the most experimental or thought-provoking album, but I think its existence and success are integral to Burna Boy’s story - at least from my perspective. So, I wanted to share how I’ve seen the growth of the African Giant as a Greek girl who always truly loved music and its power. 

I couldn’t tell you exactly when I heard a Burna Boy song for the first time, but an educated guess would be around 2017 or 2018 when I started going to club nights in Athens, where DJ Kas would play. I was already listening to a fair amount of R&B and Hip-Hop, which was what he would primarily play and why I was there. Often, Afrobeats would get thrown into the mix, and I grew to love the genre and the positive energy it had the power to transmit to people. 

Moving to the UK a year later and getting involved in the music scene through radio, club nights, genuine curiosity and friends who were kind enough to put me on to some great stuff, Afrobeats grew to have a special place in my heart and Spotify library, with Burna Boy and his authenticity occupying most of the space for a while. 

The moment I genuinely realised Burna Boy’s superpower was when I saw him perform at Nostos Festival while I was visiting Athens in 2021 (it's important to note that it was free to attend that!). Having lived in the UK and seen his growth there, and having an awareness of his influence within the African scene, I felt more than lucky to be part of that crowd. Most of my Greek friends at the time had never heard of his name, let alone my parents, but I went with my dad anyway.

At the festival grounds, the presence of Nigerians was strongly felt - it was a genuine moment of community coming together. But the crowd was also filled with people of all trades, ages, races and nationalities. From artists, NBA players, and Greek and Nigerian people I look up to, to kids I grew up with and everyday people, simply coming together and enjoying a moment of bliss and community. Burna Boy also fully bodied the performance. You could clearly hear and see the joy and happiness to be performing in his voice, moments, face, and interactions with the crowd. That’s when I understood that his music and performance are meant to be experienced globally. I saw his vision clearly. 

Since then, he’s had Last Last become one of the biggest songs last year, the success of Love, Damini, and his sold-out London Stadium show. And now, "I Told Them..." is the Number 1 album in the UK charts, making him the first African artist to ever achieve that. Literally making history.

However, my favourite highlight of his over the past year is his Champions League final performance. My mum, a Greek, non-football fan, recognised him from the 2021 show (that she didn’t even attend) and texted me saying that my dad is watching it. As I received it, one of his songs came on at a block party in Stratford, London I was at. Soon after I received that text, Jim Legxacy started performing to a crowd that truly celebrated him, and I felt like I just saw the cycle of inspiration and power of music unfolding in front of my eyes. I’ll let you unpack that one yourself. 

-antigoni

[zabojcanocy]

ALEXANDER:: HUMANITY

“People think I revel in this part. The cleaning. They imagine that there’s a dark delight in the methodical dismantling of my work—scrubbing away the vestiges of violence as if I’m purging not just the scene, but my very soul. They envision me taking pleasure in the way the bleach erases every last trace of my actions, a twisted celebration of destruction and renewal.

But let me strip away that fantasy for you. The truth is... it’s an agonising bore.

It’s like running your fingers over an endless, monotonous expanse, where the thrill of creation has long evaporated. I’ve already extracted the essence of my pleasure, the raw, visceral rush that comes with the final, desperate breaths. What’s left now is the cruel irony of routine. The blood—dark, thick, and insidious—has seeped into every crack, every crevice, turning the once-innocent floor into a canvas of muted, haunting stains. The once-crimson droplets dry to a sordid brown, a cruel reminder of what was. I scrub with a fervour that’s more mechanical than passionate, my hands moving with the precise, joyless rhythm of a clock ticking away the last moments of its own existence.

The scent... it’s another layer of torture. The metallic tang of iron, mingling with the sharp, acrid stench of cleaning agents. It’s an olfactory assault, lingering in the very pores of my skin, refusing to be washed away. I am bound to it, like a penance I can never escape. The more I clean, the more it seems to cling, as if mocking my futile efforts to erase the past.

And this—this endless chore—is where I find the true emptiness. No thrill. No excitement. Just the cold, relentless act of scrubbing away the evidence of what I’ve done. The real act—the primal, unfiltered intensity of the kill—is gone, leaving nothing but a sterile aftermath. It’s not the murder that consumes me. It’s the finality of this part, the inevitable descent into mundane, repetitive duty.

It’s not art. It’s not a ritual. It’s just a chore, a dark echo of a more thrilling past. And as I wash away the blood, I am reminded of the cruelest irony of all: that the true horror lies not in the act itself, but in the dispassionate emptiness that follows.”

And I hate it. I hate this mundane dance of destruction and denial. Because once I’m down here, methodically erasing every trace of what’s been done, I know that the thrill is gone. And I am left with only the cold, indifferent truth: the aftermath is the real nightmare.”

[ BIOGRAPHY ]

Rules of the Enchanted Realm:

No Follow-First Requests, Please: If you’re drawn to the magic in my stories, hit that follow button, and let’s see where our imaginations can take us! My dash is a sanctuary for kindred spirits, so let’s keep it enchanting and fun.

Selective Partnerships: My realm is rich with adventure, but with a full-time job and a desire for meaningful connections, I’m selective about who joins the journey. If we don’t immediately vibe, don’t be disheartened—I might need a bit of time to weave our paths together.

Age Matters: As a 30-year-old seasoned storyteller with 12 years of role-playing and writing experience, I ask that only those over 18 venture into this epic quest. Mature themes and adventures await!

Dark Plots Welcome: Embrace the shadows and dive into plots where darkness, violence, and bloodshed are part of the thrill! If you need specific tags or have a particular dark twist in mind, just send a magical word my way.

Respect Boundaries: While dark and thrilling tales are welcome, there are lines I won’t cross—no pedophilia, incest, or similar themes. Such elements might be mentioned in backstories but will never be part of our main narratives.

Etiquette is Key: A proper adventurer respects the realm. No godmodding, and hate will be banished with a flick of the wand. Let’s keep our encounters respectful and our stories magical.

Reach Out: Got a plot idea or just want to chat? I’m always eager for new adventures and epic sagas. Don’t be shy—send a raven, and let’s embark on a journey together!

Character & Muse: Remember, my characters’ actions and words are part of the story—they don’t reflect my personal views. If I use a character’s name in conversation, it’s all in good storytelling fun.

Exploring Relationships: Whether you’re interested in established bonds or new ships, if the muse strikes, I’m all in. Unleash your creativity, and let’s navigate uncharted waters together!

Sanity and Serenity: For my peace of mind, I might hard block pages that no longer align with my journey. Mental health is a top priority, even if it means making tough decisions.

So, step forth, brave soul! Dive into a world where imagination reigns supreme, and let the adventure begin!

[quitealotofsodapop]

Was thinking of FFM, specifically the bit about the island being effectively isolated from the outside world. That means it's entirely possible for different strands of plant life that otherwise went extinct or had evolved different characteristics remain in suspension, only affected by the things Wukong himself brings onto the island.

Pigsy is a food connoisseur. He only uses the freshest ingredients. In Century Egg Au and Slow Boiled, he effectively becomes a parental figure to Wukong. One, who would very much likely make many a trip to FFM to check up on Wukong. Same for TMKATI except Wukong doesn't live in the mountain in that one and therefore there's less reason to visit. Imagine how he'll react when he realizes the mythical island not only has the freshest ingredients but the rarest as well!

Pigsy seeing an isolated island with some very tasty looking rare tree fruits from the view of Sandy's ship, only to learn that it has a impassable magical barrier:

He's ok to let the matter slide... for now. He reasons with himself that whatever is on that island is better off without his mitts on it.

Until he's shaken awake by a very excitable Tang, holding a book on island isolation and evolution, rambling at a mile a minute about how the plant and animal life on the sheltered island has likely evolved completely separate from the outside world, and if this island is part of the fabled lost country of Alolai - then it likely is teeming with wildlife that evolved after the mythical Floods and Burning.

Pigsy, groggy: "Tang... how'd you get in my room???" Tang, highly-caffienated: "I haven't slept in two days!" Sandy, texting: "Is he at your place now?"

Eventually after forcing the scholar to calm down and take a rest before his heart gives out, Pigsy is told something that really tickles his inner connoisseur.

Tang: "Before it was introduced and selectively bred, potatoes could only be encountered in remote areas of the Andes mountains." Pigsy: "And?" Tang: "Imagine if you discovered the next potato." Pigsy: *squeal of intrigue!*

Needless to say, Pigsy has his own Nerd Moment™ the first time he actually touches down on the island and recognises a bunch of rare species.

Pigsy, side-tracked by a tree: "Sweet Chang'e! This is looks like a button mangosteen! I've never heard of them growing this far north! The skin is more red-orange though, maybe it's a branched variety back when the islands were connected to the mainland? Button Mangosteens taste closer to tangerines than their purple cousins, I wonder if that intesifies based on colouration." Sandy, delighted for his friend: "You seem to be having lots of fun!" Pigsy: *nodding happily*

He's equally delighted in the TMKATI au to have "Such a resourceful employee!" when Wukong comes back from his visits to the island bearing gifts. It caught him off guard the first time though.

Wukong: "Hey boss, I got you something." Pigsy, opening a box: "Wu... are these fresh truffles?!" Wukong, wondering if he did something wrong: "Yeah, why? Did I mess up? I overheard you talking about wanting to have enough to experiment with and-" Pigsy: "No no! I'm... I'm so grateful, I don't even know what to say... How did you even afford these?" Wukong, genuine confusion: "Afford? I just gathered a bunch from the lime orchard at home. There's hundreds of these things - I don't like 'em personally cus they taste like dirt to me. I normally just toss them in the hotpot when I run out of the chicken-tasting ones." Pigsy: "Excuse me."

I hc that in the direct aftermath in returning to FFM during the White Bone Spirit chapter of JTTW; Sun Wukong did a lot of gardening and farming in order to ensure that his people would have a sustainable source of food. Probably convinced Zhu Bajie to "show off his super-cool 9-Toothed Rake" to start the farmers off.

He also plants a bunch of super-rare and super-divine plants on the island that he picks up in his travels.

Wukong, chilling on a tree clearly not native to the island: "What? I like using the leaves as nesting material."

And lets not mention the super rare species of animals that managed to survive/escape the Burning.

FFM probably has an undiscovered wild cat or two that Sandy accidentally befriends.

[casspurrjoybell-27]

Claimed by the Beast - Chapter 27

*Warning: Adult Content*   

Now and Forever

The latest update from Elizabeth, the club's lawyer, came with positive and negative news.

On the bright side, the cops were no longer interested in Knox and Everett.

With Elizabeth's help, their cooperation with the authorities and the evidence supporting their actions as self-defense kept them from landing any serious charges but despite her doing everything in her power to speed things along and even with Everett and his testimony on their side, it would still take months, maybe longer, for Gavin and the member's trials to happen.

Which meant they'd remain in jail until then.

Gavin somehow kept his spirits high.

He called every day to let everyone know how he was holding up and that, even behind bars, he hadn't stopped working and making connections.

Leave it to him to turn a jail sentence into a damn business opportunity.

Knox was happy Gavin was doing well but part of him wished he could take Gavin's place because no man should miss the birth of their child.

Regardless, Knox would continue to be there for Josie, no matter what but today, he's made plans with his favorite person.

"Shit," Knox mutters after spotting Gary's car in the driveway.

He reluctantly parks behind it and exits his truck.

He hasn't seen or spoken to Gary since the day he showed up at the hospital begging the old man to let him see Everett.

Not much frightens Knox but having to interact with Everett's father again after everything that went down makes his palms sweat.

He steels himself, bracing for the worst when the front door opens and Gary exits instead of Everett.

"Mr. Robinson, I..." Knox starts with an apology that ends with Gary's fist connecting with his jaw.

He stumbles back, the impact shocking him less than the old man's strength.

"I deserved that," Knox admits, tasting the iron tang of blood in his mouth.

"You're damn right," Gary's grits out.

"I should've done it at the hospital but I was too distraught thinking my boy might die on the operating table. Don't know if he told you but he lost half of his left kidney, by the way."

Knox swallows hard, guilt twisting his stomach.

"I can't tell you how sorry..."

"Save it," Gary says, pausing.

"I thank you and your men for keeping him safe and for getting him to a hospital that night despite the risks. Everett is a grown man. I've heard his side and I can see how he got himself into this mess and merely met you along the way."

Knox remains frozen in place, unflinching, as Gary takes another step forward.

"Regardless, it's going to take more than promises for me to fully trust you with him and believe he'll never be put in another situation like that again."

"Respectfully, Sir," Knox begins.

"I've had brothers die trying to help keep him and your family out of harm's way. My own life was put on the line more times than I can count but if you'd ask me if I would do it all again, knowing he and I would end up here together, then I'd tell you yes."

Gary blinks, taken aback.

"Yes because I'm in love with your son. There's nothing I wouldn't do for him, including giving up my life so that he can continue to live his," Knox finishes.

"If you want me to prove I'm still a man of my word, then so be it. All I ask of you is to watch me."

Gary studies him for a beat.

Finally, he takes a step back.

"Have him check in with me before midnight," he instructs before heading back inside the house.

Leaning against his truck for support, Knox exhales shakily.

That confrontation could have gone a hell of a lot worse but Knox is still standing.

He's bruised but hopeful.

He really can't ask for much more.

A few minutes later, Everett steps out of the house with a brightness following him that outshines the afternoon sun.

Knox can't help but smile at the sight.

They close the distance,and when their lips meet in greeting, the pain in Knox's jaw completely disappears.

"Ready to go?" Knox asks after they separate.

Everett's smile falters as he notices the redness on Knox's cheek.

Gently, he reaches up to touch it.

"What the hell happened here?"

Honesty between them is a bridge they've fought hard to build, Knox won't start tearing it down now.

"Your father took a shot and didn't miss," Knox admits with a chuckle, his own hand coming up to cover Everett's.

"I'm good, kitten. Don't worry about it."

"Too late. I'm going to make him apologize."

"Stop."

Knox tightens his grip on Everett's hand.

"I deserved it. We talked and came to an understanding. He still doesn't like me but he doesn't hate me either."

"Wait. So, you're saying it's a 'good' thing that he punched you in the face?"

"I'm saying it's progress," Knox laughs.

"Can we go now before he comes back out here to finish me off?"

Everett rolls his eyes but allows himself to be helped into the truck, a helpless smile tugging at his lips.

When Knox suggested they hang out today, he didn't tell Everett much else.

So, after driving for an hour and a half, confusion colors Everett's face when Knox turns off the main road to follow a winding dirt path.

It leads them to a massive plot of land near water.

"Are we trespassing right now?" Everett asks, looking around.

"I could've sworn I saw a sign back there that something about private property..."

"We aren't trespassing if I own it," Knox reveals.

"This is all mine. I bought it last week."

"I..." Everett is speechless but smiling.

"This is... I'm..."

Knox chuckles at his reaction and parks the truck.

He climbs out and hand in hand, they walk to the river's edge.

The same spot where Knox first dared to imagine a future that had nothing to do with his MC.

"Remember when I showed you my favorite spot by the river when we were at the clubhouse?" Knox prompts and Everett nods.

"You asked me if I ever wished that it all could be mine. The clubhouse, the property..."

"And you told me no because you still had work to do," Everett finishes.

"I also said I wasn't ready to settle down," Knox adds, taking a breath.

"And that was true. I wasn't ready back then. I didn't know how to be anything other than the club's Enforcer but almost losing you, it fucking woke me up and made me realize I want more out of life."

Knox reaches for Everett's hand, never breaking eye contact.

"I want you," he finishes.

"I want a life with you. I want to share this land with you. I want to love you in peace until the day comes when I take my last breath. That's my dream, Everett. That's what I fucking want."

Tears threaten to fall when Everett speaks.

"I never want to take you away from your brothers, Knox or the club and I'd never ask you to make a choice because I know you'd end up resenting me for it."

"I'm not leaving the club," Knox clarifies.

"I've already spoken with everyone and they gave me their blessing to do my own thing. This isn't about me pushing the club away, it's about giving us more time together."

"As lovely as this sounds, I know you, Knox. You'll be bored to death in no time. You need to keep busy in order to keep him at bay."

'Him' being Knox's murderous beast.

"Do you also remember that lie I told your father when he asked what I did for a living?" Knox asks.

"Yeah. You told him you build and restore motorcycles."

"That wasn't entirely a lie. It's a hobby I can easily turn into an actual business. One of the few things I'm good at besides..."

'Killing.'

"Well, you know."

Everett can't hold back the tears anymore.

They come crashing down as he throws himself onto Knox's lap, kissing him dizzy.

"Baby, if this is really what you want, then count me in. Let's fucking do it."

"Are you sure?" Knox searches Everett's eyes for any hint of doubt.

"You've gotta be sure, Kitten."

"You just told me you want to give living a normal life a try," Everett says.

"I've seen how much you've grown, Knox. How hard you're trying to be better. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't terrified to see what the future holds but at the same time, I'm one million percent sure that I want to be with you, now and forever."

"So you'll move in with me? Permanently?" Knox grins, his heart full.

"Yes," Everett kisses him.

"Even marry me one day?"

"Yes," Everett kisses him again, one hand reaching for the hem of his shirt.

"You love me?"

Everett pulls Knox's shirt over his head and with a wicked smile, he whispers...

"Let me show you how much."

[cilis-readings]

Helllo, this is FS🦋 again. I know I just told you a few days ago that I decided to go back to college, but I suddenly feel incredibly stressed about it. The college I was attending before is an hour away from where I currently live and I worry about finances and I don't even know what to do with my degree 🤣 but I KNOW I need to go back.

ANYWAYS is there any way I can have some sort of insight on what the spirits think or do I need to ask an exact question? I don't even know what I don't know 😭

(My current favorite song is Homemade Dynamite by Lorde 😌)

yeah of course! here’s what i got for you :)

deck: tarot of the magical forest by leo tang

card: queen of cups

the queen of cups is telling me that your spirit team is going to be supportive of you no matter what you end up doing, even if that means going back to school or deciding to put that on the back burner for now until you’ve figured out what exactly you want to do with your degree. if you need that gentle nudge, ask them for advice on what to do! that’s what they’re there for.

[ultraericthered]

Anime Update V2 48

Hunter x Hunter - Three whole episodes spent on the strangest and most intense game of doge ball, with Gon and the others playing against Razor and his pirate team, in the process learning that what they thought was the inside of a virtual Nen-created game is in fact a very real place. And Hisoka hogging the glory by hitting the ball back to Razor and using his Bungee Gum on it just so he could get the win was marvelous. The backstory between Razor and Ging was a bit of groaner in how specific what Ging laid out for Razor was, but it did provide good context into why Razor is like how he is today. But then, who should come calling but Genthru, just in case you’d forgotten!

Fruits Basket - Initial episode I watched focused on Tohru in a visit to the Sohma Estate where she tended to matters with Kureno and Momiji. The Momiji content was great, the Kureno content not so much, though we did get a tease at Akito’s mother, Ren Sohma. The next episode showed more promise, so I watched it and was not let down. Just a whole episode of our leading high schooler pals on a class trip in Kyoto is rewarding in a way you don’t even care that not much is advanced, you enjoy watching these characters that much. (Only odd thing is that the Prince Yuki Fanclub is set up stalking Yuki from a distance early in but it doesn’t go anywhere! If they were following the whole while, did they just end up laughing too hard at Yuki’s embarrassing routine with his Student Council buddies to actually do anything?) Next time, though, is going to hurt, I can tell.

Date A Live S4 - Kurumi finally showed Shido, and the audience, her backstory of how she met the Spirit of Origin and became a Spirit, fighting and killing the lesser evolved Spirits only to end up learning that all Spirits begin as human, even taking the life of her best friend due to Mio’s deception. While it was an interesting backstory, the very end sort of took away from it, as Mio exposits a lot of details that are so weirdly phrased and unclear that it came out unintelligable!

Re:ZERO - Not this time. Must ready myself for the turning point...

Fate Stay/Night: Unlimited Blade Works - Yes, I know this was the title of a movie I already watched, but now I’ve started the series version! I love already that I’m back to events that followed Fate Zero, but this time we’re looking at things primarily from Rin’s POV. Mela Lee in this role has only gotten better, loved hearing (though not seeing) Kirei again, and Cristina Vee and Kyle McCarley as Sakura and Shinji Matou respectively work as well, if not even better than their predecessors. Kaiji Tang’s Archer took some getting used to, but once he dropped the jerkass facade and being more cool and straightforward, it was really working for me. The only voice I do not care for is Bryce Papenbrook as Shirou. Just...no. He makes him sound like Nagito. Bring Sam Reigel back, plz? And I guess now I have two nickels ‘cause an hour long series premiere of a Fate franchise anime ending right as we first see Saber happened twice!

Symphogear G - Got to hand it to this show. Going into this climax, they could’ve played it safe and just given us the Good Guys VS the Bad Guys for one final time, but they make it more complicated by having one from each side swap teams at the 11th hour (Shirabe’s now with the Good Guys and Chris is with the Bad Guys), having the lead baddie dying and unable to stop what she helped to start, and having poor Maria stuck in a chamber with Dr. Ver, the true psycho bastard in all this. I’m super pumped to see how this all turns out!

MAR - The Ginta VS Ash battle finally came and while it was quite interesting on Ash’s end that he didn’t want to kill or seriously harm Ginta since he’s still a kid and Ash is friend to all children, but from Ginta we just got more of the same “I hate Phantom and what the Chess Pieces do!” righteous fury. But hey, Ash ends up foreiting the fight to Ginta AND we even briefly see Ashs’ face behind the skull mask! And he’s just...some good looking dude! Who’d have thunk it?

Gintama - It felt like such a long wait, but finally we have Sacchan! Though the premiere already showed us what she’s all about, her proper debut does well in showing her discovering that kinky, masochistic side of herself and starting to bring it out more in sneaky ways as she’s working her plan to lay low from the literal rat bastard she’d been out to assasinate. It meanders a bit in places, but that’s more than made up for when Gin and Sacchan raid the rat’s hideout, with so much of the situation and the dialogue from all the characters being hilarious. And so, when Sacchan left only to come back literally the very next day for more kinky stuff with Gin, it felt all too right.

AND

Yuki Yuna Is A Hero - Finally, I’ve seen the last three episodes that make up the climax and finale of the initial series, where Yuna, Fuu, Itsuki and Karin fight against a huge horde of Vertex unleashed by Togo and have to stop them from killing the Shinju Sama and with it, destroying the entire world. It’s definitely a case where I can say I really enjoyed it, BUT. And in this case the “BUT” would be that the lead-in to the finale, what literally makes it all happen, is straight up contrived nonsense. Pulling a “this is the dark, despair-inducing TRUTH of the world you live in and fight for” twist without having put in the worldbuilding effort to really earn it just kind of takes a dump on the integrity of the Heroes Club and their nice little slice-of-life regular setting, and it feels like it was just done to throw a Madoka takeoff on top of an already implemented Madoka takeoff, as well as serve as a cheap and convenient way to justify Togo taking a leap right into “kill everything and end it all!” nihilism. I also don’t think we needed to see Sonoko again, and what was done, or NOT done, with the Taisha was beyond disappointing given the earlier build-up, though I hear that it finally ended up happening in one of the later seasons. But I can’t say it took me out of it completely and that I wasn’t engaged in the action from start to finish, nor that the second half of the final episode didn’t get to me. Seiji Kishi really knows how to make good on the heartfelt moments and I just love the Hero Club girls so much that I wanted more than anything to see them all happy in the end. Thankfully they are, and as later seasons prove, they always will be.

[glowing-blue-feathermage]

What if....... [ CARRY ]:     having found the receiver in an injured/weak/unconscious state, the sender carries them in their arms to safety.

for Justice carrying Fenris?

Listen, Justice adores one (1) lyrium elf, and I'm here to tell you about it. For @dadrunkwriting !

“Hawke probably made him invite me,” Anders muttered under his breath.

“The elf does not abide orders. That is a cornerstone of his being. You know this."

Anders opened his mouth to continue the argument, but then shut it. Justice was right. 

“So, what are you saying? That he actually wants me there?” 

He felt a slight tension through his shoulders–a shrug from the spirit.

“Why do you find this difficult to believe? You have many fine qualities.” 

Anders smiled. “You’re biased.”

“Justice is never biased,” the spirit objected tersely. 

Anders had expected that response, and let the matter drop as he took the steps up to Hightown. It was early evening, the sunset colors faded from reds and yellows to deep purple. He felt…off-kilter. Like he was trying to act a part in a play he’d not read the script for. How was he to know how to act when he didn’t know why Fenris had included him in his weekly card game at the mansion? Did it mean something? Was the elf finally coming around, willing to entertain the idea that Anders was not a magister ravenous for blood with an army of demonic thralls?

His inner turmoil was cut alarmingly short when he lifted his gaze from the ground and fixed it on the mansion. Hawke, Varric, Aveline, and Isabela were on the front stoop, looking uncomfortable.

“What’s happened?” Anders asked, pausing at the base of the stairs. Had Fenris asked them to give him some sort of excuse to make him leave? Had–

“Fenris isn’t answering,” Hawke said, crossing her arms and looking haunted. 

Her worry was palpable and instantly lodged in Anders’ chest. He walked up the stairs, joining the small throng of friends. He realized in that moment how ingrained his expectations were of Fenris–not that he held a grudge for mages or would argue against the idea of their freedom, but that he was a man of his word, consistent, trustworthy. If he said he would be somewhere, if something depended on him, he always followed through. 

“Have you tried the door?” he asked, moving closer to it and pressing his ear against the wood.

“Yes,” Hawke said. “It’s locked.” 

Isabela looked up. “It doesn’t have to stay that way, you know.”

Hawke and Anders looked at each other. Blue light flickered, painting Hawke’s pale face. 

“He is within,” Justice insisted. “I hear the song.”

Hawke didn’t need to hear more. “Lock. Open,” she said, gesturing to Isabela.

“You got it,” the pirate said, and went to work. 

The door swung in a moment later, and it was instantly apparent something had taken place. Fresh blood smeared the floor, tracks of it leading to the kitchen, where a new body lay in the doorway, face down. Anders immediately recognized the Tevinter style of dress and put together what had happened. 

More slavers. Would Fenris never be free?

It wasn’t a conscious decision made by either Anders or Justice, but suddenly the spirit was forward, Fade energy making the air vibrate around them. Not for the first time, Anders heard the song Justice was so drawn to–it felt like the memory of a sweet lullaby, filling him with longing and impressions of formless memories. It was beautiful, peaceful, strong. 

“He is this way,” Justice said, guiding them through the kitchens and toward the door to the cellar. 

The spirit took the stairs two at a time, driven by not only Anders’ concern but concern of his own–an emotion wholly belonging to the spirit. While the things Justice felt largely mirrored Anders’, Fenris seemed to inspire a particular, singular affinity in the spirit. 

They found him propped against a wall beside a cask, surrounded by bodies. The cellar was carnage–wet with blood, rife with the stink of offal and a noxious copper tang. Fenris’s greatsword was still in his hand, fingers limply curled around the grip. His eyes were closed, ashen face covered in blood from a wicked cut on his forehead.

The rest of the party arrived a few moments behind them. Varric cursed. Hawke rushed to Fenris’s side, planting two fingers on his neck.

Justice did not wait for her to complete her assessment. He tucked an arm around Fenris’s back and the other beneath his knees and lifted the elf from the ground like he weighed nothing. The spirit turned and mounted the stairs again, his energy wavering frantically between fear and determination and a desperate need for Fenris to live. To flourish. To be free. Even as a passenger in his own body, Anders felt the echo of it within himself.

It was a feeling to unpack at another time.

Justice continued up the stairs to the second floor of the mansion, while behind him Hawke barked orders to check the house for other dangers. It left Anders and Justice alone with Fenris when the spirit laid the elf on the threadbare rug beside the cold hearth in Fenris’s bedroom.

A fire flared violent and bright in that hearth, veilfire ripped from the Fade by the panicked spirit. 

“I’ve got him, Justice,” Anders sent.

The spirit let go, leaving behind a lingering swell of confidence and gratitude. He’d been afraid before, but there was no doubt that Justice trusted him implicity. Anders only wished this was something innate to Anders, something that didn’t need to be bolstered. 

“It is unjust that he faced these slavers alone,” Justice said as Anders drew on their energy to assess the damage to Fenris’s body. 

After a moment, as the wound on Fenris’s forehead began to knit shut, Anders nodded. “It is unjust. He deserves better.”

“He is a good man, who cares for his friends.”

Anders brushed the elf’s hair back, tracing a thumb over his bottom lip to seal the bloody split in the soft flesh. 

“You’re right, Justice,” he murmured. “He does deserve better.”

“We will fight with him.” 

“Even though…” Anders began, thinking to point out that Fenris called Justice a demon, despised mages, was repulsed by magic, but then he realized that yes, even though. 

“We will,” he said softly, as the elf’s eyes fluttered open and fixed on him. “He deserves to be free. Just like me."

[henqtic]

WHITE GIRL AUTUMN SPIRIT 

— pairing: theodore nott x black!reader . word count: 634. 

— summary: how theodore notts favorite part of the fall seasons came to be.  

— masterlist . taglist form . request works 

i associate theo so much with hot cups of straight black coffee, no sugar, no cream, just that.

he was one of the many people to ask for hogwarts to put in a small cafe for the poor students with had multiple piles of homework and no energy to complete them and him — well he had just needed a different way to get caffeine that wasn’t from his wooden wand that always left the drink with a certain tang that he could without. 

in the end, dumbledoor dismissed the inquiries as half expected by many people, despite all of the empty classrooms in the castle that could fit a hundred houses.

so, he just gets up early almost every morning to get to the shops in diagon alley — on a trip to get both his drink, whatever blaise and draco insisted he got to be a great friend and a few baked goods that he thought you might enjoy.

you never asked for anything though, not sharing his ability to be up at such a time while also having the desire to do anything except go back to bed let alone brush your teeth and get breakfast — most times you’d be late to the great hall and opt on a piece of toast to eat while running to first class. 

but one morning as he was going on his usual routine, getting the hot cup automatically in his hands from the baristas who had easily figured out the simple schedule. instead, he was offered a different drink — cinnamon, traces of pumpkin, too much sugar and whipped cream filling the very top portion of the concoction with a smile.

“we've been offering this to all of our regulars,” the girl behind the bar explained to his skeptical expression as his hand slightly recoiled, “the manager hears it’s something a lot of muggles enjoy and we’re trying to expand — no cost first try!”

he was still as skeptical as he was before, reluctant even from having hitch in what he usually would — face scrunching up in a part disgust which soon turned into curiosity. 

realizing he was wasting the lady's time as it started to shift between hands from the temperature, sighing and paying for his regular, strawberry filled donuts for blaise, a bagel with cream cheese for draco and a tin of freshly baked macadamia nut cookies for you.

he found himself taking more sips than he thought he would after his mouth touched the rim, time moving faster and the amount becoming less than half in the cup once he reached you who had conveniently decided to be up awake a little earlier — prompt teasing of how he finally gave into the while girl autumn spirit like you knew he would™️ as you separated the curls from a braid out in your hair.

“aw babe, all you need are those new ugg’s in my closet i never got the chance to wear and you’ll be set,” you laughed as you craned your neck to look at him directly instead of straight in the mirror — nearly doubling over as you already saw the browns poking from underneath his black sweatpants.

“oh shut up, i couldn't find my usual shoes so i just took yours,” he half heartedly scowled at you, continuing to lightly throw the small bags of food at his friends who’d already started drifting awake. 

“sure hon, they're yours if you need ‘em.”

“i'll eat the cookies i got for you.”

“don't be like that, ‘m sorry — i'll love you no matter what persona you take up during fall,” you cooed, sarcastically pouting a lip as he rolled his eyes, quickly taking one of the bag and putting it to his mouth. 

“hey no—”

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