#all of this to keep everything under HER control

[perpetuallyfive]

God, I'm so happy with what they did with Maddie Nolen.

I'm sure there will be plenty of people mad because obviously there was a weird backlash over a character who has sex with one half a ship, so I'm sure some people worry this will lead those people to feel justified in their initial response.

But ignoring people who can't emotionally regulate for a second, because those childish impulses aren't worth dictating the fun things a narrative can do: Maddie is SO INTERESTING as a character and she fills in a lot of the questions people seemed to have about the rest of the season.

Consider for a moment that it wasn't Caitlyn who convinced Vi to be an Enforcer. It was Maddie.

I know that some people took this line to be about Zaunites, a sort of obvious connection to the very racist idea of "one of the good ones," but since Maddie is talking about Marcus and his betrayal of the Enforcers just before this, I'm pretty sure her framing here is something else. The point she's making is specifically targeted at Vi's own beliefs and weaknesses, her desire to protect. That seems clear to me now with all we know about Maddie's capacity for manipulation.

She's not saying, "You're good, for a poor."

She's saying, "Wow, I agree with you, the Enforcers are really bad; it's so upsetting. I think you might be the only one who can change it, but only if you join us." This is what convinces Vi to do something she never thought she would.

Well, this and the fact that Caitlyn believes in her so much which, again, is information she gets fed to her directly from Maddie. It even seems like Maddie seeks her out just to say this, which on first viewing felt oddly convenient. Wow, Vi just happens to meet this naive girl who just happens to say exactly what she needs to hear to do something so out of character.

Except obviously none of it was coincidence. Everyone already knew how much Vi meant to Caitlyn and getting Caitlyn under control would require either controlling Vi or removing her from the equation. This was a push in that direction.

Then there's her more obvious role as the spy in Caitlyn's bed, there to reassure her that the Noxians are only trying to keep all of them safe. Then when Caitlyn expresses larger doubts, she's immediately ready to lay out an alternative. You could just give up, Maddie seems to whisper gently in her ear. Just reestablish things as they were before.

But she knows Caitlyn isn't going to go for that. She's not going to go back to the council as it was, because it's only going to remind her of the empty place her mother left behind. Maddie knows that Caitlyn isn't going to take this offer, which is precisely why she suggests it. She frames quitting as the only clear alternative to going along with everything Ambessa wants because she knows that Caitlyn will refuse, which leads her right back into alignment with Ambessa. She makes continued obedience into an active choice that Caitlyn affirms she's making.

Even Maddie's comments that suggest direct opposition to Ambessa — "you're our leader... I follow you" — are designed to frame herself and her true leader in direct opposition, just as Ambessa's own warning about entanglements is there to further that point. They both make a point of reminding Caitlyn that they are her true ally, isolating her further from anyone who isn't the devil and (other) devil on her shoulders.

This way Maddie and Ambessa can both tug at Caitlyn, pulling in what feels to her like opposite directions, all so that she lands precisely where they wanted her all along but with the illusion of active agency.

And look, I'm not saying my read on her is gospel, because I think they intentionally gave us enough room to really speculate and wonder about her, someone who could have been just a background nothing character but ends up being such a huge part of the second season. That's so interesting!

I especially love that she comes across as really naive and innocent, just some poor little thing swept up in the fervor, when in reality she's a true believer who has been manipulating things to go her way from the start.

[rememberwren]

Dichotomy of Thought || 11

Past and further chapters here.

Simon and Johnny make up.

|| Chapter warnings: Anal fingering, anal sex, baby-trapping, medication tampering, medication control.

-

Your boyfriend manages your medications, a one-man pharmacy. 

Every morning the pills are waiting for you on the table in the foyer beside where you deposit your keys in the evening. There are two of them. 

The first is oblong, tan. Your boyfriend hoards and hides the bottle, but you’d fished the information pamphlet that came from the pharmacy out of the trash, and you know everything there is to know about it from that page jam-packed with text. Sertraline, 50mg. Otherwise known as Zoloft. Just swallowing the tasteless pill makes you remember the even darker days than the ones you’re living now, the ones that had led you to that waiting room with your boyfriend in the seat beside you waiting for a doctor to see you. How do I know if I’m depressed, you had asked the doctor, bold as anything even with your boyfriend’s hand on your knee, or if my life just isn’t worth living? 

You’d learned. By God, you’d learned. 

The other pill is your birth control. Round, sometimes blue, sometimes white, depending on where you are in your cycle. Today it is white and—

It looks—different. 

He wouldn’t, you think to yourself, thumb nudging at the pill in your palm, like seeing it from a different angle might jog your memory of it. He wouldn’t do that. A kid is the last thing he wants. He wouldn’t sacrifice his own freedom just to keep you trapped underneath his thumb. 

Except—wouldn’t he? 

“Hurry it up,” he says, yawning, like you kept him up late last night. “I want to go back to bed.” 

You try to take a picture of the pill in your mind before you drop it onto your tongue, taking a swig from your water tumbler, but your brain feels so scrambled that you forget it right away. You can’t even remember the color—had it truly been white, or had it been the pale sky blue of  robin’s egg?

It goes down like a lump of chalk. He makes you show him your empty mouth before he’s satisfied that you aren’t cheeking the pills, and then he kisses you and tells you to have a good day at work, honey. 

-

“Rooster wants you in his office,” Jackie says under her breath, helping you hurriedly clear one of your tables. You’re slow with the splint on your smallest finger, the throb of pain lancing all the way up your wrist each time you use the damaged hand. Jackie has been an angel in khakis picking up your slack. 

You wish that you had one of the pills that they’d given you in the emergency department. It hadn’t taken away all of the pain, but it’d made your head feel light and floaty and like you could care less if all your fingers were broken. Or maybe you wanted one of Johnny’s pills—the ones that put him in a peaceful sleep. You haven’t had such a thing in so long that you can’t remember when, even your moments of relaxation tainted until ‘rest’ is just waiting for the next act of violence. 

“What does he want?” you ask. 

“Probably to tell you about the raise,” she says. She rolls her eyes and twirls a fingers, mouth set in a grim smile of comradery. “Fifty cents. Writing home about it as we speak. Or maybe he wants to grill you about who keeps stealing from the registers—like we all don’t know it’s Ruth.” 

Fifty cents. You can’t even turn up your nose at it. Every penny is one that brings you closer to that apartment across town. With a promise that you’ll return as quickly as you can, you step off the floor (avoiding making eye contact with any customers who would happily sideway you for refills or to complain) and into the back of the house. It’s quiet back here, cooler. Rapping your knuckles against Rooster’s door, you wait. 

There’s no response, and no sign of him in the hallway. Some of the line cooks are coming in, filtering toward the break room to start their shift. You feel their eyes on you as you stand impotently outside the door. One of them says something to the other, and there is laughter, too loud and boisterous for the enclosed space. Your heart has begun to pound, sweat breaking out at the nape of your neck. 

“Hey,” one of them says to you. 

“Hi,” you mutter, forcing a smile, unable to make eye contact. 

Still there is no sign of Rooster from either end of the hallway—never would you have considered the short man your savior. Heart racing, you crack the door open and see that the office is empty. You slip inside, shutting the door safely behind you. 

The room is as self-important as you might imagine: a desk that seems too large for the space, filing cabinets in the corner. There’s a corkboard pockmarked with holes after years of use, and you drift over to it, too anxious to take a seat in the chair on the other side of Rooster’s desk. A calendar is posted there, Rooster’s neat handwriting here and there. 

Something catches your eye: LOCKER CLEANOUT marked for two weeks from now. 

It seemed like the last locker cleanout had just happened. You had only collected five hundred dollars back then, but it was far too much to want to explain to Rooster, and you had nowhere else to stash it that was safe. In the end, it had sat in an envelope under the driver’s seat of your car while Rooster took the week and went through each of the lockers to ensure compliance with the restaurant’s rules (all because someone used to have a penchant for leaving snack cakes in their locker leading to a bad case of ants that almost led to the restaurant being shut down). It had been the longest week of your life, like driving around with a live bomb underneath the front seat. 

Now you have nearly two thousand dollars. Where the hell were you going to put it? 

The door opens. Rooster looks at you suspiciously, eyes flickering between you and the calendar. 

“Next time, wait outside,” he says, stepping in and shutting the door behind him. It makes your skin crawl to be alone with him, even if he’s never done anything slimier than asking you to pull a double shift. You know the darkness that lies inside men. All men. 

“Sorry,” you mutter.

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, taking his seat in a squeaky rolling chair behind the desk. His smile is a dismal, strained thing, like interacting with you is just as painful for him as it is for you. “Next time, just wait.”  

-

Johnny and Simon spend the day in bed. 

Johnny’s knee is propped up on a pillow, red and swollen. Simon lets his fingers hover over it, gentle, feeling the warmth of Johnny’s skin. Johnny winces, like even the brush of air against his knee hurts. 

“It looks infected,” says Simon. 

“It’s not.” It can’t be. Johnny can’t handle that—can’t handle the idea of having to go through the surgery on his knee again, the recovery, the way recovery is just synonymous with pain. No, it isn’t infected. “Just looks like that because he hit it.” 

Simon leans down and brushes his mouth against Johnny’s thigh. It’s meant to be sweet but—well. It’s the closest his mouth has been to Johnny’s cock in more than six months, and just the sight of it has Johnny’s heart skipping a beat and picking up again in double-time, his face growing flush. Not privy to Johnny’s thoughts, all Simon does is press a chaste kiss to the skin a few inches above where Johnny’s swelling starts—nevermind what else might be swelling now, too. 

The two of them lay entwined together, Simon curling up around him. He plants a hand on Johnny’s clothed chest, right over his heart, like he’s trying to remind himself that Johnny’s here. That Johnny’s alive. The look in his eyes is far away, mouth drawn down into a tight frown. All at once, Johnny’s downright sick of it—sick of them not having anything to smile about. Sick of fighting. 

Johnny takes Simon’s hand, laces their fingers, and guides it down. Down over his slim, firm belly, watching from the corner of his eye as Simon’s brows climb up his forehead. Down until their hands cup his half-hard cock. Simon’s hand shifts straight away, fingers curling around the solid length, thumb stroking up the side, the gentle rasp of his calloused fingerpad loud against the cotton of Johnny’s boxers. 

“You’re hurt,” Simon reminds him. 

“Don’t care.” 

“I do.” 

“We don’t have to fuck. I just—” he doesn’t know how to explain, how badly he needs to feel something good. How badly he needs to know that his connection with Simon isn’t ruined. How badly he needs to see that they’re still lovers, that Simon isn’t just his live-in caretaker. How badly Johnny needs to feel like a human being—like a grown man. He finishes, a little lamely: “I just need it.” 

Simon’s grip goes firm. Johnny’s eyes shut, mouth falling open at the sensation. He hasn’t even touched himself like this in weeks, and while he hadn’t necessarily been keeping track, his cock clearly has been. Simon seems content to go on like this, mapping the shape of Johnny’s cock through his boxers, thumbing over the head until a wet sticky spot appears in the cotton fabric, his hand sometimes drifting down to cradle the warm heft of Johnny’s balls. 

Johnny, usually impatient, contents himself with this torture. Let Simon tease him all day, if he’d like, until Johnny is liable to go off at the whisper of a touch. The thought has his cock jerking toward the warmth of Simon’s palm, and Johnny groans when his grip tightens. 

“Fucking pretty, aren’t you?” Simon mutters, his eyes on Johnny’s face.

Johnny snorts. He tosses his arm over his eyes, but beneath his arm, he’s grinning. “Shuddup.” 

Simon clicks his tongue. “Be good, Johnny. Let me look at you.” 

Johnny moves his arm and gives his grin room to breathe. His head feels light and airy as Simon sits up and helps him work his boxers down his thighs just far enough to draw his cock out. The first touch of skin on skin has him hissing a breath in through his teeth. Fuck, it’s good. Just as good as it always was—maybe even better, because he needs it so bad. 

“Want you inside me,” Johnny says on a whim, feeling the truth of it in his chest. He doesn’t just want it—he needs it. 

Simon leans down and kisses him, just a little too hard to be mistaken as anything but desperate. How long has it been for him, Johnny wonders. He spends every waking moment with Johnny except his perfunctory showers. Does he indulge then, between soaping and rinsing off, holding his breath to hide his sounds while he strips his cock with one slick hand? 

It takes some maneuvering to get Johnny on his side, knee nicely cushioned. He can’t reach back and touch Simon, can’t grip his hip and pull him in closer, and it’s just another reason to miss his arm. Because there are a hundred thousand touches Simon deserves that Johnny can’t give him anymore. 

They’re lucky for the shelf life of the lube. It warms Simon’s fingers as he works them past Johnny’s rim. He takes his time, hands shaking where they touch him. 

“Need it bad, huh?” Johnny wonders. 

Simon snorts but doesn’t deny it. Just curls his fingers searching for that tender spot inside Johnny’s ass that makes him grit his teeth. His cock drools onto the bedspread, red and throbbing with his heartbeat. By the time Simon slips inside him, chest to Johnny’s back, Johnny feels liable to go off at a moment’s notice. 

For all the time they haven’t fucked, Simon remembers everything: the way to touch Johnny,wrapping a strong arm around his chest to make up for the one Johnny lacks, fingers playing with the whorls of Johnny’s chest hair or teasing one of his nipples; the way to angle his hips to nail Johnny’s prostate. 

“Quit,” Johnny groans, shifting until the stimulation isn’t so good, so dead-on. His cock aches, balls heavy and tight. “I don’t want to cum yet. Don’t want this to be over.” 

“Can’t miss Johnny; dick’s too big.” 

Johnny guffaws. The sound nearly startles him—when was the last time he fucking laughed? With you in the park—but he doesn’t need to be thinking about you now, not you with your small, soft hands and the curve of your mouth…

“Fuck—touch my cock, please touch my cock—“ Johnny whines, body trembling. He’s right there, right fucking there, too close to go back now, fuck it all, he wants to cum. Simon’s strong fingers curl around his cock and strip it firmly, and the pleasure inside him bubbles up and over, left too long to simmer. He nearly headbutts Simon in the face, his body shaking and jerking and cum splatters against his belly and the bedspread and down over Simon’s fingers. 

“Just like that—so good, Johnny,” Simon murmurs. His pale hand grips at Johnny’s sharp hipbone, cum smearing against Johnny’s skin. “My turn.” 

Afterwards, Simon gently helps him undress and goes to get them both fresh clothes. Johnny’s knee throbs freshly just from his muscles tensing, but he barely feels it. For the first time since his accident, he thinks that maybe things will be okay. He has no arm—but so what? There are many with a lot less. He’s John fucking MacTavish. He can do this.

Simon has gone still at their closet, holding something in his hands. Johnny leans up on his elbows. 

“What is it?” he asks. “Did you find my lighter?”

Simon holds up with no preamble a skull-embossed balaclava. It’s worn, the fabric gone gray at its most threadbare spots, but the image imprinted on the front hasn’t faded.

“Blast from the past,” Johnny says, throat uncomfortably tight with an emotion he can’t name. “Thought you threw those out.” 

“Thought so too.” He doesn’t look eager to throw this one out though, his fingers tracing over the teeth, like he’s tracing the lipless mouth of a lover. 

“You miss it,” Johnny says, the glow of their sex fading rapidly. Of course Simon misses it. The military had been his entire life—until Johnny’s accident. Until Simon had discharged with him, to take care of him. Johnny hadn’t just blown apart his own life by going down in the helo in Kazakhstan, he had blown apart Simon’s life too. 

“No,” Simon says simply. “It’s not that.” 

Johnny frowns. “What is it, then?” 

“The night of the poker party—I was Ghost again. It was the only way I could…compartmentalize. Stomach it. I’d forgotten.” 

“Forgotten?”

Simon glances toward him. “Forgotten how useful Ghost could be.” Reaching up, Simon slips the balaclava over his head, adjusting it on instinct until it rests just right against the bridge of his nose. His hair is getting long, little blond strands visible, curling at the ends. 

“Now I want to fuck you again,” says Johnny, just to fill the air between them, and because sex used to be such an easy way to fill it. 

Simon doesn’t smile. 

“Johnny.”

“I was just teasin’—“

“Not that,” Simon says. Even his manner of speaking seems different, words clipped, tone short and no-nonsense. “What if I wanted to go visit our neighbor?”

The question lingers in the silence between them. Johnny swallows, the sound of his throat an audible click in the tense air. 

“You,” Johnny wonders, when he can speak again, “or Ghost?” 

Beneath the balaclava, Ghost smiles. 

[sweemmy]

⋆｡ﾟIn their love, they bloom like a dark rose, its thorns only striking those who try to escape. ﾟ｡⋆

— Vi, Caitlyn, Sevika, and Jinx.

VI.

Vi would do anything to protect you, but her obsession consumes her, driving her to see threats in every corner, even where none exist. In her mind, danger lurks in the shadows, always watching, and you are the only one who can escape this threat... even if it isn’t real.

Her irritable nature compels her to act impulsively, before her mind has the chance to halt the torrent of emotions. She doesn’t hesitate to confront anyone, even if they are just a stranger who has approached you out of curiosity, convincing herself that anyone who crosses your path is a danger, no matter how harmless they seem.

Vi clings to her justification, arguing that her control is merely an expression of love, that everything she does is for your own good. But beneath those words lies a dark echo, as if she cannot fathom a world where you don’t need her, where her influence is not vital to your survival.

Her gestures of affection, far from being tender, are invasive and violent. Her hugs, excessive and tight, feel as if she could crush you. The words she whispers in your ear, filled with intensity, steal the air between you, with a fervor bordering on obsession, as if she’s marking you, immortalizing you in her world, only for herself.

Though her exterior is one of hardness, beneath that mask beats a deep fear: the fear of losing you. She knows that without you, her world would crumble, empty, incomplete. “If you don’t want me near, just tell me… but don’t expect me to stand idly by while someone tries to take away the only thing that gives my life meaning.”

CAITLYN.

Caitlyn becomes ensnared in her own whirlwind of thoughts, convinced that her obsessive love is the only thing capable of offering you the care you deserve. She sees herself as the only one who can truly understand and protect you, regardless of the boundaries she must cross to keep you by her side.

With a sharp, calculating mind, Caitlyn weaves invisible threads around your life, orchestrating every detail so subtly that you're barely aware of her control. From the people you allow into your circle to the places you step foot in, everything is meticulously designed to keep you under her sway.

Using her charm, Caitlyn spins a web of carefully chosen words, manipulating your perception with a smile that conceals the darkness lurking inside her. She has no qualms about distorting the truth, lying, and creating parallel realities, all to ensure you remain bound to her, oblivious to the trap you've fallen into.

Her control over you goes beyond the physical; Caitlyn becomes an emotional necessity, feeding your dependency with gestures that seem loving but are, in reality, invisible chains. She makes you feel as though you cannot breathe without her presence, turning herself into an irreplaceable part of your life, a constant shadow you cannot escape.

Anyone who dares to get close is seen as an immediate threat, and Caitlyn doesn’t need to resort to open violence. Her deadliest weapon is her influence, capable of destroying slowly, without anyone suspecting a thing. "Why waste time with them, darling? I’ll handle everything. It’s much better if you follow my suggestions; I promise everything will be fine."

SEVIKA.

Sevika sees you as hers—like a treasure no one else deserves to touch. Her obsession is a dangerous blend of control and overbearing protection. Should anyone dare to put you in harm's way, she will become the shadow that eliminates any threat, without remorse and with brutal precision.

Any intruder who gets too close will be stopped by her mere presence. The intensity of her gaze and the unyielding strength of her stance instill terror in even the bravest hearts. She needs no words: her silence is a warning, and her actions, the verdict.

Believing the world is a deadly trap for you, she begins to build a cage of isolation. Every argument she makes is wrapped in false sweetness: "It’s for your own good, trust me," while the chains of her obsession tighten a little more with each passing day.

Flowers and sweet words are not her style, but her actions speak louder than anything. The moment she senses you’re in danger, she will unleash an inhuman fury, showing just how far she’s willing to go to protect you.

Her emotions are a storm hidden beneath a mask of cold serenity. Every action is calculated, every decision made with precision. "I don’t need to shout to show you how much I love you. You see it in what I do, don't you?" she murmurs, her voice calm yet carrying a weight that leaves no doubt about the intensity of her devotion.

JINX.

Jinx would always watch you with eyes filled with obsession, as if you were her precious toy, meant only for her. Her love is no simple feeling: it’s a wild, unpredictable whirlwind, packed with emotional explosions and flashes of madness. She cannot stand anyone else getting your attention, and her “jokes” toward those who dare to come close often end in a macabre, lethal spectacle of destruction.

Within her chaos lies a desperate search for stability, and you are her anchor, but always on her terms. Trying to pull away or challenge her twisted world only triggers a collapse in her mind and a violent need to reaffirm her control over you.

Her love manifests in disturbingly creative forms: bombs adorned with hearts, explosive devices bearing your name, or "trophies" taken from those she deems rivals. Each one is a sickening declaration of how deep and dangerous her affection runs.

Her greatest fear is abandonment, trapped in the loneliness that haunts her. If she senses even the slightest hint that you might leave, she’ll do the unthinkable to make sure you stay by her side. It doesn’t matter if she has to chain you—literally or figuratively; in her mind, the end always justifies the means.

Jinx won’t hesitate to destroy—even herself—to keep you close. Her desperation drives her to dark extremes, hurting others or putting her own body at risk. “Do you see this? I did it for you. Now you can’t deny how much I care. You’re not going anywhere, are you?”

[stuckyslut8]

I'm so very tamed now .part 2

Part 1. Masterlist.

A/N : don't know what took me so long to make a part 2 ( just life I guess)but her you go lovelies, sorry for the delay.

Pairing: mafia stucky x spy reader.(poly)

Summary: Bucky finally gets the information our of you, but you both manage piss steve off even more, so you have to deal with the consequences .

Warnning :poly stucky dom steve, bratty Bucky, sub reader , self proclaimed brat tamer Bucky,edging, spanking, angy steve 😡, a few tears. No beta reader. 18+ under the cut. Minors dni.

Bucky has you all spread out on his bed, hands cuffed to the bed, completely naked , completely at his mercy.

"are you gonna do something barnes or are you just gonna stare at me all day " you ask him mockingly.

"oh you'll see sweets." He says with a wicked grin, as he pulls out your favourite vibrator and before he pushes it into you , turning it up to the highest setting.

"ughh Bucky." You moan not being able to control your pleasure.

"see pretty girl, I don't have much time , steve is already annoyed so you better tell me everything." He asks as he tries not to palm himself at the sight of your but he couldn't resist he takee out his already hard cock and starts jerking off in front of you, adding to your pleasure.

"or -ughh - or what barnes?" You manage to say in between moans.

"or I'm gonna keep making ya cum until you can't." Your eyes widen at that.

"you see last time I edged ya ,it didn't turn out well so now I'm gonna make try something different." You came instantly as he said that.

"see that's my good girlz we'll see how long you can keep going before giving in." He said as hmm.

Five orgasms later , you still wouldn't budge.

"see I'm almost getting bored ,just spit it out already, the vibrator's battery is gonna die"

"that's all you got?" You challenged him

"fine , I'll do this my way." Bucky said as he pulled the vibrator away from you, looking at your wet pussy.

"see my poor pussy can't take it , she's exhausted.." he cooed as he collected some of your cum with his fingers and sucked them.

"don't tell me what I can take barnes."

"if you insist sweets." Bucky suddenly fills you up with his cock and starts pounding into you, lifting your legs and throwing them over his shoulders. You both moan, and grunt.

"now you better tell me sweets , who do you work for?" He asks as he fucks you into oblivion.

"ughh Bucky ... I'm gonna ." You said as you reached your high.

"me too angel, me too, now why don't you tell me ,so we can both come together ." You were about to give in Bucky knew, you just needed a little push.

"you know steve is gonna be very mad at me, if I don't get the information Outta you after all this trouble...so please tell me sweets,I swear I'll stay right by you whatever it is."

"fine fine...i ughh work for stark, stark sent me " you finally spit out the truth.

Just then steve came barging in the door, " steve i found the information, she works for..." Bucky was about to say .

"stark i know" steve finished his sentence" i just met him. " Not impressed by Bucky.

"well I just got the information Outta her, see i told you my tactics never fail." Steve rolled his eyes at Bucky's answers, although he was certainly aroused by the scene in front of him,you begging Bucky to let you cum.

"well of course I'll let you cum sweets, daddy is having a conversation right now wait a minute" the brunette man told you.

"stop being such a whore buck" steve yelled at him.

"you know you damn well love it steve, infact i know you're enjoying our doll begging to cum right now" while you were still whimpering begging Bucky to cum.

Steve was definitely aroused by the sight in front of him but tried to keep his composure.

"shut up Bucky, she's being a brat and you're only defending her." Steve said.

"she is brat and I'm not defending her , I'm punishing her can't you see?" Bucky asks

"damn well you are, look at her not one ounce of regret in her face,you're not making her relaise anything,you're just giving in to her bratiness."

"daddy please lemme cum" you beg him with doe eyes, Bucky is still in you , you try to fuck yourself on him, lifting your hips. "Just a minute sweets" Bucky says.

"no get off of her" steve says angrily.

"what the hell steve" but steve pushes Bucky aside before he could finish his sentence.

"I'm gonna show her what real punishment is and make her realise what she has really done to us, how much she's hurt us, so stop coddling her and move buck" steve says as he takes off his clothes.

"stevie.." i whimper as Bucky's thick cock is removed from your heat.

"shh shut up you brat ,you only call me sir from now, understood?" Steve said giving a hard spank to your dripping pussy making me moan.

"yes sir" steve flips you onto your stomach, you were waiting nervously as to what he was gonna do.

"now I'm gonna spank you properly you brat and you're gonna take it like a good slut and thank me alright " he says

"yes sir." All while Bucky watched the scene unfold in front of him, he knew you were in big trouble now but he enjoyed it at the same time.

"good girl do what daddy steve says " Bucky said .

Steve gave his first spank it was real, unlike the playful ones Bucky gave you, it stung almost leaving an impression.

"thank you sir." I say. *He spanks again.

"thank you sir"

*spank

*th thank you sir."

After 10 spanks , Steve stops leaving your bottom so red and your pussy dripping.

"you did so good doll taking your punishment like a good girl" Bucky said patting your head.

"thanks daddy" you manage to whimper.

"your punishment is not over yet brat." Steve says with a stern look.

"but.."

"no buts get on your knees .."

You do as he says, steve roughly grabs your hips and thrusts his hard cock in you, making you moan. "Ahh daddy.." steve pulled out immediately,and spanked you again." What do I tell you to calle me you brat.."

"sir?"

"yes and you'll only call me sir from now, no stevie, no daddy understood?" He said slapping my ass again.

"yes sir"

Bucky thought he was being a little too harsh on you. "Oh come on steve she just called you daddy she -" Bucky started to reason .

"you shut up punk or youre gonna be punished next." Steve said and went to sinking his cock back into your dripping cunt in one swift motion.

"ohh yess sir please-" you moaned

"please what you little slut?" Steve asked pounding into you ,making the bed shake, Bucky was happily jerking off to it at this point, knowing trying to defend you was pointless and that would only get you into more trouble, plus he knew steve would never hurt you,no matter how mad he was , he was only doing this because he was deeply hurt by your betrayal.

"please sir, fuck me, please don't stop." You pleaded .

"and why would I listen to you?" The blonde said.

"because...because..."

"because what ?" He said slamming his hips into you.

"because I love you and ...Bucky i uh-" tears we're streaming down your face at this point, both from the pleasure and the guilt of the whole situation,you knew you hurt steve and pushed him to this point.

Steve laughed mockingly. "Really you love- you love us? Don't lie you little slut" steve was about to cum but he contained himself not giving you the satisfaction.

"I'm not lying...i really, really love you both. I'm sorry about everything." A million things were going on Steve's mind.

Just then Steve's phone rang, he picked it up from the night stand while still in you.

"hmm alright I'll be there-" he spoke into the phone. He pulled out of you, leaving you whimpering.

"what happened baby?" Bucky asked , knowing something was wrong.

"nothing it's uh- take her to the safehouse right now, I'll go take care of some things."

Bucky knew better than to argue with steve at times like these so he only nodded.

Steve left the room, Bucky gently cleaned you up, while you were still getting out of the haze. "Pack your things baby." He said as he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

"what's going on?" You finally decide to ask

"stevie's orders ,don't ask any questions for a while." He said .

And you complied, going on to pack some of your stuff ,but you had a pretty good idea of what's going on, you took your pistol from the hidden cabinet in your bathroom just in case .

[newkatzkafe2023]

Hi!! It's me again. I want to request again, and I'm sorry if I sent the request at the wrong time.

Anyway, what if Y/n is a gorgeous woman (who is taller than Monkey Kings + Destined one 👀), has a graceful, charming, and loving personality, but turns out she is a Manipulative yandere? So she hides her true sadistic personality with her graceful 'mask'.

The greatest manipulation is to convince others that they are in control, when in fact you are the puppet master pulling the strings-Robert Greene

(Lmk Wukong) Man he would never know that your playing him, like an Lute. You were always so kind and supportive of everything he does and so open to helping him in his goals. Now as for the sadistic part, it would be very suitable as it would come out in concerns or threatens but quickly hide it with tears. You would act scared and worried for your husband and twist him into doing whatever you want, while hugging and kissing him the way he deserves. Also with Wukong's sky high pride and ego he would go out of his way to keep your eyes on him even taking his armor off infront of you. Needless to say Wukong was always yours, and he never had a choice either😈

(HIB Wukong) With this method cater to his cubs and he will soon follow, especially with his trauma and insecurities. It's easy to manipulate both Luier and Silly girl with your kind, loving, protective concern mother mask. Don't get it twisted you love the children and they Quickly became your property but it was Wukong You were truly after, and the way you handled him sweeten him to the idea of marriage. Treat him like the king he is, whisper loving sexy compliments to him, heal his dying ego and give him what he wants. Once he becomes addicted to you, There will be no going back for him.😈

(NR Wukong) Maan you would have lots of fun with this, especially since he eccentric and all over the damn place. Though you still remain very careful and would just leave suitable Hints and suggestions for him, acting all shy and unsure of everything and Wukong would end up exactly where you want him to be. S*x appeal also works hand in hand with your innocence and charm, you would wear some Rather scandalous clothes telling him they make you look pretty and he would be down bad. So yeah Wukong would be under your thumb by the end of it.

(MKR Wukong) Ohhhhhhhhhh the best way to manipulate him is to always play into his emotions, and his frequent emotion Rage. You fuel his thoughts love and obsession also anger, vengeance and hatred for everyone who wronged him. You had educated him and Fruity into listening to only you and told them both that the world was out to get them, and we have to protect each other. You love him so much and want to keep him forever, so fuel his hatred, vengeance and resentment make him forever yours to control and love😈

(Netflix Wukong) Look at him, so desperate for approval and acceptance that he had to brag loudly for attention. Just so he can fill the hollow void that is his self-esteem man, you really didn't have to do much. Just show interest in his stories and accomplishments it's so easy. Although at the same time you make sure to reward and show support for is wacky and unrealistic goals, because when he fails he'll run back to your tall loving arms begging you to take him back and stay and that is never your fault 😈

(BMW Wukong) His pride, arrogance, and ego are both your advantages and his downfall. You would charm and flirt with him acting all impressed with his reputation and powers, while sometimes acting as a Dansel in distress. For Wukong, you act like you can't stand to be away from him, inflating his pride and ego in an alarming rate. Soon, your compliments become the fuel to Wukong's power and now goes out of his way to impress you further keeping your eyes on him at all times. That was until you started looking elsewhere seeing the other strong demon men you acted impressed by and just like that Wukong few into panicked desperation and started pulling out all the stops to win you back, and that's how you knew he was yours forever😈

(Destined one) Now honestly with the destined one I feel would be the hardest to get too, he's got way more brain activity then BMW would. He is a man of focus, discipline, determination, and very goal Oriented until you found out about the silent monkeys rather ugly jealousy. You show your kind loving mask and charm him into spending time with you, while you go shopping together until you heard multiple wold whistles and cat calls. You went to try on a rather revealing dress that you liked the colors of and you spotted a dark look on the destined one's face. He looked calm, but you felt his murderous aura from the dressing room, and that became your meal ticket. Soon, the destined one was under your spell toomaking sure nobody tried to take you from him and vise versa.

FEEL FREE TO REBLOG🤞

[starfleetteddybear]

And he was probably the perfect person to get through to her. Last flight is the book details her life and struggles as she works with her brother (also a Dalish elf warden) to defeat the 3rd or 4th blight (can’t remember). Davrin reminds me so much of her brother, and especially so because Assan is a descendant of her brother’s griffon.

She never wanted to blight the griffins but did a blood magic ritual once to save a griffin who had become blighted. The blight griffon became very aggressive and could only be controlled through blood magic. Then the warden commander made her keep doing it! They were LOSING and that blood magic on purposely blighted griffins worked. They fought longer and meaner than a normal griffon. It becomes apparent later that the blight acts like a disease and would transmit to healthy griffins…and the wardens had gone all over during the conflict. So every griffon was infected!

Her brother makes the final sacrifice to end the arch demon (along with his griffon). She’s left as a husk of herself between the calling and the blood magic she uses to bind the blighted griffons so they could defeat the arch demon. She’s so twisted and messed up by the blight that her appearance frightened even the wardens she worked with so she hid under bandages and a cloak so no one could see her.

She didn’t leave for her calling even though she wanted to because she made a promise to her brother…and she was the one who hid Assan’s clutch of healthy non-blighted eggs with the magic barrier. And I think the breaking of that barrier was something she felt and it stirred her to go after Assan and his siblings.

Isseya…they could never make me hate you. I just feel so sorry for you and your terrible fate. You carried all that weight of pain, blight sickness… and lost everything and everyone you ever cared about to defeat the blight. And everyone forgot about her and praised her brother. She fought just as hard and got cast as the villain. I’m so glad there was an option to redeem her or save her…I saw the gloom howler and knew IMMEDIATELY it was her. I’m so glad she wasn’t forgotten but dang was it a punch to the gut to see her this way.

If Davrin is Assan’s father figure she should really be remembered as their mother. Her last sane act was to save the last griffins so their was hope they would not be lost forever. I’m so glad Davrin saved her in the end. She deserved someone to save her.

what if I’m not okay about how if you take Taash with you to the final part of Davrin’s quest (maybe happens with the others idk), they’re talking and they say something about the Gloom Howler and Davrin interrupts them and says, “Isseya.”

He insists. Even though the whole game they’ve been arguing about monster names and Davrin’s been referring to her as a monster, he insists that she’s a person

Something about him giving her back her identity, this woman who is so like him, who is trying to do this horrible thing out of love and guilt

Something about him being an elf and being the one to help her

Reminds me of Inquisitor Lavellan and Ameridan; I’m giving it back to you, this thing that history has taken; I know you, I remember you as you were

He restores her personhood. He insists on it. He remembers her for her love instead of her destruction

“The Wardens have taught me that no one is beyond redemption.”

Davrin, Davrin <3 He’s is kind, he’s so compassionate! The love is stored in the Davrin!!

[killeromanoff]

I KNOW YOUR GHOST | ch. 1

summary: Cassie Jones thought she had it all figured out—a career built on exposing the truth, a reputation for digging where others wouldn’t, and a burning drive to make the world listen. But after a fallout with her station, the looming shadow of Crawford’s FM... She’s left with nothing but unanswered calls and a shrinking list of allies. Enter Declan O’Hara, a man she’s admired from a distance but never spoken to until now. As he steps into her life, his presence ignites more questions than answers.

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), Moral conflict, Slow-burn tension

w.c: 16k

[prologue], [here], [chapter two]

o1. i show, you don't

The morning was biting, the kind of cold that seeped through layers and clung stubbornly to the skin. The air smelled faintly of damp stone and the remnants of an early frost that had yet to burn away under the pale winter sun. Cassie stepped out of the station, her boots scraping against the worn stone steps, each movement deliberate, as though bracing herself for the gauntlet that awaited.

Cassie squinted against the glare of the weak sunlight reflecting off the windows of parked cars. The cold was biting, but the sharp light stung her eyes more than the chill ever could. She pulled her coat tighter around herself, the fabric worn but comforting, even as the weight of the morning pressed down on her shoulders.

Every exhale fogged in the cold air, each one a fleeting reminder of how little control she had over the situation.

The street outside looked deceptively calm at first glance—just another morning in Rutshire. Yet, the moment she stepped outside, everything shifted.

The sound of murmurs started low but quickly grew, swelling into a wave as if the whole town had been holding its breath and now it was released all at once. Cameras snapped into focus, their lenses swinging toward her with mechanical precision. She froze for half a second, her fingers tightening reflexively around the strap of her bag.

It wasn’t fear, exactly, but… Complicated, something complicated lodging itself deep in her gut.

The flash of cameras disoriented her, each click and whirr slicing through the air like a small, deliberate insult. The noise built up, crashing into her like an ocean, drowning out everything else. Her breath caught in her throat, her body instinctively wanting to shrink, to step back, but she couldn’t. She forced herself to keep moving, step by step, as though the very act of walking could outrun their focus, could break free from the suffocating weight of their gaze.

The worst of it wasn’t the flashes of light. It wasn’t the blinding intensity of the cameras, each burst of light cutting through the air like a sharp, unwelcome reminder of her visibility. No, the worst of it was how their eyes turned toward her, narrowing like daggers, gleaming with hunger, tracking her every movement.

She could feel them at her back, their stares pressing into her skin, each one sharper than the last, more invasive. It was as if they were waiting—waiting for her to make a mistake, to falter, to give them the moment they’d been thirsting for.

Cassie could almost feel the weight of their stares like knives against her body. She tried not to imagine what would happen if she turned and met one of their eyes, if she dared to look into the crowd. She feared the pain of the blade they would drive into her, the sensation of being pierced by their judgment, their expectations, their need for her to fall apart in front of them.

She didn’t look. She wouldn’t. Instead, her focus remained ahead, her breath shallow, pulse hammering in her ears. Her feet moved forward, one step at a time, as though the act of walking could carry her away from them, from their questions, from the crushing weight of their gaze.

“Miss Jones! Do you have a statement on Crawford’s allegations?”

The voice rang out sharp, pulling her back from the thickening fog in her mind. Another flash, bright and blinding, and she flinched, her grip on her bag tightening until her knuckles ached. She forced her gaze forward, locking it on a single point—just ahead, a cracked tile on the sidewalk.

The cracked edge of it grounded her, something to hold onto in the mess of the moment, something familiar enough to cling to as she willed herself not to crumble.

“Was locking yourself in the studio worth it?”

Another voice, another flash. It felt like the cameras were multiplying, the sounds of shutters clicking so close that she could barely hear herself think.Focus, she told herself. Focus.

Her father’s voice echoed faintly in her mind. Five things you can see.

She squinted, trying to block out the flashes, trying to center herself.

Five things you can see.

The cracked pavement beneath her feet, the chipped paint on the nearest lamppost, the red scarf fluttering against the side of a woman’s coat, the white tips of her breath fogging in the cold air, the green of Freddie’s car ahead, parked just beyond the throng of reporters.

“Do you think your career is over after this?”

Cassie’s chest tightened further at the question, the implication looming over her like a shadow she couldn’t shake. Her throat constricted, her jaw clenching with the effort to hold it all in. She couldn't stop walking, couldn’t let herself falter even as the questions piled on.

Four things you can touch.

Think. Think.

Her fingers gripped the strap of her bag so tightly that her knuckles burned. The rough fabric of her coat rubbed against her arms with each step, a small reminder of the layers between herself and the world pressing in on her. The cold bite of the winter air sliced through the fabric of her clothing, its sharpness grounding her even as it threatened to freeze her in place. The faint warmth rising from her own breath, visible in the air, was a fragile comfort—an acknowledgment that she was still here, still breathing.

The crowd pressed in tighter. The noise only grew louder, more insistent. The cameras closed the distance, their flashes blinding. Eyes trained on her with hungry precision, demanding something from her, something she didn’t know if she could give.

Three things you can hear.

The flash of cameras was constant, a sharp rhythm that pounded against her skull. The voices, though—those were the worst. The questions, the demands, the judgment—they cut through the air like daggers.

“Miss Jones, is this the end of your time at Crawford’s FM?”

“Do you regret your actions of yesterday?”

“Aren't you the daughter of Matthew Jones?”

The noise, overwhelming, disorienting, built to a wave that crashed into her with each step she took. Every flash felt like it was aimed directly at her, a blinding light that numbed the world and forced her to squint, to retreat further within herself. It wasn’t just the flashes, though. It was the voices, the questions, the insistent demand for something from her.

She could feel it—they wanted her. They wanted her to crumble, to break down, to make a spectacle of herself. But she had nothing left to give. Nothing more to offer.

She felt herself drowning in it, the pressure to answer, to be something for them, something they could consume, a story they could shape and sell. But there was no way out. No safe place. She wasn’t a person to them. She was just a story—a body, walking through their storm of flashing lights and sharp words, an object to dissect, to feed on.

The truth, her truth, was being drowned in the noise.

Two things you can smell.

She tried to focus on something, anything, that would pull her back from the whirlpool of anxiety that threatened to swallow her whole. Focus, Cassie. You can do this.

The cold, biting air around her was sharp and raw, its chill sinking through her coat, its edge cutting deeper than it should. It was a reminder of the world outside the press—of the tangible, of reality.

But even it felt foreign now, distorted by everything else around her. The faint scent of gasoline mingled with the exhaust from the parked cars, the smell of something mechanical, something that didn’t belong to her. But it wasn’t just the smell of the cars—it was the smell of the crowd, too.

Sweat, metal, cold breath—the scent of people packed too closely, their energy seeping into her, their anxiety feeding into her own. There was something else, though, something unfamiliar that made her feel like the air itself was pressing in too tightly around her. Something suffocating, almost as if the weight of their gaze had become a physical force in the air.

One thing you can taste.

Her body reacted, a reflex that she couldn’t control, couldn’t stop. The taste in her mouth was dry, metallic, like blood, like copper. It wasn’t from any injury—no physical wound—but from the panic, from the rush of fear and overwhelm that surged in her chest and settled like a lead weight in her stomach.

It was the taste of her body’s fight-or-flight response. Her mouth was dry, and the bitter, coppery sensation settled on her tongue, warning her, something’s wrong.

But she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t falter now, not with Freddie’s car just ahead. One more step, she thought. Just one more step.

And then—there it was.

The green of Freddie’s car, parked at the curb just ahead, a solid anchor in the chaos. The outline of Freddie leaning against it, arms casually crossed, waiting. His posture was relaxed, but Cassie could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes followed her.

He didn’t move toward her just yet—he knew better than that. But she could feel the steadiness in his gaze, the quiet readiness to step in if she needed him.

Freddie had always been that way. Even in moments like this—when the whole world seemed to close in around her, when every click of a camera or harsh question from the press felt like it was driving her deeper into a corner—he knew how to stay calm. He wasn’t a man who panicked, not for himself and certainly not for her.

And Cassie? She could almost feel the pull of his calmness, the way it anchored her, made the world outside his car feel distant, less suffocating.

Everytime she found themselves in those situations, she wondered if he didn’t give her these first minutes so she could try to stand her ground herself.

Perhaps the time she had screamed at him as a child when he tried to help her walk through a park truly traumatized him.

She kept her eyes on him, letting the sight of him be the only constant in the storm. She could tell he was waiting for her to reach him, not pushing, not rushing, but keeping his distance just enough to give her space to breathe. He knew the look on her face—the exhaustion, the determination not to break. He’d seen it in her before.

She wasn’t sure if it was the heaviness of the day or the sheer relief of seeing him, but the tension in her chest eased just slightly. One more step. One more.

As she neared the car, Freddie moved toward her, stepping into her path to shield her from the press that was pressing in too closely. His hand lightly touched her elbow as if to guide her, but not to hurry her.

It was almost written in his face: See? You could do it, I didn’t want to risk and get punched again.

“You good?” he asked, not so much a question but more a reassurance. He’d seen her more stressed than this, but it didn’t make seeing her like this any easier.

Cassie looked at him for a moment, her breath shallow but steadying, and she nodded, though the tightness in her chest hadn’t entirely gone. She couldn’t quite manage a smile, but she appreciated the simplicity of his gesture.

He wasn’t making her talk. He wasn’t pushing her. He just... Knew.

“I’ll get you out of here,” he said quietly, as they navigated through the last of the reporters. His voice was calm, not dismissive, just steady—almost like a shield that kept the world from closing in.

When they reached the car, Freddie opened the door for her with a quiet gentleness that was far removed from the scene around them. Cassie didn’t hesitate. She slipped inside, letting the car’s quiet hum swallow the noise outside. Freddie followed her, shutting the door behind him with a definitive sound that felt like the end of something—of the chaos, of the pressure.

He turned the key in the ignition, and the familiar rumble of the engine was the first real sound that felt like it belonged to her world again.

Freddie kept his hands on the wheel, his grip firm but relaxed, as the quiet rumble of the car engine filled the space between them. The steady hum felt comforting, a far cry from the chaos they’d just left behind. Cassie stared out the window, watching the blur of streets pass by, the world outside still moving while hers had felt like it had frozen in place.

She was aware of the pressure building up again in her chest, that familiar uncertainty, the questions she hadn’t yet answered echoing in her mind.

The soft click of the blinker was the only interruption to the silence. Freddie glanced at her quickly, his gaze steady, his voice almost too calm.

“What was the one thing I asked you not to do?”

She didn’t look at him, just stared out the window, biting the inside of her cheek as she replayed the conversation he was referring to in her mind.

“To not blow this up?” she said, her voice reluctant.

Freddie nodded slowly, his eyes back on the road. He didn’t sound angry—just... Resigned. Like he had been expecting this.

“And what did you do?”

Cassie shifted in her seat, her fingers drumming lightly on the edge of the door. She didn’t have the energy to lie, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to face the truth, either.

She shifted uncomfortably, leaning her head back against the headrest.

“Are you really gonna make me say it?” She asked back.

Freddie didn’t respond right away. Instead, he gave a little grunt, his focus unwavering as they passed the familiar landmarks of the town.

After a long moment, he finally spoke again, his tone gentle but with that firm edge she knew too well.

“You know,” he started, letting the words sit for a moment before continuing, “this could’ve been a lot easier if you'd just listened. You could've avoided this whole thing.”

Cassie’s eyes narrowed slightly, her frustration bubbling to the surface.

“Easier?” she repeated quietly, “You know I couldn’t just sit there and let them sweep everything I had done under the rug, Uncle. Not after what happened.”

He didn’t respond right away, but his gaze flicked to her, then back to the road.

The hum of the tires on the road became a steady rhythm, grounding Cassie even as her thoughts threatened to spiral.

She glanced out the window again, the passing scenery blurring into a canvas of muted colors. She recognized the landmarks of Rutshire, the same streets she’d walked as a kid, but they felt distant now, like they belonged to someone else’s story.

Freddie sighed, a low sound that seemed to carry his unspoken concerns. His hands on the wheel tightened briefly before relaxing again.

“I get it,” he said, his tone softer now, “I do. But it doesn’t make it any easier. And now you’ve got to deal with the fallout. The press is going to keep circling, and you’re not going to be able to outrun them.”

Cassie’s fingers curled around the strap of her bag, the worn leather grounding her in a way she desperately needed.

“I know," she said, her voice quieter but resolute, "But I won’t just lie down and take it. If they want to turn me into a headline, fine. I just want it to be the truth.”

Freddie glanced at her briefly, his expression unreadable.

“So what happens now?” he asked after a beat, his tone quieter but still steady, “What’s your plan?”

Cassie shifted in her seat, uncomfortable under the weight of the question.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

She hadn’t thought that far ahead, hadn’t allowed herself to. The last 24 hours had been a blur of adrenaline and consequence. She couldn’t see past the next few steps, and even those felt like quicksand.

She hesitated, her throat tightening, “I just… I don’t want Mom to know. Not yet. Please.”

Freddie let out another sigh, heavier this time.

“Cassie—she’s going to find out sooner or later. You can’t keep this from her.”

“I know,” Cassie snapped, her tone sharper than she intended. She closed her eyes briefly, exhaling slowly before continuing, “But I need time to figure it out. I need some space.”

Freddie’s gaze softened slightly as he glanced at her again, his brow furrowed with concern.

“Please, Uncle Freddie,” she asked, “She’ll just… Freak out. I can’t deal with that right now.”

He didn’t respond immediately. The quiet in the car felt almost oppressive, the unspoken tension between them stretching thin.

“Fine,” he said, sighing one more time, “I won’t tell her. But this thing, it’s not going away. You’re going to have to face it sooner or later.”

“I know,” Cassie whispered, her words barely audible, “But not yet.”

The conversation lulled, the hum of the tires filling the space again. Cassie leaned back in her seat, her body heavy with exhaustion. The familiar sight of her father’s house came into view, and for a moment, a wave of nostalgia and grief washed over her.

It had been years since she’d been back—since it had been anything but a memory she tried to keep at arm’s length. But now, it was all she had left for a couple of months.

Freddie pulled into the driveway, the car slowing to a stop. Cassie glanced over at him, his jaw tight, his expression set in that familiar way that reminded her of how he’d always been: protective, steady, the kind of presence she could rely on even when everything else felt like it was crumbling.

“Thanks for bailing me out,” she said, her voice softer now.

Freddie’s lips twitched into a small smile, but his eyes were still focused ahead.

“You’re lucky I was already there and the one who got the call, kid. If it had been your mom, you’d be locked down tighter than Fort Knox for the next week.”

Cassie let out a dry chuckle, though the sound didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I’ll take my chances with you.”

Freddie shut off the engine and leaned back in his seat, glancing at her with a raised eyebrow.

“Well, let’s just hope the next ‘incident’ doesn’t involve a higher bail, alright?” he lifted his brows, a funny smile adorning his face, “For now, let’s get you inside.”

The click of the car doors broke the stillness, and Cassie stepped out, her boots crunching against the gravel. The air was crisp and sharp, carrying the faint smell of damp earth from the recent rain. She tugged her coat closer, her breath visible in the chilly morning light as she took in the surroundings.

The house looked much the same as it had for the past few months since she’d moved in—though a little too neat now, suspiciously so.

The front porch, which had once been stacked with deliveries and odds and ends she hadn’t yet unpacked, was clear. The flowerbeds on either side of the walkway, previously overrun with weeds she hadn’t bothered to tackle, had been trimmed and tidied, the soil freshly turned. Even the small patch of grass in front of the house, which she had ignored in favor of her work, had been cut with a precision she could never have mustered.

Her little witch house, how Baz liked so much of calling it, was a witch house no more.

Her eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping in.

“Wait a second,” she followed Freddie toward the door, “You’ve been here, haven’t you?”

“I might’ve stopped by,” he said nonchalantly, “Didn’t think you’d want to come home to a mess.”

Cassie’s gaze darted to the freshly swept porch and then back to him, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and reluctant gratitude. He wasn’t wrong—coming home to overgrown chaos would’ve made the day feel even worse. It was already getting her nervous: the chaos and her lack of time to take care of it.

Now that she was unemployed, time wouldn’t be lacking! Ha-ha!

“You’re right,” she admitted begrudgingly, crossing her arms, “But still…” She let the words trail off, “How thorough were you? Please tell me you didn’t drag her into this.”

Freddie turned to face her fully this time, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk.

“Her?” he asked, his tone deliberately teasing.

Cassie groaned, her arms tightening across her chest.

“You know who,” she replied, her voice dry, “If I walk in and find that wife of yours, I’m kicking you both out. No offense, but I really don’t like her. What’s the problem with eating—”

She stopped mid-sentence as she unlocked the front door and opened it, her words dying on her lips. Standing in the living room, a teacup balanced effortlessly in one hand, was Lizzie Vereker.

Lizzie’s presence filled the room effortlessly, as it always did.

She had a certain poise that was hard to define—an air of effortless elegance mixed with sharp wit. Her blonde hair was pulled back neatly, not a strand out of place, and her fitted jacket and boots suggested she had walked straight out of a glossy magazine but didn’t care enough to admit it.

“Cassie,” Lizzie raised her teacup in greeting, “Welcome home.”

Cassie blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before her expression softened into a wide smile. The tension in her shoulders eased for the first time in hours.

“Oh, Lizzie!” she exclaimed, her tone immediately warmer, “So good to see you!”

Lizzie stepped forward gracefully, her movements fluid, as if the chaos of the world outside the house couldn’t touch her. She stopped just short of Cassie, her eyes flickering with humor as she surveyed her.

“And you,” Lizzie replied, her voice carrying that natural lilt of amusement Cassie had always liked about her, “Though I imagine this isn’t the time, I must say, I loved everything you said yesterday. It takes some courage, that’s for sure.”

Cassie’s smile faltered for a moment, the weight of the day creeping back into her mind. She opened her mouth to respond, but Freddie cut in from the doorway, where he leaned with arms crossed, clearly enjoying the exchange.

“Oh, don’t encourage her, Lizzie,” Freddie said with a grin, “She’ll think storming a studio and locking herself in was part of some grand plan.”

Cassie turned, raising an eyebrow at him, grinning herself, “And wasn’t it?”

Freddie snorted, shaking his head.

“If by ‘plan,’ you mean dragging me out of bed at some ungodly hour to try to intercept you,” Freddie said, his voice tinged with dry humor, “Failing spectacularly, and then having to bail you out—sure, let’s call it that.”

Lizzie chuckled, her eyes darting between them as if she were watching a particularly entertaining play. She took a slow sip of her tea, her smirk growing.

“Well,” she said, her tone light but unmistakably sharp, “if it was a plan, I’d say it worked. You’ve certainly got people talking.”

Cassie groaned softly, raking a hand through her hair, the tension in her body apparent.

“Yeah, talking about whether I’ve completely lost my mind.”

Lizzie didn’t reply immediately. Instead, she turned gracefully and gestured toward the living room.

“Come on, then,” she said, moving toward the small table set with a teapot and two extra cups, “Let’s get off our feet. You both look like you could use this more than me.”

Freddie followed without hesitation, while Cassie lingered for a moment, watching Lizzie’s movements. She was always so effortless, so deliberate in everything she did, as though every small gesture had its own purpose.

By the time Cassie joined them, Lizzie had already poured tea into the two remaining cups. She handed Freddie his first, then turned to Cassie, pressing the warm porcelain into her hands with a small smile.

“Drink,” she said, raising her own teacup slightly, her smirk softening into something more thoughtful.

Cassie took a cautious sip, the warmth of the tea spreading through her palms and easing the edge of the cold still clinging to her. She watched as Lizzie raised her cup again, her movements almost ceremonial.

“A touch of madness is underrated, Cassie,” Lizzie said, her voice quieter now, but no less confident, “It’s the predictable ones no one remembers.”

Cassie paused, letting the words settle in her mind. There was something about the way Lizzie said them, the precision and ease in her delivery, that made them linger.

It wasn’t just what she said but how she said it—measured and deliberate, like a writer crafting her lines with the kind of care that made them stick.

Of course, Lizzie was a writer. That’s why she could sway people so effortlessly, why her words carried weight even when they came wrapped in a smirk. It wasn’t lost on Cassie how Lizzie’s confidence seemed to fill the room, not overwhelming it but grounding it, drawing others in without demanding their attention.

The thought brought Cassie a small, unexpected comfort, easing the tension in her chest just slightly. Lizzie’s presence had a way of making things feel less chaotic, less overwhelming, as though the storm outside the house couldn’t touch them here.

It was good to see her like this, Cassie realized, enjoying the side of Lizzie that was unburdened by her husband’s presence. If anyone asked her, Cassie would have no problem saying it: Lizzie and Freddie were undoubtedly bound by their shared taste in... Less-than-ideal partners.

For the first time that morning, Cassie allowed herself to let go of her guard. She looked directly at Lizzie, meeting her gaze fully. It wasn’t something she often did—eye contact always felt like a risk, like it would slice her in a half.

But now, the act felt steadying, reassuring in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

She smiled, small but genuine, the warmth from the teacup in her hands spreading to her chest. Lizzie noticed, of course—she always noticed—but said nothing, simply tilting her head slightly in acknowledgment before taking another sip of tea.

“Then they say I’m the one talented with words,” Cassie said, her voice tinged with a trace of irony. She darted her gaze away, focusing on the warm tea in her hands, using the cup as a shield from the thoughts still swirling in her mind.

“And you are,” Lizzie said, the smile never leaving her lips, “You could write a book if you wanted. People would read it.”

Cassie let out a dry chuckle, shaking her head as she leaned back, letting the softness of the moment wrap around her like a warm blanket.

“Doubt it would sell,” she muttered.

In the corner of the room, the rotary phone began to ring, its sharp, persistent tone cutting through the warmth of their conversation. Cassie’s gaze flicked to it briefly before returning to the scattered papers on the table—notes from interviews that felt like relics of a past life.

The ringing persisted, the sound grating and insistent, like an accusation she couldn’t ignore.

“Crawford’s plan is working, though,” Cassie continued, her voice trailing off as the unease in her stomach twisted again, “He’s made sure anyone who could help me—anyone who might’ve given me a shot—they’re already turned away. Every single one of the people I had planned to interview…”

Her words faltered as her hand gestured vaguely toward the table.

Lizzie leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees, her expression softening. The room, warm with the aroma of tea and faint lavender, seemed to hold its breath as she spoke.

“You’re giving Crawford too much credit,” her tone measured, as though she were trying to pull Cassie back from her spiraling thoughts, “He’s powerful, sure. But he’s not omnipotent.”

Cassie’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile—more a bitter acknowledgment.

The phone’s ringing continued, cutting through the air like a blade.

“You think I’m being paranoid?” Cassie asked, her voice carrying a weary edge as her eyes darted between Lizzie and Freddie.

Freddie, who had been quietly nursing his own cup of tea, leaned forward. The leather of his chair creaked softly under the shift of his weight. His elbows rested on his knees, and his hands clasped loosely as he regarded her with a steady, thoughtful gaze.

“No,” Freddie said plainly, his voice steady but not unkind, “I think you’re being too negative.”

The silence that followed seemed to settle heavily over the room, broken only by the soft hiss of the radiator. Cassie’s frown deepened as she thought more and more about what had happened, what she had done.

Freddie pushed himself up from his chair, his movements deliberate, and crossed the room. The floor creaked beneath his weight, a sound that seemed louder in the tense quiet. He stopped at the rotary phone, his gaze falling on the answering machine beside it.

“You want to talk about Crawford’s plan?” he said, resting his hand lightly on the edge of the machine, “Let’s hear it for ourselves.”

Cassie stiffened in her chair, her lips parting as though to protest, “Freddie, don’t—”

“Might as well,” Lizzie interrupted, leaning back in her seat and crossing her arms, “If you’re convinced everyone’s turned their back on you, let’s see if that’s true.”

Cassie shook her head, her hands gripping the bloody teacup.

“I don’t need to hear it. I already know what they’ll say.”

“Do you?” Freddie asked, his calm tone challenging her resolve.

Cassie opened her mouth to protest, but Freddie was quicker. His fingers moved with purpose, pressing the button on the answering machine. The mechanical click echoed through the quiet room, a sound that, despite its ordinariness, seemed to sharpen the tension in the air.

Her fingers held firmly around the edges of her teacup, her knuckles pale against the porcelain as the words from the machine filled the room.

“Cassandra,” the first voice said, clipped and urgent, “This is Alan Withers. I’ve heard about the stunt you pulled, and while I understand you’re passionate, I cannot afford to be seen associated with... Good luck.”

Cassie’s eyes dropped to her lap, the cold porcelain of the teacup doing nothing to help her. The air around her felt thinner, as if it were trying to suffocate the storm swirling inside her.

Alan. Now, a closed door.

His rejection felt personal, even though she knew it wasn’t. It was just the world she had chosen to be a part of.

But now, standing in the wake of that decision, it didn’t feel like a choice at all.

Lizzie shifted slightly, the soft clink of her teacup against the saucer as she adjusted her position. She spoke, but her words felt distant, as if they were just part of the atmosphere and not quite meant for Cassie.

“Well, that’s one way to say nothing,” she muttered under her breath, trying to lighten the moment, but the words fell flat, like a poorly thrown stone.

Cassie didn’t respond, her mind spinning with the implications of Alan’s words. She wanted to argue, to tell herself that this didn’t matter—that she was right, that she wasn’t the problem—but she couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud.

She shifted in her seat, her fingers lightly tracing the edge of the teacup. The warm porcelain against her fingertips should have been comforting, but her thoughts were miles away, swirling in a mix of frustration and helplessness.

The machine beeped again, and Cassie’s stomach churned with the anticipation of what might come next.

“Cassie, it’s David from Insight Weekly. I’m sorry, but after everything that’s happened, we’ve decided to shelve the feature. It’s just... Too hot right now. I wish you the best.”

Her chest tightened further at the sound of his voice. She had relied on David—trusted him as one of the few allies who might have helped her navigate the politics of this world.

But now, even he has backed away. She knew it wasn’t personal, again, she knew that—she knew it was the nature of the beast they were all a part of—but it felt personal. No matter how she tried to convince herself it wasn’t.

Every time one of them backed away, it felt like another piece of herself was chipped away.

“See?” she said softly, almost to herself, “This is exactly what Crawford wanted. He’s cut me off from everything.”

Freddie stood silently, his gaze focused on the machine, but he didn’t speak immediately. Cassie wanted to say something—wanted to ask him to turn it off. But she couldn’t find the words.

Her throat was dry, a knot in her chest, and the room felt smaller than it had just moments before.

“Cassie,” a familiar, softer voice began, “It’s Nathan. I think I might’ve found more documents you’d want to see. I can meet this weekend. Let me know.”

Cassie’s focus snapped back to the speaker, and the suddenness of the words made her pause.

Nathan’s voice brought with it a reminder of everything she had worked for—the construction scandal, the faulty materials, the cover-up that had been buried beneath corporate lies. All in his own workplace.

She remembered the late nights, the piles of documents strewn across her desk, the adrenaline of uncovering something that could actually make a difference. But those days felt distant now, like something just out of reach.

Lizzie watched her closely, a quiet acknowledgment of Cassie’s internal shift. Always reading her mind.

“See, not everyone’s written you off,” she said gently.

Cassie didn’t respond right away, lost in the recollections of what Nathan had told her. She had started this, but now the world seemed too big to handle alone. Every part of her wanted to follow through, to pick up the pieces, but the reality of being on her own—the consequences of defying Crawford—had set in. She had nothing to rely on now.

Then, another voice came through.

“Cassie,” the machine crackled, “It’s Sarah Halverson. You talked to me about the water issues near the factory. I—I’m scared. They’ve been sending people to my house, and I don’t know what to do. Please, if you’re still working on this, call me.”

Cassie stood frozen for a moment.

She remembered Sarah clearly—her face, her quiet fear as they sat together and discussed the dangers surrounding the factory. Cassie had promised Sarah she’d do everything she could to get the truth out.

But now, with everything falling apart, it felt like Sarah’s voice was just one more reminder of how far she had fallen.

For a moment, the room felt unbearably quiet, the hum of the radiator and Lizzie’s tea cup returning to her hands. Everything felt so irrelevant.

Her mind pulled her back to the interview with Sarah, her trembling hands clutching a cheap plastic cup of tea. Cassie had promised her, “I’ll make sure they hear your story.” But now?

Now Sarah was being threatened, and Cassie had no platform left to fight for her. The silence stretched on until Freddie cleared his throat, his voice breaking through her haze.

“This woman believes in you, Cassie,” he said quietly, nodding toward the phone, “She’s terrified, and she still called you. That means something.”

But Freddie’s words didn’t reach her—not fully.

"Depending on me?" she muttered, her voice barely audible.

She crossed her arms tightly, her teacup long forgotten—pacing toward the window. The pale light filtering through the sheer curtains did little to soften the storm raging inside her.

"How am I supposed to help anyone?" The words burst out of her, "I don’t have a platform, Uncle. Crawford made sure of that. No one will hire me—not after what I’ve done. I’ve got nothing."

Her fingers tightened against the window frame, the cold biting at her skin. She tried to steady her breathing, but the thought of Sarah—alone, frightened—twisted in her chest like a knife.

"I promised her I’d help," she whispered, almost to herself, "But what can I even do anymore? There’s no one left to listen."

The next message began, not giving time for Freddie or Lizzie to try arguing. Instead, both of them exchanged a look.

Cassie steeled herself. She wasn’t sure if she could handle more disappointment.

“Cassie,” came the familiar voice of her mother, chirpy and unaware. Despite everything, Cassie tried to embrace herself, but more disappointment would come for sure, “Sweetie, I miss you! How are you there? How’s your job? You do know if anything goes south, you can always come back here and I’ll help you find a good husband. Just please, give me some updates about how you’re doing there!”

Cassie groaned, dragging a hand through her hair. Her mother’s words stabbed at her, each one a reminder of how far removed her family was from her world. To her mother, Cassie’s career was just a phase—a way to delay the inevitable: settling down, giving up.

The gulf between their worlds had never seemed so wide.

She was exhausted—exhausted in a way that went beyond sleepless nights and long days. It was a bone-deep weariness, the kind that came from constantly trying to explain herself to people who never seemed to understand. How could they?

She had left Chicago for a reason, though even now, it felt like no one really got why. It wasn’t just about escaping the predictable future her mother envisioned for her—a housewife with a perfect smile and a carefully curated life. It was more than that.

Cassie wanted to matter.

She wanted to take the tools she had—the sharp instincts, the knack for seeing what others missed—and do something with them. The world was covered in layers of polished lies, a pristine rug under which powerful men swept their sins. She wanted to rip that rug away, to expose what lay beneath: the stolen innocence, the squandered money, the lives destroyed by greed and neglect.

And yet, no one else seemed to understand.

To her mother, ambition was just a stepping stone to disappointment. To her peers, it was easier to keep their heads down, to avoid making waves…

The loneliness of it all dragged her down, but the spark inside her refused to die. If no one else saw it, if no one else believed in it, then she would. She had to. Because if she didn’t, who would?

“Can we be done already?”

The words slipped from her lips, soft and fractured, as if she’d spoken them into a void. Cassie wasn’t talking to Lizzie or Freddie; she was talking to the storm in her head, to the endless loop of thoughts that kept dragging her under.

Freddie didn’t respond right away. Instead, he moved with deliberate calm, stepping over to the phone and turning it off, silencing missed calls. The absence of sound was deafening, the stillness thick and unyielding.

Then, he finally dared to ask, “You’re still against the idea of joining, aren’t you?”

Cassie stopped mid-step, her pulse quickening as her shoulders stiffened. She didn’t need him to say it. The meaning hung heavy in the air between them, unspoken but unmistakable. Her gaze dropped to the floor, as though meeting his eyes might shatter whatever fragile resolve she had left.

“I can’t,” she said, her voice trembling under the weight of her own admission. She straightened her posture, trying to steady herself, but the words felt like glass in her throat, “I wasn’t made for that. I can’t have my face on a screen, Freddie. It’s not who I am.”

The silence that followed felt sharper than any argument, heavier than any rebuke. She wished, desperately, that she was wrong. That she could be the person Freddie seemed to think she could be.

How much easier would everything be if she had been born with a stronger spine. If her voice didn’t falter when too many eyes turned her way…

The thought of stepping in front of a camera made her stomach churn, her pulse thrum erratically in her ears.

The idea of Venturer had been lingering for weeks now—a chance to join her uncle’s project, to have a platform big enough to amplify voices like Sarah’s and Nathan’s. It was everything she had ever wanted, yet it felt wrong, suffocating in ways she couldn’t put into words.

The thought of facing an audience, of staring into cold, unblinking cameras instead of speaking from the safety of her anonymity, made her chest tighten painfully. She shook her head as nausea crept up, sharp and relentless.

“How would I even do it?” she whispered, almost to herself.

Cassie looked away, fixing her gaze on the far wall as if it might anchor her.

I can barely look someone in the eyes without my nerves turning on me. How could I put myself on a screen for all of them to see? For all of them to judge?

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She had stories to tell—a cause worth fighting for. But could she sacrifice herself, her sense of safety, to make it happen?

The unease settled in deeper as her thoughts spiraled further, pulling her into darker considerations. Freddie had spent weeks trying to bring her into Venturer, his work on the project tethered to his closest friends.

But in Rutshire, nothing came without opposition, and Venturer had its rival: Tony Baddingham’s empire…

Goddamnit, she had almost forgotten about that bastard.

“Do you think that maniac, Tony Baddingham, knows anything about this yet? My... Stunt?” Cassie’s voice was barely above a whisper, yet the concern was clear in her tone.

Lizzie raised an eyebrow, her calm demeanor not faltering.

“Probably doesn’t even know you exist,” she tried to brush the tension aside.

But Freddie’s reaction was different. His brow furrowed, the corners of his mouth tightening as his thoughts drifted to darker possibilities.

“I’ve kept my word," he said after a pause, his voice steadier than his expression, “I haven’t mentioned you to anyone in the circles you wanted to avoid. That includes Tony.”

Cassie exhaled, relief washing over her in brief, fleeting waves. But the fear lingered, shadowy and persistent.

What if they were wrong?

Her connection to Freddie had always been something she kept at arm’s length, knowing full well the consequences if someone like Baddingham found out. Her uncle had warned her countless times about the man’s ruthlessness, his uncanny ability to weaponize even the smallest vulnerabilities.

Tony Baddingham would do anything to destroy Venturer, without hesitation, and if he found out she was part of it—Freddie’s niece—she knew he wouldn’t hesitate to use her against them.

Freddie stepped closer, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. His touch was grounding, a small gesture meant to steady her as her thoughts threatened to spiral out of control again.

“Hey,” he said softly, “It won’t happen. You’re too careful. There’s no way for him to make the connection—not unless you want him to.”

His confidence was reassuring, but Cassie couldn’t ignore the tightness in his jaw, the unspoken acknowledgment that even Freddie couldn’t control every variable.

“We’re resilient,” he added, his hand giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze, “If it comes to it, we’ll figure it out. But this?” He gestured faintly toward her, toward the doubt clouding her features, “You can’t let it paralyze you.”

Cassie nodded slowly, though the storm inside her was far from over. Still, Freddie’s presence gave her something to hold onto—a flicker of possibility in the chaos. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to take the next step forward.

“I don’t know, Uncle,” she darted her aways between him and Lizzie, “I don’t know how to help these people anymore, I don’t have a platform to do that. No radio station will hire me, and I won’t go back to Chicago.”

Freddie’s gaze held steady, his voice unwavering.

“You don’t need a platform handed to you, Cassie. You’ve always found your own way. You didn’t start because someone gave you a microphone—you started because you couldn’t stay quiet.”

Cassie’s shoulders tensed at his words, how they pondered in her mind. She leaned forward, running a hand through her hair, frustrated by the constant loop of helpless thoughts swirling in her mind.

“But that was different,” she replied, her voice strained. She rubbed her temples, trying to stave off the headache that seemed to pulse with each word, “This isn’t some blog or local tip-off. Sarah needs real help. Nathan’s risking his neck with those documents… And there is for sure more people where they came from. They need more than someone shouting into the void.”

The room seemed to close in around her as the words left her mouth, the air heavy with the unsaid. She wasn’t just talking about Sarah and Nathan anymore. She was talking about herself, the fight she had started that now felt like it was slipping out of her control.

The frustration simmered beneath her skin, making her restless.

Lizzie, who had been sitting across the table, leaned back in her chair with a slight, knowing smile. Her tone was light, almost teasing, but there was a sharpness to it that Cassie couldn’t ignore.

"You make it sound like shouting into the void is nothing," Lizzie said, carrying an edge that cut through the fog in Cassie’s mind, "Maybe you forgot, but you’ve been shouting into the void for years—and people listened. That’s why you’re here."

Cassie shot Lizzie a look, but didn’t respond.

She knew Lizzie was right. Deep down, she knew it. But that didn’t make the doubt fade.

It didn’t make the uncertainty about whether she had anything left to give vanish.

She’d always believed that stories could change the world—that her voice could make the difference. But lately? Lately, it felt like all she was doing was chasing her own tail, stuck in a cycle of frustration and failure. There was too much at stake now. The fight wasn’t just hers anymore.

Her eyes wandered across the room, lingering on the mess of papers scattered on the table. Her unfinished work. Her unspoken promises. And through it all, that suffocating feeling—the one that told her she was running out of time to make any of it count.

Cassie swallowed hard, trying to push the tightness in her throat down, but it wouldn’t go.

“I don’t know if I can do it anymore,” she muttered, more to herself than to either of them.

Freddie sighed, but kept himself quiet. He could hear it in her voice—the uncertainty, the defeat she was too proud to admit. His jaw clenched briefly before he exhaled, shifting in his seat.

“Cassie, you’ve been through worse, and you’ve always come out the other side. This is no different.”

Freddie’s voice was steady, but there was something in the way he said it—something that held the weight of their shared history. She met his eyes despite the internal pain it caused, yet her gaze quickly faltered, unable to hold the connection.

His belief in her was palpable, but it only made the doubt gnaw at her harder.

“I’ve never been silenced like this before,” she whispered, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

She turned away slightly, her back to him, her fingers gripping the edge of the table. The room was suddenly too small, the air too thick with the pressure of his expectations.

Cassie knew what he was thinking.

He was thinking that if she accepted his offer, everything could change. She’d have a platform, a voice loud enough to make a difference. It was the opportunity she’d always dreamed of, a step up in her career. She had always prided herself on being someone who didn’t wait for opportunities to come to her—she made them.

But this? This felt different.

Her mind raced, but it wouldn’t let her consider it fully. She could see it, clear as day—the image of her face, her name, broadcasted across every screen in Rutshire, in every household. Everyone would know her. Everyone would see who she really was, the woman behind the words, the person who had always kept her distance from the limelight.

It wasn’t about the career boost. She knew this was the kind of exposure that would propel her forward, that could change everything for her. But it came with a price. The idea of being that exposed, of having every part of her life scrutinized by people who would never understand, made her stomach twist.

Would they care about the stories she told? Or would they focus on what she wore, how she stood, whether her words matched her image? She wasn’t sure she could bear the thought of being picked apart in that way, of everyone trying to dissect her every move.

She’d always been better off behind the scenes, in the shadows where she could move unnoticed, a voice without a face.

Cassie turned back to Freddie, her hands clenched at her sides.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” she said, her voice small, “To be seen. To be exposed.”

Freddie didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t need to. He understood what she meant, even if he didn’t fully understand how deep was her turmoil.

He had his own demons, his own vulnerabilities. But Cassie wasn’t him. She wasn’t built for the spotlight in the way he might’ve been.

“I get it,” Freddie said quietly after a moment, “You don’t have to make the decision right now. But you’ve never backed down before. You’ve always had the courage to stand up and face it. This... This could be another one of those times. Just think about it, Cass.”

The words felt both comforting and suffocating. The encouragement was there, but so was the unspoken pressure, the weight of an opportunity that might slip through her fingers if she didn’t take it now. It wasn’t just about the decision anymore—it was about whether or not she had the courage to step into the unknown and face everything that would come with it.

She didn’t want to disappoint him, or herself. But this wasn’t just another story to chase. This was her life, her identity, everything she’d built and protected slipping away in an instant. And the scariest part? She didn’t know if she was ready to give that up. Not yet.

Lizzie and Freddie had been gone for about an hour, but it felt like the day had stretched into an eternity. The silence in the house was deafening, a stark contrast to the constant buzz of the phone calls and conversations that had been filling her life just days ago. Cassie leaned back in her chair, the worn wood creaking under her, as her eyes fixed on the rotary phone in the corner of the room.

The phone, once a lifeline, now seemed like an enemy. Its presence mocked her, a reminder of the calls she had ignored—the people reaching out for help, for answers. Every missed call, every voicemail, was a reminder of her failure to provide what they needed.

The truth. Justice. Their voices. Now, she was unable to even summon the will to pick up the receiver.

Her mind ran in circles.

They’re all waiting for me, and I can’t even give them the time of day, she thought bitterly.

How could she help them when she couldn’t help herself? How could she expose the corruption, the lies when she didn’t have a platform to stand on? Without the station, without any means to broadcast what she knew, the truth seemed so much more distant.

What good were all the documents, all the testimonials, if no one would listen to them? No one would care?

The fear twisted inside her, sharp and suffocating.

What am I going to do? she wondered, staring at the receiver.

She thought back to the last time she’d seen Baz, how worried he had looked when she left the bar with only one goal in mind. She hadn’t known then just how wrong things would go—how horribly everything would spiral.

All she had wanted was to make things right, to take down the people who’d been abusing their power for years. But now, what did she have left?

Nothing but the wreckage of a failed mission, the remnants of a career she’d spent years building, now in ruins.

How did it all go so wrong?

Her fingers hovered over the fabric of her sweater, fear gripping her. Every number in her contacts list felt like a mountain too high to climb. What would they think of me now?

Her father’s name, Jones—what a curse it felt like now. He had built his own reputation, a notorious one, but would it help her now if she attempted to use it in her favor now? Could it?

It was a thought that had crossed her mind more than once. If she could just use his legacy—his connections—maybe there would be a way to turn things around. Once, the mere thought of it would have hurt her dignity, but now? She was desperate enough to consider it.

If anyone would take a chance on me now, they wouldn’t be doing it for me. They’d be doing it for my father’s name, she realized.

But was her father’s name enough to erase the stain she’d just inherited from her failed career at Crawford’s?

Her mind countered: What if it works? Then, what?

Cassie pulled a piece of paper from the pile beside her and began scribbling down names—contacts from her past stories, the ones she had been able to trust, all who had once worked with Charles Crawford. Some of them were still working at other stations. Others had long since been fired, discarded by Crawford and the network for not fitting the mold, no other stations willing to hire them.

Fired employees, they knew the dirt. Perhaps, more than her even. They could help her to tear down the last brick of Crawford’s empire.

If he wanted to tear her name apart, then, she would return the favor.

She stared at the list in front of her, wondering if any of them would be willing to talk to her now, knowing that she was, for all intents and purposes, unemployed. And so fucked up as most of them were.

It would be a long shot, and she knew it. How far using her father’s name would let her go?

But even as the thought flickered in her mind, the reality of it hit her like a wave: I don’t have anything left to work with. If no one will hire me, all of this is meaningless.

All of it.

She stared at the list again, the names swimming in her vision, and then her eyes shifted to the window. Outside, the world was moving, indifferent to her turmoil. The thought of picking up the phone and calling any of these people felt like a weight she couldn’t bear.

Would any of them be willing to talk to her? A girl with a reputation her father had left behind—a reputation I don’t even want to be a part of anymore. But, suddenly is ready to take upon what he had started?

Would they even take her seriously?

She ran her fingers through her hair, trying to shake the doubt from her mind. If only she could find someone who would listen to her for who she was and not who her father was… But that wasn’t how the world worked, if she wanted someone to still see some spark in her, she would have to play dirty and use her father’s name.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden knock on the door. Her heart jumped into her throat, her hands tightening around her sweater as her mind scrambled to make sense of it.

Who could that be?

She stood, her legs shaky, and made her way to the door, still holding into the edges of the damn sweater as if her life depended on it. If it was another reporter again, she didn’t know if she would be strong enough to shove them off.

For a moment, she just… Stood there, really. Her fingers moving only to hover over the knob, waiting for something—anything—to give her the clarity she needed.

"Who is it?" she called out, her voice sounding small and weak in the vast emptiness of the house.

There was a brief pause, and then the response came.

"Ahm, Declan O'Hara."

Declan O’Hara? The Declan Fucking O’Hara?

She had never spoken to him—not directly, not since she moved to Rutshire. But his name… She knew it well. It had come up in nearly every conversation with Baz, with her uncle, even Lizzie.

The man who had made a career of being sharp, ruthless, and always in control of the room.

She wasn’t sure why he would be here, at her door, now of all times.

What does he want with me? She thought, a flash of unease running through her.

Cassie’s mind raced through the stories she had heard about him—the interviews that made headlines, the scandals that had followed him like shadows, the way people either loved or hated him, but never ignored him. She had followed his career almost from the beginning, admiring the boldness in his approach, the way he could dissect a situation with just a few well-chosen words.

It was exactly what she had once wanted for herself, when she first dreamed of being a journalist. Back in Chicago.

Yet here he was, standing at her door, a reality she never could have predicted.

Why now?

Cassie stared at the door as though willing it to explain itself. Declan O’Hara—her thoughts were still tripping over the impossibility of his presence here. It didn’t make sense. Why would someone like him, a man whose name carried both weight and controversy, show up unannounced at her door?

Taking a steadying breath, she pulled the door open.

And there was he.

Declan O’Hara stood on her doorstep, casual yet undeniably present, the kind of man who didn’t knock on doors unless he already knew they’d be opened.

His features were sharper in person than in the photographs or on television—his jawline more defined, the stubble catching the dim light. His dark eyes, shadowed but piercing, seemed to size her up in an instant, taking in every detail without giving much away. The lines at the corners of his mouth hinted at a man who’d seen enough to be cynical but wore charm like a second skin instead, a disarming weapon as much as a choice.

And then, of course, there was the mustache, impeccably trimmed, adding an air of polish to someone who seemed never rushed, never flustered, and entirely too aware of the presence he carried with himself.

Cassie’s breath caught in her chest, and she wondered, not for the first time that morning, if she was still asleep and dreaming up the absurdity of it all.

“Miss Jones,” his voice even, the faint trace of a Dublin lilt giving his words an edge. He regarded her with quiet interest, his eyes scanning her face like a puzzle.

“Mr. O’Hara,” she managed, her tone steady despite the racing in her chest.

He tilted his head slightly, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Cassie frowned, unsure how to answer. Was he joking? Interrupting what—her ongoing existential crisis?

God, he could have interrupted it anytime he preferred, really. She wouldn’t complain.

“You’ve certainly caught me off guard,” she admitted instead, her fingers tightening on the knob.

“Good,” he said simply, as though that had been his goal all along.

Cassie blinked at him, her world spinning a bit too fast. She wasn’t sure whether to be irritated or intrigued by his audacity. The air felt heavier, charged with an energy that hadn’t been there moments before.

Declan O’Hara wasn’t just a man standing at her door; he was a presence. A gravitational force pulling her in despite every instinct screaming to guard herself.

That was how his guests felt? That's why they continued in their seats even when he crossed the line?

“I heard your broadcast,” he said, the trace of an Irish lilt softening his words, “It made an impression.”

“An impression,” Cassie repeated, frowning, “I assume you’re here to tell me it was a bad one.”

Declan’s mustache twitched, and for a fleeting moment, she wondered if he was suppressing a smile or a retort.

“Not quite,” he said, his voice hinting at something more than polite interest.

His dark eyes settled back on hers, unflinching and steady. There was something in his gaze, as though he were testing her, waiting to see how she’d react to his scrutiny.

It hurt her to look away, but the force of it was too much. She glanced toward the floor, the slight chill of the open doorway creeping up her spine.

Declan didn’t move, obviously

Seeing him on television was one thing—his charisma contained within the screen, his sharp words cutting through interviews like a scalpel. But here, standing in front of her, he was... Different. He wasn’t just a personality, a face attached to the stories she’d watched from a distance.

He was real. And his presence wasn’t something she’d prepared herself for.

There was a magnetic quality to him, the kind of charm that wasn’t loud or forced but instead lingered in the way he carried himself, in the deliberate cadence of his words. It unsettled her, this awareness of him.

She tried to lock the thought away before it could take root. The last thing she needed was to feel self-conscious about Declan O’Hara.

“Then what exactly are you here to tell me?” she asked, forcing her voice into a steadiness she didn’t entirely feel.

Declan’s lips curved ever so slightly, his expression one of quiet amusement.

“I’d say it’s less about telling and more about asking,” he said, his tone dropping, the lilt wrapping around each syllable with an ease that felt entirely unfair.

“Asking what?” she pressed, her brows drawing together in suspicion.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his gaze shifted past her, sweeping over the interior of her home with the same sharpness he had directed at her moments ago. The soft yellow glow from the hallway lamps cast long shadows against the worn wallpaper and the scattered mess of papers on the table just visible in the background.

“May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the space behind her. The neutrality of his tone made the question feel less like a request and more like a formality.

Cassie hesitated. For a moment, she considered shutting the door in his face, but the calm, unhurried way he stood there made her pause. Declan O’Hara didn’t knock on doors without a reason, and whatever he wanted to say, she had a feeling it wasn’t something she could afford to ignore.

She stepped back reluctantly, gesturing for him to enter.

“You’ve come this far,” she said, her voice filled with dry humor, “I suppose it would be rude to leave you standing in the cold.”

Declan’s eyes flicked back to hers, lingering for a fraction longer than necessary. She could feel his gaze over her, the way it seemed to cut through her walls without effort, slashing her insides.

There was nothing overt in the way he looked at her—no smirk, no lingering stare—but the intensity of his gaze was unsettling all the same. It wasn’t something she could pin down, and that only made it harder to shake.

That was the Declan O’Hara effect, she guessed.

“Generous of you,” he murmured, stepping inside with an ease that suggested he was no stranger to navigating unfamiliar spaces. His coat shifted as he moved, the dark fabric catching the light as he turned to take in the room.

Cassie shut the door behind him, the sound of it closing grounding her slightly. She leaned against the frame for a moment, her eyes instinctively following his movements as he took in the room.

He didn’t linger on any one thing, yet it felt as though nothing escaped his notice—the scattered papers on the table, the crumpled throw on the couch, the worn edges of the armchair by the window…

Everything felt suddenly too intimate, too exposed under his quiet scrutiny, as though her home had unwittingly laid bare the corners of her mind.

And then, he moved. Just a slight shift as he turned, the muted light catching on the sharp line of his jaw, casting shadows along his cheekbones. His coat hung open, revealing the crisp lines of his shirt beneath, the gleam of a watch peeking out from under his sleeve. The shadows softened the severity of his features, but the intensity remained, resting in the sharp focus of his dark eyes.

For a brief moment, Cassie wondered what it would be like to see him somewhere else, as a stranger in some bar—a thought she quickly pushed aside. Declan O’Hara wasn’t someone you invited to drink, in this case, her specifically.

There was no world where she would be in a bar, sat by his side, drinking and laughing about drunk jokes.

“Not what I expected,” he said, his voice breaking the silence. He didn’t elaborate, but there was no judgment in his tone, only curiosity.

Cassie raised an eyebrow, masking her unease with a wry smile.

“What were you expecting? A newsroom?”

He glanced at her, and for the briefest moment, his mustache twitched with what might have been amusement, “Something a little more... Guarded.”

“Well, that was my father’s place,” she shrugged, “I didn’t change anything since I moved in, it still has his face and personality.”

Declan’s head inclined ever so slightly, his gaze not trembling as it traced the room’s quiet details. The soft lamplight cast long shadows over the cluttered surfaces, the books stacked unevenly on the table, the photograph frames turned just slightly askew.

If he found anything notable, he didn’t show it; his face remained unreadable, save for the slightest narrowing of his eyes, as though he were cataloging each element of her space.

“It feels lived in,” he said, his voice measured, a step back from casual but not quite formal.

Cassie stilled, her weight shifting onto one foot as though to anchor herself. The idea of this place—the remnants of someone else’s life—feeling lived in was strange, almost laughable. Especially by her. It wasn’t hers, for starters.

“Borrowed,” she corrected, “It’s borrowed.”

Declan’s mouth curved weakly—not quite a smile, more of a quiet acknowledgment. He said nothing at first, letting the moment breathe. The hum of the overhead light filled the silence, a sound she hadn’t noticed until now.

“What brings you here, Mr. O’Hara?” she asked, crossing her arms.

Her words came sharper now, an effort to push through the strange atmosphere he seemed to carry with him. The air felt electrical in his presence, as though the room itself had to adjust to accommodate him.

“I told you,” he replied, meeting her eyes with a calm intensity, “Your broadcast made an impression.”

The way he said it gave her pause.

Cassie felt his gaze settle on her as though waiting to see how she’d react. She took a slow breath, her fingers curling into the fabric of her sweater.

“And that’s enough to knock on someone’s door unannounced?”

“Sometimes,” he said, with a small shrug that somehow managed not to look dismissive, “Though I’ll admit, it wasn’t just the broadcast.”

Her posture stiffened, “Then what was it?”

Declan stepped closer—not enough to invade her space, but just enough that his presence felt more immediate. The creak of the floorboards under his weight seemed louder than it should have been. His gaze flicked briefly to the papers scattered across the table, her scrawled notes forming a haphazard pile that betrayed the frantic way she’d been grasping for control.

Cassie felt his focus shift back to her. It was deliberate, calculated, and entirely unsettling. She resisted the urge to shrink back. Instead, she stayed rooted where she stood, gripping her sweater tighter.

His hesitation was subtle—so brief she might have missed it if she weren’t watching him so closely.

Declan O’Hara wasn’t someone who hesitated often, she imagined. That thought, more than anything, unsettled her even more.

“You’ve put yourself in a position where people are either going to admire you or come for you,” he said, his voice measured but low enough to make her lean in slightly to hear him.

“Admire me?” she asked dryly, the corner of her mouth quirking upward in a humorless smile, “You think that’s likely?”

Declan’s expression didn’t shift much, but the glint in his eyes pierced as he regarded her. Standing there in the muted glow of her living room, he looked entirely at ease—his posture loose, hands slipping casually into his pockets. Yet, there was a coiled energy to him, like a predator content to observe but ready to strike when necessary.

“Admire you?” His lips curved slightly, not quite a smile but close, “They’d be foolish not to. Anyone paying attention would see you’ve got something most people don’t.”

Cassie blinked at that, thrown for a moment by the unexpected turn. The words weren’t overly complimentary. Still, there was something in how he said them—deliberate and matter-of-fact—that left her feeling exposed.

“Crawford isn’t most people,” she countered, her tone cautious, “And I’m not sure anyone else is paying attention.”

Declan tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes scanning her face as if weighing her words against something he already knew, “Crawford’s watching you. I’d bet more people are too.”

The amusement in his voice hinted at more than what he was saying, but he didn’t elaborate.

Cassie felt a flicker of something sharp and unsettling under his gaze—like he was dissecting her, piecing her together in real time. She crossed her arms over her chest, more for herself than for him, and forced out a brittle laugh to deflect.

“That’s a poetic way of telling me I’ve already lost.”

Declan’s gaze drifted briefly around the room again, his expression unreadable. The warmth of the space contrasted with the calculated intensity he carried with him, making her feel simultaneously guarded and cornered.

When his eyes found her figure again, his voice softened, though it didn’t lose its power.

“You haven’t lost,” he said simply, “but making Crawford an enemy wasn’t smart.”

“Don’t you say it,” Cassie chuckled, “I think that’s pretty obvious.”

“And yet,” he said, his tone as even as ever, “you don’t seem the type to let obvious risks stop you.”

Cassie exhaled sharply, darting her gaze toward the notes scattered across the table—a deliberate escape from the way his presence seemed to charge the air between them.

“Obvious risks don’t bother me,” she replied, “Obvious consequences do.”

His head tilted slightly, the movement small but deliberate, “Is that why you haven’t made the calls yet?”

Her head snapped up, a flicker of irritation flashing in her eyes.

“You’ve been here for all of five minutes, and you think you’ve got me figured out?”

Declan didn’t rise to the bait, his expression remaining frustratingly composed. He let the question linger for a beat before answering.

“I don’t need to figure you out,” he said plainly, “It’s written all over you. You’ve gone through every word you’d say, rehearsed every answer they might give, but the phone’s still on the table.”

Cassie stiffened, her arms crossing tighter over her chest.

“And if it is?” she shot back, her tone defensive but softer, hesitant. Doubt, maybe.

“Then it tells me you’re not ready to decide what matters most,” Declan said, his voice dangerously low, if she wasn’t looking at his feet, she would be sure he had whispered in her ear.

Cassie felt the words hit their mark before she could deflect. It wasn’t just what he said but the way he said it, like he wasn’t trying to convince her of anything, merely stating the obvious. The restraint in his tone grated at her more than a lecture ever could.

“I’m not sure that’s any of your business,” she shot back, but the bite in her words was dulled by hesitation, “I didn’t ask you to come here and give me advice last time I checked.”

Declan didn’t step back. If anything, his presence seemed more focused, more intentional. He had a way of occupying space without crowding it, though it didn’t stop Cassie from feeling scrutinized under his gaze. His fingers brushed the edge of another page on the table, the smallest of gestures, yet it felt charged.

“Maybe not,” he admitted, the hint of a shrug in his shoulders, “But you’re the one who put your voice out there for the world to hear. That’s not the move of someone afraid to make a decision.”

Her chest tightened at the subtle jab, even though she knew it wasn’t meant to be cruel. Cassie uncrossed her arms, only to realize she had no idea what to do with her hands. They hovered awkwardly for a moment before she shoved them into the pockets of her sweater.

“I didn’t exactly have a choice,” she muttered, her gaze dropping to the scrawled notes on the table, “It was either speak up or keep quiet and let him win.”

“I noticed,” Declan said, his voice cutting through the air with deliberate clarity, “And for what it’s worth—you didn’t waste a single word. Your broadcast wasn’t just speaking up. It was precision. You wielded those words like a scalpel, cutting exactly where it needed to hurt.”

There was something in the way he said it—calm, matter-of-fact—that made her dizzy. The sincerity in his tone was disarming, but there was weight to it that felt impossible to carry. Her breath hitched involuntarily, her fingers curling deeper into the fabric of her sweater as though she could steady herself against it.

“You make it sound like I had thought about what I would say before I broke in Dan’s show. Maybe in my shows, yes, but not yesterday,” she muttered, her voice quiet, “It wasn’t. I didn’t plan for any of this.”

Declan didn’t look away, his attention anchored to her with unnerving steadiness.

“Maybe not consciously,” he allowed, leaning back slightly but still holding her in his focus, “But it’s in how you speak—every pause, every shift in tone. It’s not accidental. It’s instinct, you have a gift.”

Cassie felt the words swirl in her chest, a strange mixture of unease and something she couldn’t quite name. Gratitude? Validation? She wasn’t sure, but it unsettled her all the same.

She huffed quietly, her eyes darting toward the window. The sheer curtains filtered the outside light, casting soft patterns on the walls. It was the kind of view that might have once soothed her, but right now, the delicate glow did nothing to ease the unease thrumming beneath her skin.

“You say that like it’s so simple,” she muttered, her voice tight, “Like gifts or instincts are enough to untangle all of this.”

Declan didn’t rush to respond, his silence deliberate. It wasn’t a silence that pressed or demanded—it allowed her words to sit. He moved, finally, his hand brushing against her notes scattered haphazardly, almost grasping at them.

“You’re not giving yourself enough credit,” he said, “You didn’t just call out Crawford. You made people listen. That’s what scares him, or anyone really.”

Cassie’s fingers twitched at his words, biting her cheeks. She didn’t want to meet his eyes, but her gaze betrayed her, flicking up to find him watching her with that unrelenting steadiness.

Soon, she looked away again.

“I wasn’t trying to scare anyone,” she murmured, barely audible, “I just… Couldn’t let him get away with it.”

Declan’s lips twitched into something resembling a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Exactly,” he said, “And that’s the kind of drive we need on Venturer.”

Her breath caught, and the tension in her chest tightened like a coil.

That was what he had come to ask.

Cassie’s hands tightened into fists against her sides, her nails biting into her palms. The air in the room felt dense, not from the warmth of the radiator or the faint aroma of tea and ink, but from Declan’s words lingering in the air like a challenge she wasn’t ready to face.

“I can’t,” she said quickly, shaking her head, “I’m not made for that. I already told my uncle—”

“Freddie understands,” Declan interjected smoothly, “But I don’t think you do.”

Cassie stiffened, her shoulders rising defensively.

“I know exactly what I can and can’t do,” she snapped, “And I’m telling you: I can’t do that.”

Declan’s presence felt suffocating in its quiet intensity. The room seemed smaller with him in it, every detail sharper and more vivid under his gaze. The cold wind blowing, the soft tick of the clock on the wall—it all pressed against her, amplifying doubts swirling inside her.

How could she explain it to him, this bone-deep dread that came with the idea of being seen? Not just seen, but scrutinized, judged.

Being a voice on the airwaves had given her a layer of protection—a wall between herself and the people who listened. They could hear her passion, her anger, her conviction, but they couldn’t see the fear that sometimes gripped her chest like a vice.

They couldn’t look at her eyes and see what she truly was: a young woman afraid of every step she took.

The thought of standing in front of a camera, her face projected into thousands of homes, made her stomach churn. Every slip of the tongue, every stutter or hesitation, would be magnified a hundredfold. She wasn’t built for that kind of exposure.

“I can’t,” she said again, though her voice sounded weaker this time, frayed at the edges.

Declan didn’t move, didn’t blink. His stillness was maddening.

“Why not?” he asked, his tone a mix of curiosity and that bloody sharpness again, something that cut straight to the heart of her defenses.

Cassie inhaled deeply, trying to quell the rising panic that threatened to choke her. Her gaze flickered across the room, seeking an escape, but there was none—not from him, not from the truth he was pushing her to confront.

“You don’t get it, Mr. O’Hara,” she said, her voice breaking slightly, “It’s not about not wanting recognition or having people listen to me. It’s about...” She trailed off, searching for the words that always seemed to slip through her fingers when she needed them most, “It’s about what happens when they don’t like what they see.”

Declan frowned, leaning forward, “What do you mean?”

Her chest ached as she struggled to articulate the knot of fear and self-doubt that had been her constant companion for as long as she could remember.

“You think it’s just about standing in front of a camera and telling the truth,” she said bitterly, her eyes hardening as she looked at the points of his shoes, “But it’s not. It’s about what happens afterward—when they pick apart every word you said, every expression you made, every tiny flaw you didn’t even realize you had. When they decide who you are based on nothing but a frozen image on a screen.”

Declan’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes softened slightly, a flicker of understanding passing through them.

“Cassie,” he said, his voice quieter now, “You’ve already faced that. Every time you went on air, every time you published a story. The only difference is, you couldn’t see it happening.”

Cassie’s heart pounded in her chest as Declan’s words hung in the air, each one heavy with intent. He spoke with a calm certainty that made her defenses feel paper-thin.

“I read about your work,” he began, his tone carefully measured, “I’ve listened to the records of your broadcasts. I’ve read the pieces you wrote in Chicago. And I know one thing for certain: you’re not the kind of person who hides behind a mic because she’s afraid. You do it because it’s efficient. Effective.”

Cassie stared at him immediately, her breath catching as the implication of his statement hit her. Her lips parted to respond, but no words came. She felt a strange dizziness, as if the walls of the room had tilted slightly, throwing her off balance.

How?

How could he have done all that in the span of a day?

He had to have sought out recordings, dug through archives, tracked down articles she hadn’t thought about in years. From yesterday to now, he had made it his mission to know her, to understand her work, her voice.

It was unsettling.

It was…

“Every single one of them had one thing in common,” Declan continued, his tone softening, though his intensity never wavered.

Cassie raised her head, her brow furrowing as she finally managed to find her voice, “What’s that?”

“You,” he said, leaning forward again, his eyes never leaving her figure, constantly searching for her eyes, “Your voice, your perspective. You didn’t just report the facts—you made people care about them. You made them feel it. That’s not something everyone can do.”

The sincerity in his tone cut through her like a knife, carving through the doubt she had clung to for so long. She didn’t know how to respond, so she didn’t.

She didn’t know how to respond, so she didn’t.

Her fingers, still restless, searched for shelter in the fabric of her sweater. The tension in her body refused to ease, the heat creeping up her neck to her cheeks as she processed his gaze—so unwavering, so certain.

“You think being in front of a camera changes that?” he asked, his gaze unwavering, “It doesn’t. If anything, it amplifies it. People don’t connect to perfection—they connect to authenticity. And you, Cassie, are as authentic as it gets.”

The heat crept up her neck, spreading to her cheeks. She could feel it—a flush that she couldn’t suppress, a reaction she couldn’t control. She wanted to blame the intensity of the conversation, but deep down, she knew it was more than that.

There was something in the way he looked at her—unwavering, searching. His eyes, dark and steady, seemed to hold a flicker of something she couldn’t quite place. Admiration? Curiosity?

The corners of his lips lifted, not into a full smile, but a subtle quirk that softened the sharpness of his features. He was close—closer than he needed to be—and she couldn’t decide if it was intentional or just a consequence of his presence.

Her hands fidgeted in the fabric of her sweater again, twisting it as she fought to regain her composure.

“You’re giving me too much credit,” she said finally, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

“I don’t think I am,” Declan replied, “If anything, I’m not giving you enough.”

The words struck her like a blow, cutting through the haze of self-doubt that had wrapped itself around her once and for all. For a moment, she thought she was dreaming.

The air between them felt charged, electric in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying. Cassie couldn’t remember the last time someone had spoken to her like this—not with flattery, but with belief.

Her gaze darted to the window again. The pale light filtering through the sheer curtains softened the room's edges but did nothing to dull the sharp edge of Declan’s words. Outside, the distant sound of birdsong felt muted against the tension humming in the room.

Her mind raced, spiraling as it tried to keep up with the emotions swirling inside her. The compliments, the conviction in his voice—it was too much, too fast. She felt like she was teetering on the edge of a precipice, unsure whether to jump or cling to the safety of the ground beneath her feet.

“You don’t know me,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “Not really.”

“I know that you’re holding yourself back,” Declan countered.

She shook her head, frustration bubbling to the surface.

“You make it sound so easy,” she muttered, “Like all I have to do is step in front of a camera and everything will fall into place.”

Declan’s expression shifted, softening in a way that made her chest tighten.

“It’s not about it being easy,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost gentle, “It’s about it being worth it.”

Cassie blinked, thrown off balance by the simplicity of his response.

“I’ve been where you are,” Declan continued, “Afraid of what people might see, what they might say. But here’s the thing: it’s not about you. It’s about the story. It’s about what you’re trying to show them, the truth you’re trying to tell.”

His words landed heavily, resonating with something deep inside her. She faltered, her gaze dropping back to her hands. Her fingers trembled slightly, and she clenched them back to her sweater to steady herself.

“You’re talented, Cassie,” Declan said, his voice gaining a firmer edge, “You’re good. You have a way of making people listen—not just to the facts, but to what they mean. We could give you a show, a platform where you can do exactly what you said yesterday: pull back the rug and show people what’s been swept under it.”

He paused, letting the words sink in before adding, “But if you’re not ready to take that jump, then tell me—what do you want to do next?”

Cassie’s heart hammered in her chest. His words pressed against her like the weight of the world, a challenge, an invitation, all rolled into one. Beneath the pressure, there was a flicker of something she hadn’t felt in a long time: possibility. It was a thought she couldn't shake—the idea of not just telling the truth, but having the power to shape the conversation, to expose the darkness hiding in plain sight.

What would she do next?

For the first time, the idea didn’t feel impossible. It felt terrifying, yes, but there was a spark of curiosity beneath the fear—a small, stubborn part of her that wanted to know if she could.

Her breath hitched as she looked back at Declan, his gaze steady. Not leaving her sight, not for once.

“I’ll have to think about it,” she took the courage to say it out loud.

Declan’s lips curved into a smile, one that didn’t feel triumphant but rather understanding.

“I’ll wait,” he said, and she believed in him.

Cassie hesitated, her fingers twisting the hem of her sweater as a new thought occurred to her. She glanced at him, her brow furrowing slightly.

“Can I ask you something?”.

“Of course,” he replied immediately.

“Why me?” she asked, her words laced with genuine confusion, “There are dozens of people out there trying to make noise, trying to be heard. What was so special about what I did yesterday?”

Declan’s smile deepened, but there was something else in his expression—a flicker of something warm, almost unspoken.

“It wasn’t just what you did yesterday,” he said, his tone quieter now, more intimate, “It was the way you did it. The way you made people stop and listen. You didn’t just speak—you cut through. You made them care. That’s not something you see every day.”

His gaze lingered on hers, steady and searching, and for a moment, the room felt smaller, the space between them charged with something she couldn’t name.

But, despite it feeling small… That was one of the few times that looking into someone’s eyes didn’t make her feel like drowning. Not in a hurtful way.

“You’re different, Cassie,” Declan continued, “And that scares people like Crawford. It’s also what makes you impossible to ignore. I had heard today some people are already calling you ‘Bloody Harrier’, and I don’t disagree with them, you are a harrier.”

Cassie swallowed hard, her thoughts swirling like a storm. She didn’t know how to respond, didn’t know what to say. All she could do was nod, his words settling heavily in her chest as she tried to make sense of the possibilities now laid before her.

"That’s kind coming from someone like you,” Cassie muttered, her voice laced with skepticism, “But I don’t feel like a harrier.”

Declan’s eyes softened, a quiet understanding passing between them, “That’s because you don’t see yourself the way others do.”

The room seemed to hold its breath as his words lingered in the space between them.

Outside, the breeze rustled the leaves against the windowpane, its soft whisper contrasting with the quiet tension in the room. It wasn’t uncomfortable, though—it was waiting, expectant, as if the world was on pause, waiting for Cassie to choose whether to step forward or remain where she was.

Cassie’s gaze flickered back to him, and for a fleeting moment, the rest of the world seemed to vanish. And in that moment, she became acutely aware of how close he was. His presence, which had always been intense since he had knocked at her door, now felt almost overwhelming.

She noticed the sharp angles of his jaw, the way his lips were slightly parted as he spoke, the faintest trace of stubble that caught the light. The dim afternoon glow from the window washed over his features, softening them in a way that made everything about him seem impossibly magnetic.

It was a fleeting moment, but she felt it, that subtle charge in the air. Something unspoken, something she couldn't put into words, hanging there between them.

For a moment, Declan didn’t speak. He stood still, his gaze steady, as if he too was aware of the proximity. The air seemed to crackle, the space between them shrinking, until finally, with a slight but noticeable shift in his posture, Declan took a step back, breaking the tension.

His eyes never left hers, though, and the understanding between them lingered in the silence.

"Do you really believe that?" Cassie asked, her voice smaller, almost a whisper.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t, would I?” Declan asked her back.

The room felt heavy after Declan’s words, his presence an anchor pulling at Cassie’s thoughts. She didn’t know what to say, and for once, she didn’t try to fill the silence. It stretched between them, thick and charged, her fingers twisting the hem of her sweater in a futile attempt to ground herself.

Declan’s gaze stayed fixed on her. It wasn’t harsh or prying, but steady, as though he were trying to understand something about her that she hadn’t figured out herself. That quiet intensity unsettled her, a reminder of the kind of man he was—one who didn’t miss the small things, who didn’t let truths slip away unnoticed.

“I should go,” he said, breaking the silence himself. His voice low, almost hesitant, as if leaving wasn’t entirely what he wanted.

Cassie widened her eyes, startled by the shift in the moment. She stepped back slightly, creating a sliver of space between them, though it did nothing to untangle the knot tightening in her chest.

“Right,” she replied, the word coming out too quickly, sharper than she intended, “Of course.”

Declan moved toward the door, his steps well measured. He didn’t rush, as though each movement was a chance to reconsider something left unsaid. The air between them felt different now, lighter in some ways but heavy with the lingering weight of their exchange.

When he reached the door, he paused. He turned back, his posture relaxed but his expression still thoughtful.

The dim light coming through the window outlined the sharp edges of his features perfectly, it made him seem less imposing, more human.

“It was good meeting you,” he said, “I wish it had happened sooner.”

His words weren’t dramatic, but they hit somewhere deep, somewhere she didn’t know was vulnerable until now. For a moment, she didn’t respond, unsure of what to say or how to untangle the emotions his presence had stirred.

“Yeah,” she said, her words almost fragile, as if they could break in any second, “Me too.”

Declan’s lips curved into a smile—not the polished, performative kind she’d seen on screens, but something smaller, more genuine.

“Maybe it would’ve made things… Simpler,” he added, his tone light, though his words carried more meaning than they seemed to.

Cassie nodded, unsure how to respond to that. Her thoughts felt tangled, a mess of emotions she didn’t want to unravel just yet.

The least she could do was open the door for him, letting the cold evening air rush in. It swept past her, bracing and sharp, clearing the fog in her mind just enough to remind her where she was. She stepped closer to the doorway, watching as he descended the steps with the same calm confidence he carried everywhere.

At the edge of the porch, he turned back briefly. His dark coat blended with the gray evening, but his eyes caught hers one last time.

“Take care of yourself, Cassie,” he said, his voice warm and familiar, as though he had always known her.

“You too,” she replied, the words barely audible but sincere, “Mr. O’Hara.”

“Please,“ his smile widened, “Call me Declan.”

She didn’t respond immediately, her lips parting as if to say something, but nothing came. Instead, she nodded, her fingers gripping the door for balance.

“Declan,” she said, the name feeling foreign on her tongue, heavier than it should have been.

The moment lingered settled between them, neither of them seeming in a hurry to break it. Cassie could feel his gaze, the way it softened now, lacking the intensity he’d carried earlier. It made her chest feel tight, but not in the way she was used to.

This wasn’t the suffocating pressure of fear or failure—it was something else, something unfamiliar and unsettling.

Declan glanced past her, his eyes briefly scanning the quiet house behind her. The mess of papers on the table, the dim glow of the single lamp in the corner—it was all so distinctly her, chaotic yet purposeful.

His lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, as though he was about to say more, but then he stepped back, the moment slipping away.

“Goodbye,” he said one more time.

She stayed in the doorway as he walked to his car. The gravel crunched softly under his feet, the sound carrying in the quiet dusk. He opened the driver’s side door, pausing for just a moment before getting in. The headlights flared to life, cutting through the fading light as he started the engine.

Cassie watched as he pulled out of the driveway, the rumble of the car fading as he disappeared down the road. She stayed there long after he was gone, the cold creeping up her arms, her heart still beating a little faster than normal.

When she finally stepped back inside, the warmth of the house felt strange, as though she’d been away for longer than just a moment. She leaned against the door, letting out a slow breath, her thoughts still circling the man who had just left.

Her eyes drifted to the phone on the corner of the room. The list of names was still on her table, waiting for her to take the next step.

For a brief moment, she considered picking up the receiver, calling Sarah, or anyone on that list. But the weight of the decision held her back, the fear of failure keeping her frozen in place.

Declan’s words echoed in her mind: “You made people care.”

She didn’t know if she believed it. Not yet. But the thought lingered, and for now, that was enough.

Enough for her to go to the damn rotary phone and start making her calls.

Rutshire Gazette

Local Radio Dispute Sparks Drama at Crawford’s FM

By Edward Hill

In an unexpected twist during yesterday’s live broadcast, Cassandra Jones, a presenter at Crawford’s FM, took to the airwaves with allegations against station owner Charles Crawford.

Ms. Jones, who recently returned to Rutshire after spending much of her career in Chicago, accused Mr. Crawford of suppressing critical stories in favor of lighter, more commercially viable programming.

Eyewitnesses claim Ms. Jones refused to vacate the studio, reportedly locking herself in for nearly an hour before the police intervened. Sources close to the station describe the incident as “disruptive” and “unprofessional,” with one staff member alleging that Ms. Jones acted “erratically.”

Speaking to the Gazette, Mr. Crawford condemned the incident as a “stunt,” stating:“It’s unfortunate that Ms. Jones felt the need to air grievances in such an inflammatory manner, particularly when we’ve always encouraged an open-door policy for our team. Crawford’s FM prides itself on being a reliable source of entertainment and community news—values clearly lost in Ms. Jones’ actions.”

The details of Ms. Jones’ grievances remain unclear, though snippets from the broadcast suggest dissatisfaction with editorial decisions and claims of mismanagement. The station has confirmed they are pursuing legal action for trespassing and property damage.

Ms. Jones, who was arrested at the scene, declined to comment when approached outside the police station early this morning. However, her outburst has sparked debate among listeners, some of whom have voiced their support. One caller, who wished to remain anonymous, told the Gazette:

"She’s got guts. What she said about the council funds was true. But no one wants to touch it because it’s messy. I say good for her, we need more bloody harriers around here!"

Others, however, have expressed concern over Ms. Jones’ approach, questioning whether such public defiance undermines the credibility of her claims.

For now, the fate of Ms. Jones’ career remains uncertain, with many in the industry speculating whether this incident marks the end of her tenure at Crawford’s FM—or the beginning of something far more contentious.

[thefirst3chapters]

There's something about the Danes men recognizing the Gilmores' happiness in their final OS episodes. ("You look happier than when I saw you last." / "I just like to see you happy.") Maybe the S6 writers weren't sure that this was going to be Jess's last appearance, but this was Luke's definitive end for the series; in either case, at the time these episodes were written, they were the show's final statements on who these characters are.

It's established over and over how well Luke and Jess know the Gilmores and vice versa. Luke knows exactly what Lorelai brought to Bid-a-Basket day and has her wardrobe memorized and steadfastly believes that she can start her own inn even when she's convinced that she's failing. Jess knows that Rory isn't herself when she's in Hartford and remembers her birthday even though he's barely seen her in years (and ASP directly confirmed that the intention was to portray them as seeing each other for who they are). This mutual sense of knowing is baked into the first times both couples meet. The first time Lorelai met Luke, she pestered him during a lunch rush for coffee and for him to tell her his birthday until he relented. The first time Jess met Rory, he stole her book and wrote all over it. Both of these actions could've been horrible first impressions for anyone else, and on paper could've been horrible first impressions for Luke and Rory specifically, but they were charmed and intrigued, and they treasured the written keepsakes they were left with.

Even with this intrinsic knowledge, the Danes' failures as partners often boil down to the same problem: they retreat when they're in crisis. With their biggest, relationship-ending conflicts (Luke keeping April from Lorelai and the fallout of Jess not graduating), they spend months thinking that they have everything under control when they really don't and fail to tell the Gilmores anything. This is perhaps Jess's core flaw in S3 even more so than the fact that he left; he didn't have anywhere to stay, and finding out who his father was probably ended up being an important catalyst for the person he became, but he wasn't able to share any of that with Rory. She directly brings up her hurt over Jess not telling her anything when she's in the car with Lorelai and when she's on the phone with him, and her unhappiness here is so similar to Lorelai expressing her unhappiness about her relationship with Luke when she's in the car with the therapist. ("I don't like how I feel and I don't like what I do." / "I'm not happy, and I feel crappy all the time and I just think I've had it.") They've both been left behind.

This isn't the end, though. Luke and Jess spend their time apart from the Gilmores still loving them while also building/rebuilding their professional lives, coming to terms with their pasts, and showing up for their families. This is what I think separates Jess leaving from Christopher leaving. Christopher had options and resources to be in Rory's life but chose not to be a consistent presence, and Lorelai accepted that. Rory points this out to Lorelai in S5 E9: "You're just always waiting for him to get himself together." Rory can tell that dynamic isn't healthy from the years she's watched it play out. She doesn't let Jess back into her life when she knows he isn't ready, and he grows up without her out of his own determination. His circumstances were never really like Christopher's, and Rory was left in the dark about that at the time, but when he returns in S6, I think she recognizes the difference. There's a reason why Rory shares her deepest insecurities with Jess in AYITL and sprints out of her house because she can't wait to share her happiness with him but has such an emotionally distant relationship with Christopher. As for Luke and Lorelai, they gradually get closer in S7 as they learn to trust each other again. Luke turns to Lorelai when April is sick and he needs a character reference, and Lorelai's letter helps him win partial custody and reveals where her heart truly lies, which is a catalyst for her relationship with Christopher ending once and for all. Lorelai asks for Luke's help when she's looking for a new car, and even though it doesn't make sense to him, he finds a way for her to have the exact same model again because he knows it's important to her.

Then we get to those final scenes. At Truncheon, Jess can tell just by looking at Rory that she's happier now that she's back at Yale and is editing the newspaper. She breaks his heart, but he makes sure she'll get back to her car safely and offers himself as an alibi because he still wants the best for her. In "Bon Voyage," Luke stays up all night helping the town set up Rory's party and sewing a tarp together but doesn't even want Lorelai to know. Luke and Jess have hurt the Gilmores and been hurt by them, but for both of them, their final act in the OS is quietly, selflessly wanting Lorelai and Rory to be happy. I just can't fathom a Luke who doesn't love Lorelai or a Jess who doesn't love Rory; that love is imperfect and doesn't solely define either of them, but it's an inextricable part of who they are.

[thedemoninme141]

Her Heartbeat; Chapter 16: Her Weakness.

Summary: Wednesday understands the weakness of... caring.

Warnings: EmotionalOutOfCharacterWednesday! But angst again.

Parings: Wednesday x Fem reader. A bit of Wenclair friendship.

Chapter 1 ------- Previous Chapter

Her Heartbeat's Chapterlist.

Worklist

“I’ll give you some time,” he said quietly before stepping out, the door clicking shut behind him.

For a moment, Wednesday stood frozen in the middle of the room. She didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t blink. Her dark eyes were fixed on you.

You looked so small. So unbearably still.

The sight of you like this was wrong in every way. You, who were always brimming with life, even when that life seemed to slip through your fingers like sand. You, who had taken her hand—her hand—without hesitation and led her into the kind of chaos she usually relished.

But now, there was no chaos. No spark. Just the steady hum of machines keeping you tethered to this world.

Wednesday’s hands curled into fists at her sides. She wanted to scream, to punch something, to claw her way back to the moment before everything had gone wrong. But instead, she forced herself to move.

The chair beside your bed scraped faintly as she pulled it closer. Lowering herself onto the seat, she hesitated before reaching out, her fingers hovering just above yours.

Your hand was cold.

The realization hit her like a physical blow, her chest tightening painfully. She could still remember the first time you’d grabbed her hand—pulling her into that absurd mission to free the elderly bride. She could still hear your voice, teasing and confident, not caring about the threats Wednesday gave.

A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips, unbidden and uncharacteristic. “You’re ridiculous,” she muttered under her breath, her voice trembling with something she refused to name.

Was this grief? Was this anger? Was this despair?

No… it was memories.

“That’s what you’ve done, isn’t it?” she said softly, her voice trembling. “You’ve given me memories. You’ve changed me in ways I didn’t even notice until it was too late.”

She was angry at you—for being so damn selfless, for thinking you had to bear the weight of the world on your shoulders, for hiding the truth from her until she had to confront you.

Most of all, she was angry at herself. For being powerless. For being weak. For letting you into her cold, carefully constructed world and allowing you to dismantle it piece by piece.

“I should hate you,” she said, her voice trembling as she forced herself to look at you. “I should hate you for making me feel all of this. For breaking me. For making me care enough to be scared.”

Her hand moved without conscious thought, reaching out to touch yours once more. The cold was still there.

This wasn’t you. Not the you she knew.

Not the you who had marched into her life with that audacious grin. Not the you who had dared to touch her, to grab her hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Not the you who had made her feel.

“I lied to you,” she admitted. “I told you that I had thought about it, what I would do.” Her lips pressed into a thin line as she struggled to keep her voice steady. “But I haven’t. I can’t. Because I don’t know what to do now, and I won’t know what to do when you…when you..." She trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

“You’re too selfless,” she said, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “Too pure for this world. That’s what I hate. I hate that you would never accept the things I could do to keep you here. You would never forgive me if I went hunting for a replacement heart, would you?”

She took a shaky breath, her fingers once again brushing against yours.

“And that’s why I hate you,”

The beeping of the monitor was the only response.

“You’re the one thing I can’t control,” she continued, her voice soft and trembling. “The one thing I can’t protect. And it’s killing me. And I hate you for it.”

She leaned forward, resting her forehead against the edge of the bed. Her shoulders shook as she let the weight of her emotions finally consume her.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she whispered.“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Tell me what to do. Please.”

But there was no answer. Just the steady hum of the machines and the unbearable quiet.

And Wednesday knew, this steady hum of the machines would be all she knew... for the next... days… who knew how many days… until you woke up. If you woke up.

The first night was quiet, oppressively so. Your father had been kind enough to sleep in the waiting room, leaving the chair beside your bed open for Wednesday. Not that she slept. Sleep was a distant concept, irrelevant in the face of the reality before her. Instead, she sat there, unmoving, staring at you as though her gaze alone could bring you back to consciousness.

The next day Enid had arrived with a bag of clothes and food for her.

“I’m not hungry,” Wednesday muttered.

“Too bad.” Enid set the food down and crossed her arms. “Y/N wouldn’t want you wasting away in here. She’d probably kick your butt for being this dramatic.”

A ghost of a glare flickered in Wednesday’s eyes, but she didn’t argue. She took a bite, if only to get Enid to stop talking.

When the nurses came to check your vitals, she stood like a silent sentinel, watching their every move with piercing, suspicious eyes. One of them commented on her need for rest, but she ignored them.

Enid stayed for most of the day, refusing to leave until Wednesday had finished her meal and changed into fresh clothes. But as evening approached, she finally stood, giving Wednesday’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You’re not alone, okay? Call me if you need anything.”

And then, it was just Wednesday again.

When your father returned that night, his shoulders sagged with exhaustion. He stepped into the room, a weary smile on his face. “You were here all day?”

Wednesday nodded, her expression unreadable.

“Y/N is so lucky to have you,” he said softly, his voice filled with gratitude.

Wednesday’s chest tightened. Lucky? No, if you had been lucky, she would have found a way to stop this. If you had been lucky, you wouldn’t be here at all.

Your father pulled a stack of papers from his bag and sat at the small table, quietly filling out forms. She watched him in silence, noting the slump of his shoulders, the furrow of his brow. He looked… tired.

It struck her then—he was just an old mechanic. A man with calloused hands and a worn heart who had no one but you- doing everything he could to keep you tethered to this world.

And for the first time, Wednesday felt an unfamiliar urge rise within her. This… offering of help.

“I…” She hesitated, the words sticking in her throat. “Do you need… financial assistance? For the bills?”

Your father looked up, startled for a moment, before shaking his head with a small smile. “Thank you, but no. I’ve been saving for years, and honestly, I don’t care if I have to spend every penny I’ve got. She’s worth it.”

Wednesday nodded, unsure of what else to say.

After he was done, he set the pen down, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve been looking into options. There’s a hospital overseas. They might be able to give a better solution for her condition. I just need to save up a bit more. If I can’t, well…” He chuckled softly. “I’ll sell the old house. I’d probably have to do it in secret, though. She’d be so mad at me for selling a place with so many memories.”

Her gaze shifted to your father again, and for the first time, she understood the depth of sacrifice. She thought of her own parents, of how they showed affection in their own strange ways. And now, here was this man willing to give up everything for you, just as you had given so much of yourself to others. And she understood. Care wasn’t about grand displays—it was in the quiet sacrifices, the unseen efforts, the willingness to bear another’s pain.

“I’ll figure it out,” your father said with a small smile. “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her here.”

So will Wednesday.

Visitors came and went as the days blurred together.

Weems appeared on the third day, “You need to return to Nevermore, if only to freshen up,” she said. “You can’t sit here forever, Miss Addams.”

“I can, and I will,” Wednesday replied curtly, her gaze fixed on your face.

“I was in a coma for a few days,”

“You told me to gather them for her, didn’t you?” Eugene had asked,

Wednesday didn’t respond.

She didn’t have to.

Her silence was answer enough, and he understood. “I’ll take care of them until she wakes up. Don’t worry.”

He left without waiting for a reply, leaving Wednesday alone with her thoughts once more.

“When I woke up… I was so weak."

“I, uh…” Bianca started, shifting uncomfortably as she stood in the doorway. “I just wanted to check-in. See how you’re holding up.”

Wednesday raised an eyebrow, her expression unreadable.

Bianca sighed, stepping further into the room. “Look, I’m not great at this comforting thing too, okay? But… you’re not alone in this. We’re all rooting for her.” Something tightened in Wednesday’s chest, but she only nodded curtly

What if you don't wake up this time?

It had been 5 agonizing days, days without you.

“I’m useless,” she admitted, her voice barely audible. “Weak. Pathetic. Against this…against you.”

Her head dipped forward, exhaustion finally overtaking her.

She was awoken hours later by a weak, slow nudge against her hand.

Her eyes snapped open, her heart pounding.

And then she heard it,

“Hey, Angry Bird,”

[I know this chapter's a bit short, but I hope you guys like it! Also request me some fluff oneshots for my "Not A Bad Day" universe lol]

[pissgoblin973]

also;

these are my thoughts on the specific plot threads you feel were neglected — again, i’m not hating or anything. for the most part i agree with your stance on the pacing feeling off, i’m just putting in my two cents.

1. a lot came out of jinx being the face of the revolution actually..? i get the feeling of wanting more but it wasn’t a throwaway plot point for nothing. in times of crisis and oppression under the rule of the kirraman/noxus alliance jinxers looked to jinx as a symbol of hope. she was the image of their rebellion, the undercity was forming factions yes, but for a reason greater than themselves - no more petty squabbles, the enemy is topside. jinx whether intentional or not, made them realise that.

2. ekko needed to save his tree was the catalyst and a necessary step to him encountering the wild rune in order to save the world. if not for his tree dying, ekko would have no reason to step foot in piltover seeking help from jayce of all people. this decision is deliberate. ekko is as responsible for everything happening as jayce is, he is little man — he sent them on that job, he knew jayce as “the boy who didn’t haggle”. i don’t believe that decision was by mistake. this is further confirmed in the alternate reality where jayce and vi are dead, hextech ceases to exist, zaun appears to be independent or at the very least civil with piltover. to save his community he needed to take that leap, and leave a few people behind.

3. ehh, an exploration of vi’s trauma would be nice? but vi isn’t that kind of character. she’s closed off, a fighter, always on guard. not as weathered down as jinx who constantly expresses her internal battle with herself or caitlyn who masks her pain in the facade of control. there’s sprinkles of her trauma throughout the show in both seasons but an entire segment dedicated to it seems like a bold/risky decision from a writers perspective. her relationships with others is what makes her who she is, without them she is nothing/stagnant. she needs people to protect/keep alive or else she’s not living up to her promise — vander’s last wish.

^ also like, eldest daughter syndrome go brrr

4. caitlyn does realise the error of her ways, again it’s in small tidbits and hidden in the details. she doesn’t just “get with vi” because she wants to, there are moments where you see the gears in her brain turning and she looks uncomfortable or conflicted about what’s happening. sure it’s not explicit and doesn’t take up space in the grand scheme of things, which is what i think you wanted more of. but i promise you it’s there.

5. sevika got done dirty and also not at the same time? she was the character i wish we squeezed more out of. thematically speaking, her journey from henchman to a leader and the face of zaun makes sense and is absolutely perfect in every conceivable way. she evidence of the “old” zaun, one that relied on loyalty, she was there during the revolution, during silco’s takedown and his inevitable fall (sorta). i just wish she found out that jinx killed him so we could see how she would process that. but she deserves to be at that table. i wish we got to see more but i don’t think it’s by mistake either, there’s so much to explore with her, who knows?

Arcane Season 2 ‘s pacing is atrocious and nothing is ever properly followed up. Jinx being the face of Zaun’s revolution? Nothing comes out of it. Ekko trying to find a way to save his community from the Hextech infection and learn more about his efforts of saving Zaun? Dropped and he is absent from Act 2 until reappearing in Act 3. An exploration of Vi’s trauma? Unexplored to focus on her relationship with Caitlyn and Jinx. Caitlyn realizing the error of her ways? Skipped over so she can get with Vi. Viktor’s journey to becoming the Machine Herald out of his own choice? Sped over with Singed doing it for him. Sevika leading Zaun? Skipped over until the end where she is now a council member representing Zaun. Mel got a proper solo arc but her screentime was limited.

[bloomzone]

Feeling Overwhelmed? You're Not Alone. Let's Talk About It..

I know we all go through it. You’re balancing school, friends, family, and everything else, and suddenly, it feels like you're carrying the weight of the world. Lately, I've been feeling burned out, overwhelmed, and like everything is piling up at once. With school stress, exams, and the constant pressure to keep up, I sometimes feel like I can’t breathe. It's exhausting, and I'm sure some of you feel the same.

It’s so easy to get stuck in the cycle of trying to do everything perfectly. Every time you think you’ve got it under control, something else comes at you, and you’re back to square one and YES THIS IS ANNOYING!!!. It's like there’s a never-ending list of things to do, and no matter how hard you work, you never seem to catch a break.

And the worst part? The pressure from others. Whether it's friends, classmates, or even family, there's always someone asking you for help. Sometimes I feel like I’m the go-to person for everything—assignments, questions, last-minute requests. And don’t get me wrong, I want to be helpful, but it can get draining. Especially when you're trying to hold it together and just need a little space for yourself

For example:Today I couldn’t catch a break already stressed about exams, and in desperate need of rest. Just as I sat down to breathe, the calls and messages started.

One of my classmates began spamming me with messages, asking about a history and geography exam date that we ALL already knew. Then, another classmate began asking for English assignment answers. She wouldn’t stop. She kept sending, “Hi, hi, hi, hi…” over and over until I caved and responded.When I finally sent her the answers, her response? “Ahh, what would I do without you? You’re a lifesaver!” And while I know she meant it kindly, it felt so heavy I feel guilty. What about MY life? What about my peace?

In that moment, I realized how much I was giving to others and how little I was leaving for myself. I was pouring all my energy into helping everyone else while I was running on empty

And plus I’ve been in those moments when you’ve studied hard for an exam, thought you’re finally catching up, and then suddenly—a change happens. A test gets rescheduled, an assignment gets pushed to the last minute, and it feels like everything you worked for was just... wasted. I get it. And it’s okay to feel frustrated and angry about it. You’re allowed to feel this way. It doesn’t make you weak, it makes you human.

But here’s something I’ve been reminding myself lately: I am not responsible for everyone else's stress. It’s okay to say no, it’s okay to take a break, and it’s okay to not always have everything figured out. Taking care of yourself isn’t selfish; it’s necessary.

Here 5 Tips That Are Helping Me Cope with Stress and Burnout

1. Set Boundaries and Protect Your Energy: I’ve learned that it’s okay to say no. If someone’s asking for help, and you’re already feeling stretched thin, it’s okay to tell them, “I can’t right now.” You can’t pour from an empty cup, and you deserve your time and energy as much as anyone else does.

2. Don’t Overload Yourself—Take It One Step at a Time: Break your tasks into smaller, more manageable chunks. Don’t try to do everything at once—focus on one thing at a time. It makes the workload feel less daunting and more achievable. One task, one hour at a time.

3. Rest is Not a Luxury, It’s a Necessity: Sometimes we push ourselves too hard because we think we’ll get behind if we take a break. But if you don’t rest, you’ll burn out. Give yourself permission to step away, even for just 10 minutes. Watch a comforting youTube video, take a walk, or close your eyes. A little time for yourself can give you the energy to come back even stronger.

4. Talk About Your Feelings—Don't Bottle It Up: If you’re feeling overwhelmed, don’t keep it inside. Talk to someone, whether it’s a friendu trust family member, or even just writing in a journal like I do ..Putting your feelings into words can make a huge difference. It clears your mind and helps you see things from a new perspective.

5. Make Time for Self-Care: It’s easy to forget to take care of yourself when everything is going wrong. But self-care isn’t just about face masks and bubble baths (although that helps!). It’s about doing things that recharge you—reading, listening to music, or even just doing nothing. Find what makes you feel lighter and make time for it.

Let’s Take the Pressure Off Ourselves.

I know the world often tells us we have to be constantly productive, constantly moving forward. But the truth is, you don’t have to hustle all the time. It’s okay to slow down, take a breather, and focus on your well-being. The world will still be there when you're ready to take the next step. You are not a machine pookie. You are human, and you deserve peace.We’re not alone in this, even though it sometimes feels like we are. Everyone’s going through something, and sometimes just knowing that you’re not alone in your struggles can make a huge difference.Remember, it’s okay to not have it all together. It’s okay to be tired, to feel burnt out, to not always know what’s next. Life is hard, but you’re still here, still fighting, and that’s something to be proud of. I'm so proud of you

© bloomzone

[sunsets-and-crows]

I Wanna Be Yours - Chapter 4

Pairing: Sylus X Reader

Words: 5.1K

- - -

Tasked with infiltrating the life of Sylus, the most wanted man in the N109 zone, you're torn between what is right and feels right, blurring the line between duty and desire. As danger escalates, you must decide whether to carry out your mission or succumb to the magnetic pull of the man you're meant to destroy. In this game of power and obsession, betrayal could cost you everything.

Content warnings ⚠️

Dark Themes, Yandere! Reader and Yandere! Sylus! Power play. Violence and Gore. Smut: mutual masturbation. Stalking/surveillance. Reader slowly losing her mind. Sylus being hot and a menace. TRIGGER WARNING: stalking and dubious consent (Reader doesn't know Sylus is also watching her and gets a little handsy with hersef)

If you feel there’s any other warnings I need to add then please reach out and let me know!

The sterile lighting of Captain Jenna’s office cast an unforgiving glow over every surface, from the polished metal of her desk to the file she had in front of her. Your file. The office that had once brought you comfort, now felt cold and oppressive, leaving your nerves on fire. You had been back in the office for only a few hours, just enough time to settle in, before being summoned by your boss. Now, sitting across from her, you could feel the weight of her expectations pressing down on you, like an invisible shackle tightening around your chest.

Jenna’s gaze was sharp and assessing, but there was an unusual glint in her eyes - something unreadable. She would never allow herself to show it, but you knew she held a soft spot for you. Which made you feel even more nervous about the upcoming discussion. Her voice was cool and controlled, as she opened the file and glanced over the last official report before your unexpected week off. 

"So," she began, folding her hands on top of the document, "how have things been progressing? Your notes have been detailed and useful but I wanted to get your view on the situation"

You took a steadying breath, careful to keep your expression neutral, but a faint pulse of anxiety beat under your calm exterior. "I've managed to observe some of his business dealings, mostly just meetings in the N109 zone," you replied, keeping your tone casual. "But... so far, everything I've seen has seemed pretty routine. Business transactions, nothing overtly illegal. I have got a good sense of his routine though, and he does seem to be a creature of habit."

She raised an eyebrow, a hint of scepticism flickering across her face. "Routine transactions in the N109 zone? That’s all" she repeated, almost as if testing you. "Sylus’ illegal activities are well known by the association, I doubt he’s been acting completely above board.” She levelled her gaze at you and you felt your stomach drop. “We need more than just routine observations from you.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest, and a pang of guilt twisted through you, but you forced yourself to stay steady, meeting her gaze. "I know. And I’m keeping a close eye, but he’s... careful. Nothing about his movements or meetings have given me any solid evidence, yet. But I’m dedicated to ensuring this mission’s success Captain," The words rolled off your tongue with a practised ease that surprised even you, each one a hint of a betrayal that somehow felt both foreign and familiar. 

In truth, the images of Sylus and the blood-stained floors of that dimly lit warehouse were burned into your memory. No amount of justification could scrub them clean, but telling Jenna about that night felt like exposing something raw and vulnerable within yourself. As if reporting it would make your twisted sense of loyalty, of protectiveness, suddenly real and undeniable. You physically couldn’t tell her. 

Jenna nodded slowly, but her eyes hadn’t lost that calculating gleam. "How about this recent meeting with Albert Clements?" she asked, as she flicked through the reports, indicating that specific entry. "There’s been reports that he’s interested in joining forces with Sylus. That could be dangerous, of course, an alliance between his father’s company and Onychinus." Her tone was probing, likely due to that entry being short and noticeably lacking detail. 

You forced a nonchalant shrug, doing your best to appear unaffected, even as the memory of that night flashed vividly behind your eyes. "I was there to observe, but it seemed more like preliminary talks. Clements wants to make a name for himself, but he hasn’t done much yet to earn Sylus’s trust. I don’t think an alliance is likely Captain. Sylus seemed uninterested in the discussion, almost as if he was distracted by something.” 

Captain Jenna tapped her fingers on the file, her gaze sharp and assessing. "Anything else you think I should know? Unusual patterns? Allies he seems particularly close to?"

For a brief moment, you could still feel the ghostly weight of the gun in your hand, hear the muffled shot as you’d acted without hesitation, saving Sylus from betrayal. Allies? Did you count? But instead of confessing, you kept your face impassive, letting none of it show. "Not particularly," you answered, your voice even. "Nothing that stands out."

The silence stretched, her gaze unrelenting as she seemed to study the depths of your expression. A faint tremor rippled through you, but you buried it deep, knowing that any crack, any flicker of doubt, could unravel everything.

Jenna leaned back in her chair and sighed. A flicker of something unreadable crossed her face as her gaze bored into you. "Look," she said, her voice softening slightly, almost as if reaching for an understanding. "I know this assignment is intense, and the N109 zone isn’t an easy place to navigate, but you have to give me something. You’ve been a dependable asset to the Association, Y/N. Your record is commendable. That being said, I need to present something to the higher-ups to prove it." There was a moment’s pause as she regarded you with something close to concern. 

You nodded, trying to maintain an air of confidence. “I understand Captain, I think it might just be that this mission will take a little longer than expected.” Taking a deep breath, you steeled your expression further, fully committing to the web of lies you were spinning. “Captain, I want to do this right, to make sure I have the best information possible so I’m not willing to rush this. You can tell your superiors that I’m fully committed to doing this to the best of my abilities and to that, I need time. There’s a reason that all the other missions failed before me, maybe the common thread is expecting results too soon. Nothing good will come from rushing in and making mistakes.” The words flowed out of you, the slight edge to them spoke of your resolve. Resolve for what? Well, that remained to be seen.

Captain Jenna nodded, the ghost of a smile crossing her lips. "Okay, now that, I can work with. Just remember, the Association has your back. If anything feels off, or if you need help, I need you to report it. I don’t want you getting too deep in this, it isn’t worth losing yourself over. I know you can do this and do it well."

The words struck something deep inside you, a pang of conflict twisting through you. It was almost laughable how far you'd drifted from the Association’s purpose, how tangled you'd become in your own emotions. But you nodded, forcing a small smile to settle on your lips, playing into the comfortable rapport that you two shared. "Understood, Captain," you replied, voice steady. "I’ll make sure to keep that in mind"

Jenna seemed to scrutinise you for a long moment, her gaze heavy with the weight of her expectations. Despite her doubts, you knew she believed in you, in your integrity, that you could stand firm in the face of whatever Sylus represented. And that faith, unspoken but palpable, twisted your gut with a wave of guilt you barely managed to keep hidden.

Finally, she closed the file, tapping it thoughtfully before looking up at you. "I've been thinking that it might be time we begin to push this mission forward," she said, her tone resolute. "Keeping tabs on his routines and associates is all well and good for establishing a preliminary, but if you’re not able to observe anything more useful soon, I think it’s time to move into the second phase of this operation."

Your throat tightened. "The second phase?" you echoed, already knowing the answer.

Jenna nodded. "Start to gain his trust. Get close to him and make contact with him. Become someone useful, someone he can rely on. It’s time to start creating opportunities to make him believe you’re on his side. We should start refining the identity we set up for you. I’ll have someone start working on it"

The weight of her directive settled heavily on you, every syllable pressing against the tangled mess of emotions you’d been hiding. You forced yourself to nod, even as your mind spun, grappling with the impossibility of what she was asking. The idea of getting closer to Sylus, of creating trust, felt like playing with fire - but it also ignited a treacherous thrill inside you. The idea of meeting him finally, having his crimson eyes focused on you, and his sweet honeyed voice saying your name, made your excitement swell.

Jenna's voice softened, her eyes steady. "Just remember... This mission is about bringing him to justice, not getting caught up in his world. You have to maintain your integrity while getting close to him, okay? Don’t lose who you are.” She warned you. “The Hunter’s association will not pardon any illegal activity during this mission unless it’s absolutely necessary, and there will be an investigation should that happen. From now on your reports need to be more detailed.” 

"Understood, Captain," you managed, your voice barely more than a whisper. 

You swallowed hard, the conflict simmering beneath the surface as you held her gaze. She had no idea how blurred those lines had already become, how far you’d drifted from the Association’s purpose. And as you turned to leave, Jenna’s words echoed in your mind, a relentless reminder of the path you were supposed to be walking.

As you stepped out of her office, a sense of foreboding settled over you. You knew you were spiralling into a darkness that neither the Association nor Jenna could pull you from. 

The meeting with Captain Jenna had allowed you to return to surveillance within only a few days of your return to work. It was nice to do away with the usual week of desk work you'd expected to be on after a period of sickness like that. You’d settled back into the routine easily. Daily reports; endless streams of surveillance footage; and the sterile language of mission updates all felt hollow like a pale imitation of the vibrant, chaotic world Sylus inhabited. You’d taken Captain Jenna’s advice, making your reports much more detailed. The fear of being removed from the mission was enough to spark you into overdrive, prompting you to add little embellishments here and there to the official documentation. Well maybe that wasn’t quite true. You’d begun to flat out lie in order to ensure that your reports were satisfactory by the Association’s standards. 

There was only one bright spot that pierced through the dull haze: him. Seeing Sylus, even from a distance, was like inhaling fresh air after being trapped in a suffocating room. His presence was magnetic and ensured that the monotony of your days was well worth the effort you took to remain on this mission. 

The seasons had begun to shift back in Linkon. The crisp mornings and early sunsets reminded you of how fragile the boundary between day and night had become as summer’s oppressive heat gave way to autumn’s cooler days and crisp air. The change was almost imperceptible in the N109 zone however, where the sun rarely shone and the air always seemed thick with tension. The city was dangerous enough in the light, but under the cover of darkness, it transformed into something feral and untamed.

It was one such night that finally tipped you over the edge. 

You had been trailing Sylus all day, tracking his movements with the kind of precision that had become second nature to you now. He’d had a quiet day - no business meetings in his usual haunts, no deals or auctions attended, just the occasional basic errand that seemed beneath a man of his stature. When you finally overheard a mention of him heading to one of his clubs for an “appointment,” your pulse quickened. At last, a change in scenery.

The club he mentioned, Opal Veil, was one of only a few in his business portfolio that you hadn’t visited yet but you knew enough about its general dealings to know that a field trip there would be no walk in the park. Its reputation preceded it - Opal Veil was an exclusive haven for the N109 zone’s elite, where power and wealth mingled under the dim glow of neon lights. The kind of place where alliances were forged over expensive drinks and betrayals were whispered between beats of the music. This wasn’t just a club. It was a domain, his domain.

As you approached the club that evening, it loomed before you like a jewel in the dark. The neon signage bathed the street in a soft, otherworldly glow, the bold letters of standing out against the grimy backdrop of the city. It seemed entirely out of place in the barren alleyway. The low thumping bassline of the music seemed to rattle the building, the boarded up windows rattling slightly as the beat thrummed. Two towering figures flanked the entrance. Their sharp suits and unconcealed firearms marked them as far more than simple bouncers they were clearly not to be messed with. You took a deep breath and continued towards them with what you hoped was an air of arrogance. They watched you approach, their gazes hard and assessing. Both men turned to look at one another, a silent conversation taking place despite no words ever being said out loud. This was it, you were about to lose your chance to get inside. You prepared yourself to be turned away but to your surprise, they stepped aside without a word, allowing you to pass.

Inside, the club was a world of its own. Golden light spilled from ornate fixtures, illuminating the velvet booths and polished wood floors. The bar gleamed under the glow of recessed lighting, patrons flashing black cards and stacks of cash to catch the attention of the overwhelmed bartenders. The dance floor was a sea of movement, bodies swaying and shifting like a tide under the hypnotic pulse of the music. The scent of cigars, top-shelf liquor, and the faint metallic tang of power filled the air, mingling with the subtle but ever-present smell of danger.

Your outfit - a slinky black dress that clung to your curves in ways you weren’t entirely comfortable with - felt almost like a costume. The hemline barely brushed your thighs, and the plunging neckline revealed far more than you’d ever consider appropriate for work, but in a place like this, blending in was paramount. The gun tucked into your clutch was a poor substitute for your usual holster, leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable. You adjusted the dress once more as you stepped deeper into the club, willing yourself to stay focused.

You were momentarily tipped off balance by an incoming wave of men all dressed in black and clearly not newcomers like you. As they brushed past you, you felt a hand caress your ass and jumped at the contact, feeling completely out of your depth. No one else in the club seemed out of pace, their confidence came from understanding that they were right where they belonged.  People moved with purpose, predators wrapped in silk and sharp suits, their laughter sharp and hollow. Your gaze darted around the room, taking in the opulence and seedy undertones that clung to every corner.

You needed to compose yourself or your presence here would stick out like a sore thumb. You slipped into the bathroom, a sanctuary of warmth and soft golden light. The granite countertop gleamed under suspended lamps, and the faint scent of cedar and expensive soap lingered in the air. You leaned against the cool surface of the sink, your reflection staring back at you.

Your makeup was still flawless, your eyes sharp, but the tension in your shoulders betrayed the nerves simmering beneath your skin. You took a shaky breath, then another, trying to steady yourself. This was just another mission, you reminded yourself. Nothing more. You re-applied your lipstick with slow precision, forcing your trembling hands to still. The glossy sheen felt like a mask - a layer of confidence you desperately needed.

You straightened your posture, smoothing your dress as you turned toward the door. You’d gotten through tougher situations before, you told yourself. This was no different.

But the moment you stepped back into the main room, the world shifted.

Your eyes found him instantly, as though your gaze was magnetically drawn to him, his presence unmistakeable even in the crowded room. Sylus lounged in a private booth, the golden light casting a warm glow over his sharp features. His silver hair caught the light in a way that made it appear almost ethereal, though nothing about him could be called soft. He radiated control and confidence. 

His tailored grey shirt hugged his broad chest and shoulders perfectly, the fabric stretching slightly with every subtle movement. A leather harness wrapped around his torso accentuating the powerful lines and defined musculature beneath. His long legs were stretched out beneath the table, the dark fabric of his trousers perfectly fitted to his form. Your mouth watered at the sight.

Your breath caught as you took him in, the sight of him sending an unbidden heat coursing through your veins. Even seated, he commanded the space, his every movement deliberate, calculated. The smirk playing on his lips suggested he knew exactly how captivating he was—and exactly who was watching him.

Sylus leaned forward slightly, the glow of the light above catching on the sharp planes of his jaw as his gaze flicked across the room, taking everything in with that predatory sharpness. Even here, surrounded by indulgence and luxury, and the elite, he stood out as a person of power. 

And then you saw her.

Lucienne Carrion. The name alone was enough to make your stomach twist. The ruthless leader of Vokoti, an organisation that worked similarly to Onychinus but held nowhere near the same amount of power. . She was dressed in a striking red gown, the fabric clinging to her like a second skin and revealing legs that seemed to stretch for miles. Her dark hair was swept back, her sharp features softened only by the sultry smile she wore as she leaned in close to Sylus. Too close. Her hand rested on his thigh, her long nails tracing idle patterns over the fabric of his trousers. 

Your stomach churned, anger and jealousy twisting together into a suffocating knot. The sight of her touching him ignited something primal in you, a possessiveness that you had no right to feel but couldn’t suppress. He didn’t even know you existed, and yet you felt betrayed, as though his presence with her was a personal affront.

Your mind spiralled, torn between the irrational anger bubbling within you and the cold logic that tried to tell you this wasn’t real. He was supposed to be untouchable, yet here he was, letting her get closer than anyone else ever had. The rational part of your brain left the room, leaving you with only one conclusion to make. The fucker was on a date. He doesn’t know you, the rational part of your mind whispered, but that voice was drowned out by the rush of jealousy that left your hands trembling. 

You moved to the bar, ordering a drink to steady yourself. From your vantage point, you watched them closely, every touch between them like a dagger to your chest. You imagined Lucienne’s head hitting the polished wood of the table, over and over again until the smug smile on her face was replaced by nothing but blood and broken teeth. The thought was so vivid it startled you, and you shook your head, trying to clear the violent imagery.

Sylus’s carmine eyes flicked briefly in your direction, a smirk ghosting across his lips before he turned his attention back to Lucienne. The movement was subtle, so subtle that you missed it entirely.

Sylus grew even more smug at what that little look had revealed to him. He knew you were there. Of course he did. Sylus was always aware of his surroundings, and you had become a part of his landscape - one he found endlessly amusing. He had clocked you the second you had stepped into his club. After all, the security had given him a heads up that his special guest had arrived, just as he knew you would. 

You looked far too tempting for Sylus’ preference. He’d found his thoughts wandering back to the night he’d seen you pleasuring yourself, how delicious your body had looked as you’d writhed in pleasure. Seeing you in that risky little number had his entire body on edge with need.

Pretty little hunter, he thought, the smirk deepening as he watched you from the corner of his eye. The tension in your posture, the way your gaze darted between him and Lucienne - it was written all over you. And oh, how he loved it. You were jealous, and he found it utterly delightful. A spark of satisfaction and pride ran through him, and he leaned into her touch, placing his hand lightly over Lucienne’s as if to seal the intimacy between them.

The sight made your stomach drop, but Sylus felt nothing but delight. He could see the tension in your posture, the way your drink sat untouched on the bar as your attention remained locked on him. Pretty little hunter, he thought with a smirk. How adorable you were, sitting there stewing in jealousy, your emotions practically written across your face.

He leaned closer to Lucienne, whispering something in her ear that made her laugh, the sound low and sultry. He didn’t care about Lucienne, this was a business meeting after all, but the way your jaw tightened at the sight of them together was worth every second of the charade.

Your nails bit into the flesh of your palm, the pain grounding you just enough to keep your composure. You told yourself it didn’t matter, that he didn’t matter, but the bitter taste of betrayal lingered on your tongue. You had killed a man to protect him, had risked everything for him, and now here he was, laughing and leaning into this bitch - allowing someone like her to touch him as though it meant nothing. 

Lucienne’s laughter rang out, a low, sultry sound that only added fuel to the fire burning in your chest. And Sylus - how could he be so casual, so unaffected, when he had consumed your every waking thought? 

Sylus stood, adjusting his shirt collar as he prepared to leave. Lucienne rose with him, her hand trailing down his arm in a gesture that made your teeth clench. He nodded to one of his men, his attention briefly drawn to the movement near the bar. You slipped deeper into the shadows, your mind racing.

How dare he move so freely, so unaffected, while he had consumed every part of you? It wasn’t fair. He had taken up so much space in your mind, haunted your every thought, and yet he lived his life without even a flicker of acknowledgment for what he had done to you. 

As Sylus rose from the booth, Lucienne following closely behind him, you made a decision. You were done playing by the rules of the Hunter’s Association, done trying to reconcile your obsession with the mission. If Sylus was going to consume your every thought, then you would make sure he had no choice but to notice you.

The mission didn’t matter anymore. The only thing that mattered was Sylus - and making him yours, no matter the cost. 

➽──────────────────────────────────❥

Chapter 4 is finally done! This one took me so long and I'm still not entirely happy with it to be honest but if I have to look at it for another day, I might cry!

Please let me know what you think  

❥ Like, reblog, comment, message me, ask me something, literally anything - I live for your feedback on this  ❥

[knoepfl]

hi I love your arcane viktor and mylo stories a lot 👀 and I have a request!

Could you do one where Y/N (who is his girlfriend in this) is hurt and she almost starts to cry because of the pain but Mylo is there to give her comfort and treat her wounds?? And maybe try to make her laugh by his stupid jokes to distract her pain (I just know that guy is a softie on the inside)

Hope this isn't much keep up the good work!! :3

Omg thank you so much for your request! I'm so happy to receive these and also to hear you like my fics is making me all giddy inside^^ I will absolutely do your request as fast as possible bc to be honest. I appreciate that you love Mylo too! It's hard to find fics with him. So here it is! I hope you like it and I didn't disappoint you^^

Patchwork and Punchlines

Characters:

• Y/N (Your Name)

• Mylo’s girlfriend, resourceful and tough, but injured during a skirmish.

• Mylo

• Sarcastic and witty, but shows his softer, caring side when Y/N gets hurt.

Pairing:

Mylo x Reader

Trigger Warnings:

• Violence and Injury: Includes a brief chase, Y/N being hit and injured, and receiving medical attention.

• Pain and Medical Treatment: Mentions of stinging pain and treating a bleeding wound.

• Mild Blood Imagery: Brief reference to blood and bandaging a wound.

Masterlist

Words: 1149

--- Zaun was no stranger to chaos, but tonight seemed particularly hostile. The air was thick with tension as you and Mylo darted through the crowded streets, weaving between towering pipes and makeshift bridges. A simple errand—delivering a small package for Vander—had spiraled out of control when a group of hostile enforcers appeared out of nowhere, barking orders and swinging batons.

"Split up!" Vi had shouted over her shoulder, already leading Powder and Claggor down another alley.

That left you and Mylo with no choice but to head the opposite direction, deeper into the winding maze of Zaun. The shouts of the enforcers echoed behind you, growing louder with every second.

“We’re gonna die!” Mylo yelled, narrowly avoiding a stack of crates as he sprinted ahead of you. “I knew this would happen! I said this was a bad idea, didn’t I?”

“You say everything is a bad idea!” you shot back, struggling to keep pace with him.

Suddenly, an enforcer burst out from a side alley, cutting off your path. His baton gleamed under the dim industrial lights as he swung it toward you. Instinctively, you ducked, the baton grazing your shoulder instead of smashing your face. The force of the blow sent you stumbling into a stack of barrels, the sharp edge of one scraping your arm as you fell.

“Y/N!” Mylo skidded to a stop, his eyes wide as he turned back to you.

“I’m fine!” you lied, clutching your arm as you scrambled to your feet. The pain was sharp and immediate, but the adrenaline pumping through your veins forced you to keep moving.

The enforcer lunged again, but this time Mylo stepped in, jabbing his elbow into the man’s stomach and yanking you out of harm’s way. “Fine, huh? You’re bleeding, genius!” he snapped, dragging you toward a narrow alley.

“Yeah, well, I’d rather bleed than get arrested!” you retorted, wincing as your arm throbbed.

“Good point,” Mylo muttered, glancing over his shoulder as more enforcers poured into the street behind you. “But I’d rather not do either.”

The two of you ducked into the alley, Mylo practically shoving you forward. The path twisted and turned, the walls closing in as the sound of pursuit grew fainter. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you reached a dead end.

“Great. Just great!” Mylo hissed, pacing back and forth. “We’re trapped! This is how it ends, isn’t it? Beaten to death by enforcers because Vi couldn’t keep her mouth shut.”

You slumped against the wall, exhaustion and pain catching up to you. “Stop panicking for five seconds, Mylo. We lost them.”

He froze mid-rant, his gaze snapping to you. “You’re kidding, right? What if—”

“I said we lost them,” you interrupted, gesturing toward the silence around you. “Now, can you just—ugh—focus on this instead?” You pulled your hand away from your arm, revealing the blood-streaked tear in your sleeve.

Mylo’s face paled. “Oh, crap. That’s… that’s not good.”

“It’s not that bad,” you lied again, though the tears welling in your eyes said otherwise.

He crouched down in front of you, his earlier panic replaced by something softer. “Not that bad? Y/N, you’re leaking! People don’t just casually leak!”

---

You leaned against the wall, biting your lip to keep from crying out. Blood seeped through the tear in your sleeve, the sharp sting of the cut making your vision blur.

Mylo was crouched in front of you, his hands hovering as if unsure what to do. His usual snarky confidence was replaced by wide eyes and furrowed brows. “Okay, okay, don’t freak out,” he said, mostly to himself. “You’re not dying. Yet.”

You shot him a glare through the haze of pain. “Not helping, Mylo.”

“Right, sorry.” He rubbed the back of his neck, visibly flustered. “I’ve got this! Totally. Just… give me a second.”

He rummaged through his satchel, pulling out a ragged strip of cloth and a bottle of something that smelled like it could melt steel. His face softened when he glanced at your pale features, a rare crack in his sarcastic armor. “Hey, I’ll fix you up, alright? I’m practically a doctor. You can call me… uh, Dr. Mylo.” He grinned, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Licensed in talking too much and patching up badasses like you.”

You tried to chuckle, but it came out as more of a wince. “Doesn’t sound very reassuring.”

He kneeled closer, dabbing the cloth in the makeshift antiseptic. “Okay, this might sting a little. Like, maybe a lot. But you’re tough, right?” His voice wavered, betraying the nervousness he was trying to hide.

When the cloth touched your wound, a sharp hiss escaped your lips, and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. Mylo froze, his hand halting mid-motion. “Whoa, whoa, Y/N—don’t cry!” he blurted, his voice rising an octave. “I mean, not that you can’t cry if you want to, but—uh—oh, crap, I’m terrible at this.”

You couldn’t help but let out a weak laugh at his panic. “Mylo, you’re so bad at this.”

“Hey, that’s rude. I’m saving your life here!” He smirked, clearly relieved by the sound of your laugh. “I mean, without me, who’d patch you up? Vi? She’d probably just punch the wound closed.”

“Powder?” you teased.

“Powder would just throw glitter on it and call it a day.”

The image of Powder sprinkling glitter over a bloody wound made you laugh despite the pain. Mylo grinned, clearly pleased with himself, and gently continued cleaning the cut. “There we go, see? You’re already looking better. Laughing hurts less than crying, right?”

As he worked, he kept up a steady stream of ridiculous jokes and commentary. “You know, if you keep getting hurt like this, I’m gonna start charging you. I don’t work for free, you know.”

“Oh, really? What’s your price?” you asked, your voice steadier now.

“Hm…” Mylo tilted his head, pretending to think. “How about you buy me dinner? Or, I dunno, just kiss me better when I inevitably stab myself trying to open a can or something.”

You smiled through the lingering sting of the antiseptic. “Deal.”

With the wound cleaned and bandaged, Mylo sat back on his heels, brushing a lock of hair out of your face with uncharacteristic tenderness. “See? Told you I’d fix you up. Not bad for a street rat, huh?”

“Not bad at all,” you admitted, feeling a warmth in your chest that had nothing to do with the injury. “Thanks, Dr. Mylo.”

He chuckled, the sound softer now. “Anytime, Y/N. But seriously, next time? Duck faster.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile didn’t fade. Mylo might have been a cocky, sarcastic pain most of the time, but when it mattered, he was there for you. And as he leaned in to press a quick, awkward kiss to your forehead, you realized you wouldn’t trade him for anything.

---

[suffarustuffaru]

Emilia. Just Emilia. But she’s not just Emilia—she’s the half-devil, the Witch of Envy, the Witch of Glaciation, a monster in the flesh—and then you meet her and she reaaally drags out her words, feels exceedingly happy having one (1) good five second conversation for the day, which she then spends gently attending to all the frozen statues in the forest that was her home during most of her childhood. She’s just Emilia in the sense that she’s a tender-hearted girl desperately longing for company, desperately longing to do good in a world that not only despises her, but tells her continuously that she is to blame for everything out of her control and that the only thing she’s good at is hurting people. She wants people close, she wants people to stay, and then she feels forced to use the world’s hatred of her to push others away for their own good. Yes, I’m the monster you see me as, she says, so don’t stay with me or you’ll get hurt. What she actually means is: please stay, and please love me. A tender-hearted girl screaming to the world about what she did wrong and how she can possibly fix it—and the world almost never gives her a straight answer. The world says: here is everyone and everything you have ever lost, here is what you couldn’t do, here is your weakness, here are all the things you can’t control, so stop fighting. But she still tries to help Plum. She still tries to assert herself during the Royal Selection. She still tries to defend her personhood. She still tries to brute force the first Sanctuary trial so many times that her mind breaks in a princess room attempting to save people. She still tries to kill Pandora for what she did. She breaks and she puts herself back together and she has no control over anything but herself—yes, she had help. Yes, she’s been supported by many different hands, and failed by the very same. But she still had to choose to get up, to try again, to open new doors, as the world challenges her at every turn. Die, stop fighting, accept blame and guilt and crumble under the weight of it. Maybe she will crumble, but her tender heart jumpstarts Re:Zero, and so she’ll start anew again. She’s just Emilia, and that’s what makes her beautiful. Being kind after knowing cruelty is a strength, not a weakness, and she’ll try to wipe her tears away and keep moving forward with her teeth gritted—instead of remaining frozen. Thus, in conclusion: she kins Elsa from Frozen and Elphaba from Wicked.

hello re:zero fan. in front of you is a re:zero character. describe them and who they are as a person without mentioning or angling your analysis around subaru natsuki.

[zoennes]

“We met up once and it wasn't even a date. I did it for Amber. You know how she's always going on about Senne. So… Last Friday I asked him to cancel that gathering. But in exchange, for half an hour I had to…”

“Kiss?”

“Talk [to him].”

Zoenne + 30 minutes

[abyssal-ilk]

i have mixed feelings overall about the dialogue between vivienne and cole, mainly because cole's prodding at her (and all of the other companions, really) feels so invasive and there is nothing we can do to get him to actually stop, BUT.

i cannot get over this piece of banter. it's forever living in my head