#declan x oc

[araybiaaa]

❝ in vain, d. o’hara.❞

ooo. 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈… declan o’hara x cameron cook

ooo. 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔… emotional cheating, fingering, handjobs, vulgarity, masturbation, vaginal fingering, penetrative sex, infidelity.

ooo. 𝒔𝒚𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒊𝒔… (cont.) declan finds himself pining after cameron, unable to get her and their salacious tryst out of his mind despite his efforts. cameron relinquishes control as her mind wanders on declan.

ooo. 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔… this is part two of in vain. whether there’ll be a part three is undecided at the moment. and here’s why: but enjoy nonetheless!

He tries to stop thinking about her.

But his efforts are proven futile as she seemingly invaded his mind to the point where she’s all that he thinks about. He doesn’t know how it got to this point; how his infatuation and attraction became this deep, to where he can’t function properly without reminiscing on their salacious tryst.

The memory mockingly taunts him especially at night when he’s laid fully awake in bed — almost a prisoner to his insomnia and the only thing that distracts him from his troubles are the vivid memories of Cameron. Of how he felt inside of her, at how her cunt accommodated perfectly to the girth of him as he stretched her open, at the pretty little noises that she made every time he fucked all eight inches of himself inside of her, at how perfect she is. 

He found himself enticed by her; not only by her ethereal beauty but by her brazen personality. From their very first introduction, Declan was mesmerized by her — completely captivated at how strong-willed and unapologetic she was. He had never encountered someone like her; someone that frustrated him but also piqued his interest. 

She was also fucking stubborn and often made brash decisions without a seconds thought of the repercussions. But she was great at her job and possibly one of the best producers he’s ever worked with. She told him to forget about their hookup, but how could he possibly do that when she was the only thing that occupied his mind?

He groaned, palming his hands over his face as he chided himself for his petulant-like crush. It was ridiculous, pining over someone else when he should’ve been putting forth this kind of effort in repairing his marriage, especially since he knew that Cameron was still emotionally unavailable. 

But he couldn’t help it. 

He’d gotten a taste of her and immediately became addicted. Declan sighed deeply as he stared vacantly at the ceiling — usually in occasions like this when he couldn’t sleep, he’d wake Maud with a hand between her thighs and his mouth kissing feverishly at her neck. And they’d fuck slowly against the mattress until Declan exhausted himself and he was able to sleep again. 

His mind wasn’t on Maud nor was he mourning the loss of her touch that usually offered him comfort in this type of situation. It was on Cameron, always on Cameron. He murmured a low curse of frustration as he lowered his eyes to his lap where he feels the swelling of his cock twitching against the fabric of his briefs.

Was it appropriate to jerk off to thoughts of your coworker? No. But he was so fucking horny and he felt his cock aching desperately in pain for relief that he absentmindedly disregarded the moralities of his actions and roughy tugged his briefs over his hips before wrapping a hand around his cock. 

He feels weak as he succumbs to his sexual frustration but he decides that he’ll deal with that after he’s satiated his libido.

Declan licks his lips, palming his turgid cock in his hands. He brushes his thumb over the tip smearing together the precum and using it as a lubricant to slick himself up. His chest heaves in spasms, breaths come out rugged and labored through his flared nostrils, eyes squeeze shut as he firmly wrapped his fingers around the engorged flesh and tugged his hand upward in a fluid motion.

He shudders, murmuring a low “fuck,” underneath his breath as he twisted his wrist and continued the fluid tugs.

He allows his mind to wander on Cameron; imagining that it was her hands that were jerking him off instead of his own, imagining how vocal and filthy she would be as she engaged in teasing him. Declan’s hips rolled in tandem against his hands as he tugged with vigor — he pictures Cameron’s succulent pink lips around his cock sucking him until he’s completely boneless and milked dry. 

Declan’s jaw clenched as his jerking movements hastened. He spreads his legs further open, giving himself more space as he twisted and tugged at his cock. Parts of him wants to delay his orgasm so that he could keep indulging in his thoughts of Cameron but his body is desperate for a release — with him already feeling it creeping up on him in the way his abdomen clenched and toes curled in the fabric of his socks. “Cameron,” He grunts, biting so harshly on his lower lip that he tasted the salty bitterness of blood stinting from the bruise.

He stifles his moan behind pursed lips, wary of inadvertently waking his daughters who were only feet away down the hallway. He cums messily, the milky fluid skeets over his stomach and thighs and even spills a bit on the bedsheets. His body goes lax as it releases; his pulse slows and his breathing steadies as he laid there in the filth of his fluids.

…

What was Declan’s issue?

Why did he feel the need to insert himself and his unwanted opinion about her relationship with Tony? Sure, there were times where she questioned the logic behind her loyalty to him too but that didn’t give Declan the right to speak on something that he didn’t know.

She’s had enough of people doing that and usually whenever someone made an offhanded remark about it she would either disregard it with insouciance, not even bothering to respond or she would curse them out to the point where they’d cower away and refrain from ever speaking about it again.

She wasn’t embarrassed that everyone at the office knew about them, she just preferred that her business remained private. She already dealt with the struggles of maintaining space in a predominantly white and male oriented career, she didn’t need anyone making assumptions about her acquiring her position because of a man. She knows the truth of how hard she worked to get to the position of where she’s at and that she didn’t need to prove her worth to anyone. 

But for some reason, she found herself caring about Declan’s opinion. She has always respected him — even when she first met him and he made the foolish mistake of assuming she was his assistant instead of the head producer. Declan O’Hara had made a name for himself in television journalism in a way that Cameron idolized and she found herself excited that he came to their network to further it. 

Maybe that’s why she was offended when he referred to her as naive. She wasn’t naive; she knew the terms of their situation and accepted it as such. (Okay, maybe she wanted more from him — like not being limited to hotel rooms every time she wanted to go out on a date with him but still — she knew there was only so much she could get from Tony.)

Declan doesn’t know Tony. 

Not like she does. 

He cares about her and their relationship is sacred to him as it is to her. It’s important and real — and she doesn’t even know why she’s so insistent on trying to rationalize this as if his opinion changed anything. She needed to stop thinking about it, about him. 

What happened that day in the bathroom had become a distant memory. Sure, it was undeniably the best sex that she’s ever had but she knows that it would only remain as such because Declan had a wife and despite his brief moment of infidelity, she could tell that he still loved her.

But the harder she attempted to resist the more she thought about it. She sighed, turning her head as she looked over at Tony who lay sprawled out on the mattress beside her. He had fallen asleep as soon as they finished — snoring loudly in his post coital bliss.

She bit her lip as guilt ridden thoughts surfaced. When they were having sex, she found her mind wandering on Declan. 

Maybe it wasn’t fair to compare but she noticed that Tony’s kisses were different from Declan’s; not having the same vigor to where she felt breathless and weak kneed whenever he kissed her. She attempted to convince herself that it was because she was familiar to Tony’s touch so her being with someone new heightened new realizations that she wasn’t aware of. 

But even when he reached down and slid his finger over her clothed cunt — she didn’t feel the same throb of excitement that spread through her and sent avid shivers down her spine like it did that day in the bathroom when Declan touched her.

Cameron ignored the void of his touch and continued to kiss and grind against the thickness of his fingers; hoping that her arousal would begin to come. But there was this feeling of irritation that emerged instead; his fingers felt wrong. They were too callused and the pressure of his fingers irritated her skin, and he didn’t curl them deep enough to where she actually felt any stimulation.

“Let’s just get in bed,” She suggested warily after growing exasperated from her prolonged arousal, already shimmying her thong over her hips and down her thighs.

She undressed herself wanting to hasten the process.

Tony attempted foreplay — he kissed the inside of her thighs, bit at her neck and fondled her nipples until they become stout and erect. It was unceremonious when he slid his cock inside of her; there was a faint pain that spread when he stretched inside of her but that pain immediately subsided. He grabbed her by the hips, aligning their pelvises and then stroked himself inside of her in a fluid thrust.

And as Cameron laid there listening to the rugged pants of his breath against her ear, she wondered if sex with Tony was always this bad or had Declan set some unfair precedent that he had failed to meet? Whatever the answer was she knows that sex wasn’t supposed to be like this — to where she was inwardly waiting for it to be over so he could pull out of her and crawl off of her.

Tony came thick and messy and his body shivered on top of her as he panted loudly against her hair. “That was amazing,” He murmured, chuckling as he brushed her hair out of her face so that he was able to look down at her.

Cameron only nodded, pursing her lips in a tight feeble smile knowing that if she responded verbally that he would’ve been able to hear the lie in her voice.

She didn’t even cum. 

He left her frustrated and dry, inconsiderate of reciprocating the pleasure. 

(Declan would never do that.

He made sure she came twice, even encouraged it to the point of desperation.) 

Fuck. 

Why was she thinking about him again?

She needed to stop — 

She knows that she needs to. 

But then she feels herself ache at the memory of Declan being inside of her. At how full she felt at the thickness of his cock penetrating her, at now attentive and caring he was as he held her, and how he had her cuming so hard that her body trembled from the exertion.

Cameron breathed softly through her parted lips as she squeezed her thighs together, hoping that it would relieve the ache. But then she throbs and she’s choking out a soft sob at the stimulation. She looks over at Tony again, assuring that he was still in his deep slumber. 

She curses out loud, scolding at her lack of self preservation as she slides her hand underneath the elastic waistband of her underwear, descending lower until she reached the slickness of her cunt.

Her body trembles uncontrollably against the gentlest brush of her fingers against the sensitive flesh. She bites back a whimper, squeezing her eyes shut and grinds her hips against her two arousal fingers that puckered inside of her. Needing more — she reaches a hand up and palmed her breast; teasing her thumb over the flaccid skin until it swells from her touch. She’s overwhelmed by stimulation of her fingers fucking herself and the feeling of her sore breasts against her hands. 

And she moans louder, despite her efforts, when she thinks about Declan’s hands being in her place. Her pussy clenches tightly around her fingers, swallowing them whole. She’s thrusting so hard that the mattress creaks beneath her — and her earlier trepidation about not waking Tony is lost in the void as her only focus is cuming. Her back arches, mouth falls agape as she feels it pool out of her.

Her cunt flutters from the sensitivity.

She removes her hand from her underwear and releases her grip on her breast as she attempts to steady her breathing. 

Tony stirs next to her, sinking his head further against the pillow as he found himself succumbing to his exhaustion again; completely oblivious to the fact that Declan had given her the orgasm she’s been seeking all night. 

[persephones-journey]

Persephone is Rupert's best friend.

She was also Declan's girlfriend.

But Maud is back in the picture and Declan has chosen to make his marriage work.

Rupert comes back after being gone for a while and decides he needs to cheer Persephone up...

... sex in Declan's study should do it.

Tainted Souls Kinkmas writing event

Prompts: voyeurism, praise kink, drunk sex, cuckholding

[obsessivevoidkitten]

The Invasion

Cat Man Alien Yandere x Gender Neutral Reader

CW: Painful noncon, reader gets smacked, biting, collaring, owner/pet, pet reader, reader tied up, reader is an idiot, alien invasion, shapeshifting, general yandere behavior

Word Count: 1.2k

(Popped into my head, finished at 2-3am this morning, hope you all like it. Please leave comments and consider tipping to support the senior's bake sale, I love you all <3)

Twiggy was a rescue. He had been brought into the animal shelter you worked at and was pretty injured. Once he was nursed back to health, you immediately adopted him.

He was a bit standoffish, even by cat standards, but he slowly seemed to tolerate you. Then, almost actually like you. It's like he would enjoy affection and then catch himself and hiss before running off.

Even though you made sure never to let him outside, he always seemed to get out anyway, mostly in the dead of night. 

In an effort to discover just how he was escaping, you set up cameras. But they always ended up knocked down or broken before catching anything. Then you put a cat cam on him, but every night, he would fling it off after you went to sleep.

You had enough. It was getting creepy. You decided you would follow him. He never tried to leave while you were awake, though, so you had to pretend to sleep. 

The sound of the door could very faintly be heard closing, so you got up silently and slunk into the living room.

Astonished, you looked at the door. It had been unlocked, and Twiggy was missing. He had somehow figured out how to open doors. It wasn't entirely unheard of for a cat to manage a door handle, but the lock?

You quietly left the building and saw Twiggy moving with purpose down the road.

After a while, you thought yourself stupid. He was just going to do random cat stuff. Why were you following him? He probably just smelled something that gripped his attention.

But as he kept going through various alleys and back roads, a few other cats joined him without any reaction from him. They proceeded in orderly and determined fashion right into the old abandoned factory. 

You followed and had to hold back a gasp at what you saw. Down in the basement level was Twiggy standing on a pile of scrap with dozens of other cats gathering below him.

It was some sort of cat cult. 

But if you thought that was shocking, you hadn't seen anything yet. Suddenly, Twiggy effortlessly shifted into a nude man with curly brown hair, a tail, and cat ears on his head.

After he transformed, all the others did the same. The room was filled with naked men and women with tails and cat ears. This was getting too weird. The best course of action now was to make a silent retreat.

As you began to back away, Twiggy pointed in your direction and stated something you were too far to really hear.

In a flash, the cat people were upon you, dragging you over to Twiggy and forcing you to kneel before him before they tied you up and gagged you so you couldn't speak. 

He addressed the others without sparing a glance at you. 

"I infiltrated this human's place of employment and then their home." 

He stroked your hair in a manner similar to the way you would pet him in his cat form. 

"I have learned that we can use their workplace as a front and get adopted as their pets. We will use this method to infiltrate every home before taking over and turning humans into OUR pets!"

Twiggy turned to an androgynous looking cat person.

"River, I need you to take the form of this human and work at the shelter as we discussed at the last meeting. Come over tomorrow to my human's house, and I'll give you the schedule."

River nodded in affirmation.

After that, the meeting came to an end, and Twiggy dismissed the others. He pulled the gag off of you and allowed you to speak.

"Twiggy, w-what's go-"

The cat man smacked you harshly. It left an echo resounding through the large empty room. 

"That's a gross pet name. My real name is Declan."

You whimpered and then flinched when he pet the spot he had smacked gingerly. 

"Sorry, I shouldn't have hurt you, you didn't know… You probably have lots of questions."

Of course, you had questions. And Twig- Declan… answered every one of them patiently. 

He explained that the cat people were aliens who just happened to have a form that looked like a common earth house pet. They could also look like any human they wanted, though they had to hide their feline features. He was the leader. And now that you were aware of everything, you got to be the first pet. His personal one. He promised to treat you well.

After the Q&A, he put on some clothes he had and took you back to what was no longer your house. He put your gag back in so you couldn't scream on the way.

True to his word, he treated you like a precious pampered pet, since you had helped heal him and took such good care of him. He even gave you a jeweled collar for you to wear as proof he owned and cared for you.

Though he had started to care about you in ways that he probably shouldn't have.

But after a while, he couldn't help it anymore. One night when your head was laying on his lap while the two of you watched a show he liked, something he forced you to do as he stroked your arm and side, his cock stirred under your head, and he had to give in.

He stripped you of all your clothes; you struggled and protested, but his strong, lean body easily overpowered your own.

He pulled off your collar and bit your neck hard to get you to submit as he mounted you, before shoving his cock in you deeply all at once with no preparation. 

The cat man fucked into you ferally, going off pure instinct, pushing your head into the couch cushion so no one could hear your screams.

You were sure you were going to die, that you were going to be split apart by his girthy cock, that the last things you would hear were your muffled screams, the sound of his nuts slamming into you, and his animalistic growls.

Declan's cock pistoned in and out roughly as tears streamed down your face. You felt a sense of shame as he forced you to orgasm despite the cruelty of the way he was violating you.

It wasn't enough that he took your house, job, and way of life and eventually would take your planet, but now he was claiming your insides with his throbbing cock as well.

He came in you roughly and finally seemed to gradually come back to his senses. He licked away your tears and the blood and cum that were mingled and leaking from your hole.

"I'm so sorry, I just couldn't help myself! I'll be more gentle and use lube next time, okay?"

The cat man comforted you as best he could, bathing you as you sobbed. He sincerely regretted hurting you, but he couldn't deny his instincts and really needed some release. Going forward, he decided you would be his mate as well as his pet, so he didn't go wild with pent-up emotions again. 

[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], [chapter three], [chapter four]

o1. But we could be safer, just for one day

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 Bas 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: s ettling 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 Bas, 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 Bas, 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.

[batmanlovesnirvana]

— ‘the frenchwoman.’

RUPERT CAMPBELL-BLACK x FEM!READER

words : 4k

synopsis : You’re no journalist, but a last-minute favor thrusts you into an interview with Rupert Campbell-Black, the infamous Olympian-turned-MP. You hate everything aristocratic, a sentiment no doubt rooted in your French ancestry and your country’s history with the elite. Still, the lines between duty and danger blur with every word.

A/N : English isn’t my first language, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes. I’m not entirely sure what I just wrote, but I hope it’s still enjoyable! :)

THE RUTSHIRE COUNTRYSIDE unfolded before you like a scene from a postcard: undulating hills, pristine fields, and the occasional splash of wildflowers in vivid hues.

It was undeniably beautiful, yet to someone who’d grown up in Paris and now lived in London, where beauty was always wrapped in the chaotic buzz of life, it felt unsettlingly perfect—almost too serene.

You weren’t a journalist—not by any stretch. Your expertise lay in veterinary medicine, not in chasing headlines or conducting interviews.

But when your friend had called, her voice trembling with desperation and barely holding back tears as she tried to explain why she couldn’t make it to England for an urgent assignment for her boss at a high-profile media firm, you hadn’t been able to say no. She’d stammered through her plea, insisting it was a last-minute decision, that none of her colleagues could take her place, and that you were the only French person she knew living in England—making you the perfect stand-in.

She wasn’t famous, but the company she worked for certainly was. Thankfully, they didn’t have a photo of her on file, just the knowledge that a French journalist was coming to interview the infamous womanizing MP.

You fit the role perfectly—or at least well enough to fool them.

So, with a deep breath and every ounce of courage you could summon, you stepped into her shoes, ready to play the part.

The house—no, the manor—loomed ahead, a lavish testament to old money and unchecked arrogance.

Stepping out of your worn-down car, your high heels crunched against the polished gravel of the estate’s driveway of the Campbell-Black estate.

Already, you regretted your choice of footwear, but it was necessary—you had to look the part.

Dressed in a sharp, polished red blouse and matching skirt, you quickly verified that the notebook containing the questions your friend had painstakingly prepared was still tucked safely in your bag. Adjusting it under your arm, your fingers tightened momentarily as you glanced at the grand manor towering before you.

God, you just hoped you wouldn’t embarrass yourself—or blow the cover entirely. The sheer weight of history and expectation seemed to hang in the air, pressing down on you as you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the charade that lay ahead.

“Ah, and here she is.”

The voice, smooth and laced with amusement, came from your left. You turned to see him leaning against a sleek sports car, arms crossed and radiating an air of smug privilege.

Rupert Campbell-Black.

He towered over most, tall and broad-shouldered, with an air of infuriating self-assurance that seemed to demand attention without even trying. His smile, sharp and knowing, was the kind that could either make you want to roll your eyes in disbelief or, if you were feeling particularly bold, slap it right off his face.

Everything about him screamed aristocrat, from the crisply tailored blazer that looked like it had been made for a throne to the way he carried himself with an effortless arrogance, as if he owned the world and was simply letting the rest of us pretend we had a say in it.

It wasn't that you hated him—not exactly. It was more the idea of him, the things he represented, the polished, perfect image he projected of old money, entitlement, and an almost offensive ease with the luxuries of life.

You despised that.

But your irritation with him had mostly been built from the things you’d read in the tabloids. You didn’t want to buy into the gossip, but it was hard not to when everything you read painted him as the worst kind of privileged, pompous snob. Still, like everyone else, you couldn’t help but feel a certain curiosity toward him.

And when you saw him in person—standing there with his smirk and that goddamn perfectly disheveled hair—you had to admit, he was more handsome than you'd imagined. The kind of handsome that made you want to look away just so he wouldn’t notice how much you were looking.

Of course, you wouldn't let him know that.

“You must be the journalist,” he said, his voice smooth and rich, like the kind of tone one might use when speaking to someone far beneath them.

He straightened up, his movements calculated and assured as he began to saunter toward you with that predatory grace, as though he had just spotted an interesting mouse.

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms with deliberate calm. “And you must be the aristocrat who thinks it’s still 1815,” you fired back, taking in his perfectly polished shoes, the tailored cut of his suit, the way he walked as if he were the only person in the room worth noticing. You couldn't help but scan him from head to toe, that critical, discerning eye you had well-practiced over years of dealing with people like him.

He halted in his tracks, his smirk widening as though your words had delivered precisely the challenge he’d been anticipating. “French, then?” he asked, his tone laced with a hint of amusement, underpinned by that ever-present air of casual superiority.

Of course, Rupert already knew the journalist was French—he would have done his homework before agreeing to the interview. No, this was just him, toying with you.

“Oui,” you replied with a quick glance and a little more bite than usual, your arms still crossed tightly over your chest. "Is that going to be a problem?" you added, the challenge in your voice clear, daring him to say something, anything, that would prove your impression of him wrong—or, more likely, confirm it.

“Not at all,” he said smoothly, with a flourish of his hand toward the house. His voice carried a casual, almost theatrical quality as if he were performing for an audience. “In fact, it’s quite refreshing. Most journalists they send are painfully polite. You, on the other hand, seem… different.”

You rolled your eyes, a small, exasperated laugh escaping you. “If by ‘different,’ you mean I’m not here to stroke your ego, then yes, I suppose I am.”

Rupert’s laugh rang out, deep and assured, as if he were privy to some private joke. The sound both irked and intrigued you. Without missing a step, he fell into stride beside you as you neared the entrance. “Miss Duvallet, is it?” he asked.

You opened your mouth, ready to correct him with your real name and a sharp insult, but then it hit you—you were supposed to be Miss Duvallet.

Swallowing the sudden lump in your throat, you simply nodded and replied with a curt, “Yes.”

“Tell me,” he said, his tone shifting slightly, taking on a hint of curiosity, “why take this assignment if you’re so clearly opposed to everything I represent?”

You shot him a look, your response as blunt as ever. “Work,” you said simply, shrugging as if that were the only answer that mattered. “Not all of us have the luxury of inheriting a manor.”

“Touché,” he replied, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, before he opened the door for you, ushering you inside.

The manor greeted you with all the grandeur you’d expected—high, vaulted ceilings, furniture so polished it seemed to shine even in the dim light, and walls adorned with heavy portraits of ancestors whose eyes followed you as you moved. It was all so… much.

You paused, taking it all in, trying to stifle the small twinge of awe that prickled at your insides.

“Impressed?” Rupert asked, his voice light with amusement, clearly savoring the effect his surroundings had on you.

Yes, you were impressed. It was a beautiful place, no denying that. But you would never let him know that.

You glanced at him, your expression flat, even though a part of you was bristling with the impulse to give a biting reply. “If by ‘impressed,’ you mean mildly nauseated, then yes, I suppose you could say that.”

Rupert’s laughter rang out again, deeper this time, full of genuine surprise. The sound was so unexpected that it caught you off guard, making you wonder if you had misjudged him. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, clearly entertained by your response.

Shaking your head, you redirected the conversation. “So, where do we start? I assume you’ve prepared some kind of agenda.”

“Of course,” he said, leading you down a grand hallway. “But first, let me clear the air about one thing.”

You stopped, turning to face him. His tone, while still light, carried a sharper edge.

“I don’t know what you’ve read about me, but I’m not quite as terrible as I’m made out to be.”

You tilted your head, a small, skeptical smile playing on your lips. “Let me guess. You’re not like the other rich men?”

His grin widened, wolfish and unapologetic. “I’m worse.”

You hummed, clearly skeptic about him. "Very well, Mr Campbell-Black."

“Rupert,” he corrected smoothly. “If we’re going to spend time together, you might as well call me by my name.”

“Fine,” you said with a shrug, keeping your tone professional. “But don’t get any ideas. I’m here to work, not to feed into whatever thing you think this is.”

“Perish the thought,” he replied with mock solemnity. “But I should warn you—things around here can get… unpredictable.”

You sighed, the weight of the situation settling on your shoulders. Already, you were questioning your life choices. “Wonderful,” you muttered under your breath, yet you forced a polite, practiced smile—one honed through years of dealing with difficult interview subjects.

Rupert led you into another room, as grandiose as the first, if not more so. He referred to it as the green tea room, a name that seemed almost as carefully curated as the room itself. Emerald green walls framed the space, accented by high ceilings and sculptures that, if you had to guess, cost more than a year’s salary. The furniture—rich, heavy pieces that seemed to whisper of luxury—only reinforced the wealth that dripped from every corner of the manor.

He guided you to a plush, velvet-red canapé, the cushions soft beneath you as you sat. “Drink?” Rupert asked smoothly, uncapping a whiskey bottle and beginning to pour himself a glass.

“No, thank you,” you answered, your tone firm.

But Rupert, ever the charming host, wasn’t easily deterred. “Not even wine?” he pressed, his gaze flicking toward you with mild amusement.

“I don’t drink,” you replied, trying to maintain your focus.

He raised an eyebrow, unperturbed. “Tea, then? I can call the maid to prepare us some,” he offered, as if suggesting something as simple as breathing.

You leaned back slightly, your patience thinning. “With all due respect, Rupert, I’m here to discuss politics. Shall we start?”

For the first time, a flicker of surprise crossed his face, his posture shifting as he registered your refusal. His usual easygoing charm was momentarily unsettled. “Straight to business?” he asked, amusement creeping into his voice. “Not even a little foreplay? Do all French journalists lack a sense of occasion, or is it just you?”

You didn’t flinch, meeting his gaze with an evenness that only made his grin widen. Then, uou inhaled deeply, willing yourself to remain professional. “Again, If you think I’m here to flirt or fawn, you’re mistaken. Let’s just say I’m not your usual… audience.”

Rupert’s laugh was low and lazy, like a cat stretching in the sun. “Oh, I like you. Sharp. Refreshing, really. Most people who visit spend the first ten minutes fawning over the place.”

“Then let me save us both the trouble,” you said crisply, gesturing vaguely at the ornate surroundings. “It’s very big. Very… lovely. Now, can we start ?”

Perching on the edge of the overstuffed armchair, you pulled out your notepad, determined to stay focused.

“So,” you began in a neutral tone, “the Tory Party. What inspired your allegiance to them?”

Rupert leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed, yet his confidence radiated with every movement.“Allegiance? That’s a bit strong for my taste,” he said with a faint smile. “Let’s just say I appreciate certain efficiencies, the kind that get results. I’ve always been drawn to winning teams, the ones that know how to play the game and come out on top.”

His eyes sharpened, the casual tone shifting into something more calculating. After a brief pause, he swirled the liquor in his glass, the crystal catching the light. “And as for ‘inspiration,’ that’s a bit too lofty for me. I’ve always believed in the importance of tradition, in maintaining order. That’s what keeps everything running smoothly.”

You jotted his response down but didn’t look up, deliberately keeping your tone sharp. “Do you think the party reflects the realities of modern Britain?”

His eyes sparkled with a challenge as he met your gaze. “That depends. Whose reality are we talking about? But you’re French, aren’t you? Tell me—what do you think of it all?”

You met his gaze without flinching. “I find the British fascination with monarchy and class structure quite intriguing, especially for a country that prides itself on being ‘modern,’” you finished, emphasizing the word with two fingers forming quotation marks.

His smile sharpened, full of challenge. “Careful, you’re starting to sound like a revolutionary.”

You smirked, leaning back in your chair. “Don’t worry. I left the guillotines at home.”

“For now,” he added, his grin widening.

You rolled your eyes, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “If we’re done with the banter, let’s get back to the topic. Do you believe your policies address the needs of modern Britain, or are they focused on preserving this… tradition and order you mentioned?”

His expression grew thoughtful, though the amused glint in his eye remained. “A good politician knows how to balance the old and the new,” he said. “The past is what grounds us, but the future… that’s what keeps things interesting.”

You jotted down his words, biting back the urge to challenge him further. Rupert Campbell-Black might be as infuriating as he was charming, but he was certainly keeping your interview lively.

“Are you always like this, or do you save the charm for interviews?”

“Only when the company’s as delightful as this,” he replied smoothly, leaning forward slightly. “But tell me, do all French journalists enjoy poking the British aristocracy, or is that just your particular specialty?”

You raised an eyebrow, refusing to be drawn in. “I ask questions. Whether or not they’re uncomfortable is up to you.”

His chuckle was low and unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world. “Fair enough. Though I do hope this isn’t all business. You’d miss the best parts.”

You ignored the bait, your pen poised over the notepad. “Let’s stick to the topic. How do you think the Tory Party’s policies address the concerns of everyday citizens?”

Rupert tilted his head, his expression unreadable for a moment before he responded. “That’s a rather broad question. Perhaps you’d like to narrow it down. Or would you prefer I give you the polished party line?”

"Why don’t you surprise me?” you countered.

His lips twitched in a faint smirk, but he didn’t take the bait. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as if weighing his options.

"Minister of Sport—it’s quite the title. How did that come about?” you pressed, switching tactics.

He relaxed further, his expression a mix of amusement and pride. “I suppose you could say it was a natural fit. My background in racing and polo gave me some credibility, and my, shall we say, people skills helped me secure the role.”

You snorted softly, scribbling in your notebook. “People skills. Is that what we’re calling it?"

“Well,” he said with a self-assured grin, “knowing which hands to shake and which backs to pat is half the battle in politics, isn’t it? Or did you imagine my ascent was purely a matter of sporting excellence?”

You smirked, meeting his gaze head-on. “I imagine most ascents, political or otherwise, involve a little grease on the ladder.”

His laughter was warm, though tinged with challenge. “I suppose your right. Do you apply the same cynicism to journalism? Or do you reserve that for the likes of me?”

“That depends,” you shot back lightly. “Are you going to give me a real answer, or keep playing the charming aristocrat?”

“Ah, but why not both?” he replied smoothly, his grin widening, leaning slightly forward. “I’ve always believed in a balance between charm and substance. Something I’m sure you’ll appreciate.”

You gave a small, knowing nod. "I’m starting to see that."

"Careful," he warned, though his tone was light. “I might start to think you’re underestimating me.”

“Never,” you said, matching his smirk. “But I am curious—what’s your vision for British sport? Surely it’s not all polo matches and champagne receptions.”

Rupert’s smile faded slightly, replaced by a look of genuine focus. “It’s about more than just the elite sports, though they’re important. Grassroots programs, improving facilities, getting kids involved in physical activity—that’s where the real work is. If we want to compete on the world stage, we need to start at the bottom and build up.”

It was an unexpectedly thoughtful answer, but you weren’t about to let him off the hook. “And yet, critics have accused you of focusing too much on prestige projects—Wembley renovations, international events, things that benefit the few rather than the many. How do you respond to that?”

He chuckled, but there was a sharpness to his gaze. “Critics always find something to complain about. But let’s be clear—those ‘prestige projects’ bring in revenue, jobs, and attention. They’re investments, not indulgences.”

You tapped your pen against your notepad. “Fair point, but how do you balance that with ensuring access for underprivileged communities? Because from where I’m sitting, the gap between elite and grassroots sports seems to be widening.”

Rupert’s jaw tightened slightly, and for a moment, you wondered if you’d pushed too hard. Then he nodded, as if conceding the point. “It’s a fair criticism. And it’s something I’m working on. But change takes time, and unfortunately, not everyone has the patience for that.”

You leaned forward, deciding to test the waters further. “And does your political affiliation ever get in the way? The Conservative Party hasn’t exactly been known for prioritizing social programs.”

His laugh was low and sardonic. “There it is! The classic dig at the Tories. Tell me again, do all French journalists come armed with clichés, or is it just you?”

You shrugged, unfazed. “I call it like I see it.”

“Well,” he said, his tone softening, “to answer your question—yes, politics complicates things. But if you spend too much time worrying about what everyone else thinks, you’ll never get anything done. My job is to fight for what I believe in, even if it ruffles a few feathers.”

“And what do you believe in?” you asked, genuinely curious now.

He hesitated, a rare moment of vulnerability crossing his face. “Opportunity,” he said finally. “The chance for everyone—no matter where they come from—to excel at something. Whether it’s sport, business, or, hell, journalism.”

You arched an eyebrow. “I didn’t peg you for an idealist.”

“Don’t let it get out,” he replied with a grin. “It would ruin my reputation.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m not in the habit of sharing state secrets—yet.”

Rupert chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Good to know. I do have a reputation to uphold, after all.”

You smirked, tapping your pen against the notepad. “And what exactly does that reputation entail? The charming, polo-playing, politician with a knack for public appearances?”

His eyes twinkled, but there was a hint of seriousness behind his smile. “I’d say it’s more about the vision—being able to see the bigger picture and making things happen, no matter how tough it gets. The rest is just...window dressing.”

You studied him, weighing his words. “So, you’re not just about the photo ops and the VIP events?”

“Not by a long shot,” he said, his tone firm. “But sometimes, you need the spotlight to shine on the issues that matter. If it means people pay attention for a moment, then so be it.”

You nodded, impressed despite yourself. “Okay. But what happens when the spotlight moves on to the next shiny object?”

Rupert’s gaze softened, his eyes narrowing just slightly as if he was weighing your words carefully. “Then you keep working, quietly if necessary, until the next opportunity comes along. The real work doesn’t stop just because the cameras are elsewhere.”

You held his gaze for a moment longer, feeling the weight of the silence stretch between you both.

Then, with a deliberate motion, you snapped your notebook shut, the sound cutting through the still air like a signal.

Rising to your feet, you extended your hand, offering a final gesture of professionalism. “Thank you, sir, for the meeting.”

He looked at your hand for a heartbeat before raising an eyebrow, his voice tinged with amusement. “We’re back on formalities, then?”

“The interview is over,” you said simply, your voice unwavering, though there was a subtle shift in the air around you. You felt the pull of something lingering, a moment that hadn’t quite finished yet.

But then, in a smooth, almost predatory motion, he reached for your hand. Instead of shaking it, he pressed it gently to his lips, his breath warm against your skin. It was an act of such quiet intimacy that it caught you off guard, the sudden closeness making your pulse quicken.

For a split second, you hesitated, caught between politeness and a strange surge of discomfort. But before you could think too much about it, you jerked your hand away, the movement sharp, almost defiant.

Rupert chuckled lowly, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Touchy, aren’t we?” he remarked, the words laced with amusement but underpinned with something else, something harder.

Your heart thudded in your chest as you turned away, taking a breath to steady yourself.

The conversation, the unspoken tension—it was all unraveling, leaving behind the brittle veneer of professionalism that had kept you in check.

Despite your protests, Rupert insisted in accompanied you to the grand entrance of the Campbell-Black estate, his presence beside you unexpectedly warm despite his usual aloofness.

There was a slight tension in the air, an unspoken undercurrent that made the walk feel longer than it should have.

Perhaps it was the way his casual remarks seemed to chip away at your defenses, or maybe it was something in the way his eyes lingered on you just a second longer than necessary. You couldn’t decide.

“So,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, “you’re really not going to tell me anything about your life in Paris?”

You glanced up at him, surprised by the sudden shift. “Paris?” you teased, a grin forming on your lips. “Do you know that I live in England? In a town, not far from London.”

He chuckled, raising an eyebrow. “I suppose Paris could get a little too chaotic. But I imagine life in an English town must be… more peaceful?”

You shrugged playfully. “Peaceful, yes. Maybe too peaceful. I mean, quiet streets are more my speed than the… vibrance of Paris.”

He smiled, clearly amused.

Before you could reply, a loud bark interrupted the moment, followed by the pitter-patter of paws on the marble floor. Two large, slobbering dogs came bounding around the corner of the hall, tails wagging enthusiastically.

They spotted you instantly, and before you could react, one of them lunged toward you, nose twitching excitedly.

You froze, your eyes wide and your heart pounding. Dogs. You hated dogs. It was strange, considering your work as a veterinarian, but when it came to dogs, you always braced yourself. Most of the time, they were calm, and if not, someone was there to help. But seven dogs charging straight at you? Yeah, no.

“Woah!” you squealed, taking an instinctive step backward, hands raised in a panic. “Oh my God—”

Rupert’s laughter boomed through the hallway, but there was no mockery in it, just pure amusement. He quickly stepped in front of you, guiding the dogs back with a firm but gentle hand. “Sorry about them. They’re a bit enthusiastic.”

You were still frozen, trying to suppress the irrational panic building in your chest. “I—I’m not really… a dog person,” you managed, your voice tight.

He raised an eyebrow, a playful curiosity in his gaze. “Really? Then what do you like?”

You were still half-hidden behind him, trying to avoid the dogs, and your brain, in a panicked scramble for an answer, came up with something entirely ridiculous. “Cows.”

Rupert blinked, clearly taken aback. “Cows?”

You rushed to explain, the words tumbling out in a flurry. “Yeah, you know... they’re calm, low-maintenance. I grew up on a farm... in the countryside, and—” You trailed off, realizing just how absurd you must sound.

Rupert’s smirk returned, though this time it was softer, less mocking, almost like he was seeing a different side of you. “Well, that’s a first,” he said, the amusement dancing in his eyes. “I’ve never had a woman tell me she prefers cows to dogs.”

You felt a flush rise to your cheeks, embarrassed, but oddly relieved by the absurdity of it all. “It’s the truth, though. Cows are just... easier to handle.”

“Fair enough,” he said, stepping back to give the dogs a little more space. They sniffed you cautiously, their noses twitching in curiosity but respecting the invisible boundary you’d created. “I’ll make sure they keep their distance from now on.”

The dogs seemed to sense the shift, obediently sitting beside Rupert, their tails giving a lazy wag, as if in approval. The air between you both lightened, the earlier tension dissolving into something a little more comfortable, though still charged with an undeniable undercurrent.

Your eyes met his briefly, and in that fleeting moment, there was something unspoken between you—a spark, perhaps, or just the ridiculousness of the situation. You couldn’t tell. 

As you walked toward the door, Rupert’s presence beside you was oddly comforting, though you couldn’t quite shake the awareness that something else lingered in the air between you.

Just before you reached the door handle, one last bark echoed from behind you, and you turned to see the dogs sitting, tails wagging furiously.

Rupert glanced back, a grin spreading across his face. “They’ll be fine. I promise.”

“Thanks,” you said quietly, then added with a laugh, “And for the record, I’m still more of a cow person.”

He shook his head, still grinning. “I’ll remember that. Cows, not dogs. Got it.”

The door clicked shut behind you, an uneasy feeling lingered in your chest. The awkwardness, the subtle tension, his smile that never seemed to falter—all of it replayed in your mind, leaving you wondering what just happened and how everything had shifted so quickly.

You shook your head, trying to push the lingering thoughts away. It was over. You’d never have to face him again.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

Still, a quiet, persistent voice deep inside whispered that this was only the beginning.

As you glanced in the rearview mirror, watching the manor shrink into the distance, you whispered to yourself, A bientôt, Monsieur Rupert.

[the-offside-rule]

Declan Rice (Arsenal) - Triumph

Requested: yes (THIS WAS REQUESTED IN LIKE SEPTEMBER IM SO SORRY IM ONLY GETTING AROUND TO IT NOW)

Prompt: just cute girl-dad Declan

Warnings: none tbh

The sun was setting over the Emirates Stadium as the final whistle blew, sealing Arsenal's victory and clinching the Premier League title. Declan Rice, clad in the red and white of his beloved club, couldn't contain his joy. He hugged his teammates, exchanged high-fives, and then spotted his wife, Y/n, and their adorable daughter, Lily, waiting for him on the pitch. Lily made her way quickly to her father who in turn was running towards her with open arms. "Daddy!" She squealed as he neared her. "Oh my darling, how are you? Did you see that? We won!" Declan exclaimed as he scooped up his daughter, who was wearing a tiny Arsenal jersey with her name printed on the back.

Y/n smiled, her eyes sparkling with pride. "We saw, didn't we, sweetheart?" Declan looked up and pressed a gentle kiss onto his wife's lips. "Ah, I love you." Declan sighed as Y/n reached around his neck. "I love you too. I'm so proud of you." Lily tugged at her dad's jersey and pointed towards the shiny trophy the players had been going around with. "Do you want to go see it, darling?" Declan asked. Lily nodded enthusiastically as the trio made their way towards the other players.

As they approached, Kai and Martin had turned and hugged Y/n, talking with her briefly as Declan held onto Lily. All the while, Lily couldn't take her eyes off the trophy gleaming. It only took a minute or so for Declan to notice her and he chuckled. "We'll get a photo now, okay?" Lily gasped. "Yes!" She exclaimed, making the other players laugh alongside Y/n. "Sorry lads, I'll have to borrow her for a quick photo and you can have her back." Declan smiled as he turned towards the photographer.

Lily giggled and clapped her hands, her cheeks flushed with excitement. She reached out towards the gleaming Premier League trophy, her tiny fingers almost grazing its surface. "Not yet, Lily. Let's take some photos first." Y/n said, pulling out her phone to take a photo of Declan and Lily first before quickly running back to get a photo. Declan grinned and posed with his family, the trophy gleaming in the background. Lily squirmed in his arms, eager to explore the pitch. "Okay, okay, darling. Let's see what you've got." Declan chuckled, lowering Lily to the ground.

Lily toddled off towards a group of other players' children, her Arsenal ball bouncing happily beside her. Declan and Y/n followed closely behind, enjoying the celebratory atmosphere. "Y/n!" She turned to see Kai's girlfriend Sophia walking towards her with a smile upon her face. "Sophia! Did you grab a photo with the trophy yet?" As they mingled with other families, sharing hugs and congratulations, the crowd suddenly erupted into cheers. Declan and Y/n exchanged puzzled looks, then turned to see what had caused the commotion.

Their hearts swelled with pride as they watched Lily, determined and focused, waddle towards an empty goal with her miniature football. "She's going for it!" Declan grinned from ear to ear, his chest swelling with love for his fearless daughter. "Go on, Lily! Shoot!" With a determined kick, Lily sent the ball rolling into the net, her face lighting up with joy as the crowd cheered just as loudly as if her dad had scored the winning goal.

Y/n and Declan laughed as they watched Lily get closer to the fans with her arms held high just as her Dad would have done, followed by her falling to her knees in an attempt of a knee slide. "She's her father's daughter." Y/n joked, wrapping her arms around Declan's waist. Declan hugged her tightly, his heart overflowing with love for his family. "We need to get her into football properly." He murmured, pressing a kiss to Y/n's forehead. Y/n hummed in response. "Maybe she'll even put you into retirement." Declan rolled his eyes playfully. "I'll be long gone by then. I'll be in a rocking chair beside you watching her from the living room." Y/n rubbed his chest as the walked towards Lily on the far end of the pitch.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the stadium, Declan, Y/n, and Lily played together, basking in the warmth of their shared victory. For in that moment, they were not just celebrating Arsenal's triumph, but also the joy of being champions together.

[beingalive1]

𝐀𝐧 𝐀𝐝𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐈𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐏𝐭. 𝟏

Rupert Campbell Black x Oc (Francesca Wellington)

Summary: Francesca Wellington was everything Rupert Campbell Black was and more. A successful show jumper with a title and an estate, she had it all. She was a constant reminder of the man he once was. He couldn't help but hate her for it and yet, he loved her for it just the same.

Part One: The making of a rivalry.

Part Two: here

July 1984: Los Angeles Summer Olympics

The day Lady Francesca Wellington met Rupert Campbell Black he could've been stark naked dancing around in circles and she still wouldn't have noticed him. 

Standing upon a podium in the middle of the prestigious arena belonging to the Santa Anita Racetrack, Francesca felt her skin burn under the heat of the sun. Unlike in England, the sky of Los Angeles was clear. The Californian heat bared down upon her without mercy. She felt the collar of her blazer rub uncomfortably against her neck; the red material becoming damp with sweat as time continued on. Her riding hat shifted slightly as she looked upon the cheering crowd above her. 

The crowd that was cheering for her. 

The uncomfortable heat did nothing to subdue her feelings of utter euphoria. Her body felt like it had been set alight. Her veins were filled with fire. Sweat beaded down her forehead; its salty path flowed from the tip of her head and settled on the edge of her upper lip.  Her mind was chaos: her thoughts bounced between her ears.

She couldn't think; she couldn't breathe. She didn't care one bit. 

She was given the  gold medal by a man. His tan fingers graced the side of her face as he placed it around her neck. It was heavy, heavy with the weight of accomplishment. She didn't look at the man, her eyes were fixated upon the medal as he briskly stepped away. 

She lifted the medal from her chest and placed a cheeky kiss upon its golden side. The cameras flashed excitedly as Lady Francesca Wellington's lips grazed the cool surface of the medal in glee. 

Every eye in that arena watched in admiration as Lady Francesca Wellington claimed her title as the first woman to win an Olympic gold in individual showjumping. 

Every eye except Rupert Campbell Black. 

The day Rupert Campbell Black met Lady Francesca Wellington she could've been Mother Theresa reincarnated and he still wouldn't have liked her. 

Being given the "honour" of handing out the gold medal for show jumping in the first Olympics since he had retired felt like a knife jabbed directly into his stomach. He had been coerced into it by his old riding friends, the Tori party and a few members of the Olympic sports committee. They told him it would be good for his image as an MP to remain present in the riding community. He felt as if it was all a cruel joke reminding him of his failures. 

His failure as a rider forced to retire. His failure as a husband, a father,  a politician. 

His failure as a man. 

Rupert stood in the sand of the blistering hot arena. His ears rang at the sound of the adoring crowd as he was faced with the man he used to be. A rider, a star, a man who dominated show jumping with ease. He was greeted by memories: memories of him as a boy riding ponies around his estate to days spent galloping with his friends.  

He watched her with a diplomatic smile as she claimed the first place position on the podium.

It felt as if he was bearing witness to the erasure of his legacy. 

The British anthem sounded on the loud speakers as he picked up the gold medal from its designated case; the very same anthem they played for him four years prior. The soft skin of her cheek grazed the side of his hand as he placed the medal around her neck. She looked down towards her medal with glee. He looked at her with jealousy. 

Only a few selected riders in the world could understand the high of winning a gold medal for showjumping. A high he would do anything to feel again. He stepped away from the podium in haste and marched out the arena, his assistant running behind frantically. 

All eyes were on Lady Francesca Wellington as she reached the epitome of her riding career. 

No one noticed Rupert Campbell Black walk away from his. 

[delayeddrabbles]

when in rome - college gf! + frat!rafe - part 3/4

plot: Aden's birthday! Rafe takes Aden's advice. Nat's in need of a distraction. NB: campaign manager is rafe's original nickname in nat's phone before they start hooking up. the post-it note is left for Aden. While i know they probably could've stayed out partying way later. they all head to bed earlier than expected leaving nat and rafe bored...for the plot haha.

[sunny44]

Accident

Pairing: Mason Mount x mom!reader

Warnings: car accident

Summary: Where y/n has a car accident with their daughter on the way to Mason's game and at halftime he gets the news that they are in the hospital.

I was already very late for the game, I got tied up with work stuff and missed the alarm I set up, so now I was running out of time to get to the game in time.

Only in the middle of the way some idiot came with everything and threw my car far away.

"Oh my God." I unbuckled my seat belt and turned to the back seat watching my daughter cry loudly. "It's okay, baby."

Soon I could hear noises of ambulance and police cars, they came to me and I got out of the car carefully holding my daughter.

"You need to be checked." The paramedic said.

"I'm not letting her go."

"Give her to me so she can also be checked.”

"I already said I am not releasing her, it is my right to accept treatment or not if I am conscious and as I am and I said no. I'll accept being taken to the hospital and in the ambulance you guys can check her but I'm not letting you take her out of me."

"All right, let's go."

I got into the ambulance trying to calm her down, I was nervous and scared, I needed to talk to Mason but my stuff stayed in the car so I couldn't call him. They check us and none of us have a concussion in the way to the hospital.

As soon as we arrived I had to hand Maia over to the nurses so they could run tests on her and me.

After about half an hour I was back in the room and soon they brought her back to me, I started breastfeeding her because she was hungry.

"The police will be coming here in a few minutes to take your statement miss, is there anyone we can call to stay with you?"

"Yes there is my husband Mason but he is busy right now so he’s not going to see the call."

"Anyone else?"

"Actually there is his coach number, you can call him and tell him I had an accident please." She agrees and writes down the number I gave her and leaves the room to make the call.

Meanwhile on the other side of town, Mason was playing with pride knowing that his team was winning and that his wife and daughter were somewhere in the stands watching him play.

Little did he know that they were both in a hospital room waiting for him to come to them.

The first half ended and Mason went to get a drink of water, but the worried look on the coach's face made him worry that something bad happens.

"Is everything okay?" He asks.

"I got a call from the hospital, your wife and daughter were involved in a car accident."

"Are they okay?" He asks worriedly.

"They are fine, they took them there for some tests but you should go there."

"Yeah, sure."

I grabbed my things and ran to the car, it was a little difficult since there were some fans there but I managed to dodge them and go to the hospital that the coach had told me about.

The way there was torturous, even though he said they were fine I hadn't seen them with my own eyes yet.

I ran inside the hospital and stopped in front of the reception desk and after she told me the room I ran to where my girls were.

"Thank God." I say entering the room and going to them. "How are you my love?"

"We are fine Mase, it was just a really big scary accident."

"What happened?"

"I was late with work stuff and after I let the babysitter go we were on our way to the game when some crazy person came up fast and hit us." She says tearfully. "But I swear I was paying attention to the road and I wasn't going fast and..."

"Relax, I believe you babe."

"It's just that I don't want you to think that i was going fast with Maia in the car and that I've put her at risk and..."

"Calm down, honey, you're too nervous." She stops and takes a deep breath. "I know you're careful when you're with her and it wasn't your fault, it was the person who hit you."

"It's just that I can't stop thinking that something bad could have happened to her."

"I know, I spent the whole way here thinking the worst had happened to you but it's okay now."

"Can you lie here with me?"

"Of course I can baby." She goes to the side and hands me Maia who smiled when she saw me. "Let's watch the rest of the game."

I turned the TV on the channel and we stood there watching the end of the second half together.

Bonus scene!

Masonmount instagram post

Liked by @yourusername, @benchilwell, @yourmom, @jazbenham and others 818739

Tagged: @yourusername

@masonsount as you may know two days ago on they’re way to the game, my wife and my daughter were involved in a car accident.

I just wanted to let you guys know that they are fine, luckily the accident wasn’t serious just very scary.

Thank you for all the messages of support, my wife and I appreciate and we’re going to take a break from the social media to take care of our little family.

Comments have been disabled

Let me know if you want to be on the tag list of Mason and another footballers I’ll write for

[araybiaaa]

❝ in vain, d. o’hara. ❞

ooo. 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈… declan o’hara & cameron cook

ooo. 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔… infidelity, drinking, cunnilingus, fingering, vulgar language, unprotected sex.

ooo. 𝒔𝒚𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒊𝒔… declan’s drowning out the sorrows of his marriage when he runs into someone that has him succumbing to temptation and questioning the stability of his relationship.

ooo. 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔… hiiiiii, i wrote this after briefly watching the season and falling in love with their dynamic. i didn’t watch the whole thing, just their scenes, nor have i read the book(s?) so i don’t know anything about them except that they do have an affair 🤭. but this was written based off of as limited knowledge about the show as possible!

link to chapter two!

He’s slouched in one of the stools at the pub’s counter — his fingers loosely grip the handle on the mug of beer that he’d been babysitting for half of the night that he’s sure had become disgustingly lukewarm as it sat there nearly forgotten.

He drowns out the rancorous noise that ricochets throughout the room; sulking deeper in his melancholy as he absentmindedly thumbed his wedding band around his finger. A heavy sigh passes through his lips as he rubbed a weary hand against his forehead — frustration, confusion and exasperation tense deeply in his bones causing his jaw to gnash and hands to clench.

It’s only been a few weeks since Maud’s departure and all he’s been able to think about since then were her parting accusations of him being emotionally detached and distracted from her and their marriage recently. And it infuriated him every time he thought about it because she knew how important it’s been for him to rebuild his image after leaving Corinium and how pivotal it was to ensure Venturer’s success. Maybe his attention had been slightly thwarted, but it surely didn’t warrant her leaving him and the girls behind to pursue her nearly forgotten career.

He still hadn’t told Caitlin about what happened; though she pondered the truth behind her mother’s egress every day. Both Caitlin and Taggie were old enough to understand the tribulations that come along with marriage — they’ve witnessed enough arguments (and reconciliations) between their parents to know that their relationship had been anything but perfect. But there was still apart of Declan that wanted to shield his daughter from this part; to keep her naive to his inadvertent fuck up that made their mother leave.

He attempted to seek out contact with Maud, to check in and offer another sheepish apology for his neglect. But she declined every one, always using one of her friends as a mediator and telling him to leave a message for her instead. And all Declan could think about was how petulant Maud’s antics were. Here he was desperate in his efforts of reconciliation just for her to only avoid him in return.

If anything, he should be the one that’s upset.

Ever since they arrived to Rutshire her attitude’s been nothing but negative. He’s been trying to make this place a home for them. He knew it wouldn’t be easy, uprooting her life for this taboo environment, but he hoped that she would show support for him and this new change that he was pursuing.

But it’s been antithetical of that.

And even so, Declan still remained hopeful in her and their love for one another.

(Maybe that’s the problem.)

He scoffs, feeling his jaw go rigid against his cheek. Bringing the mug up to his parted lips, Declan chugs down some of the drink and nearly gags at the frothiness that chisels down his throat. “Fuckin’ hell,” He murmurs, absentmindedly pushing the mug aside before he pats his pockets in search for his carton of cigarettes.

He was supposed to be staving off the horrid addiction. It was a promise that he made months ago to Taggie who had vocalized her concerns to him about the vice — reciting facts of their detriment to his health and he did initially intend on keeping that promise, because it had gotten to the point where he found himself smoking at least two packs throughout the day.

But here he was succumbing to his vice again; solemnly breaking the covenant as he reached inside and retrieved a cigarette from the carton. She wouldn’t have to know. He reveries, in attempts to absolve himself from the guilt that gnawed at him.

Plucking the cigarette between his parted lips, Declan then retrieves his lighter.

He retracted the baselid back and pressed down on the rivulet until an orange and red flame ignited. He hovered it over the end of the cigarette until it’s ablaze and the repugnant smell of the cigarette lingers in his nostrils. Once it’s lit, he hollows his cheeks out in a pucker as he inhales softly, the nicotine constricts against his lungs as he suspired softly into the air.

“Damn, it looks like you’ve had a day,” His attention averts as he turns his head and peers over his shoulder, seeing Cameron standing beside him. She’s dressed uncharacteristically informal; opting out of her colorful work pantsuits and tight fitted skirts in exchange for a simple sleeveless black dress that cinched her sinuous figure. Her hair’s styled in an updo coiffure, her face is primped with blush coloring her cheeks and red lipstick staining her lips.

Though it looks like she was dressed for a night intended for commemoration, her expression looked reciprocal of his somber one. He chuckled wryly, the sound’s gruff against the back of his throat as he nodded his head. “Looks like I’ve had a week is more like it,” He accents, discarding the remnants of the ash into the ashtray before he’s plucking the cigarette back into his mouth.

He reaches over and picks up his jacket, freeing the seat beside him so that she’s able to make her perch. “Thanks,” She says as she slides into the stool with a heavy sigh that has him chuckling softly in his own hubris.

“Looks like we’ve both had a day, eh?”

Cameron’s expression weens only slightly as she rolls her eyes. But there’s a smile playing on her lips that reveal her amusement at his tease. She nods, turning her head as she looked at him with a raised brow. “What’s got you so down that you’re in a pub drinking at — ” She pauses to look down at her watch before continuing, “two in the afternoon?”

Declan shags a hand through his hair.

He’s never been too particularly keen on talking about his personal life especially with people that he worked with, but Declan’s been so confused about everything that he needed an outsider’s opinion about the situation. And out of everyone, he knows that Cameron would be the least bias and most brutally honest with him. “It’s uh, me and Maud…” He begins before divulging into the details of her vocalizing his neglect and of her abrupt departure.

When he’s done talking, he pauses to gauge Cameron’s reaction trying to decipher her response. “I mean what do you think? Was I really being a shite husband?”

“Honestly?” Cameron asks, in which Declan nods his head. “I think that she used that as an excuse because she wanted to leave. She probably didn’t know how to say it or didn’t want to sound like a shitty mother so she figured it was easier to blame you instead,” She shrugs, watching as Declan’s features furrowed in contemplation. “But that’s just my opinion,” She reached past him and grabbed his mug of beer, raising her eyebrow at him in a questioning gesture.

He nods, gesturing for her to take it.

Was Cameron right?

Did Maud use their marital issues as some kind of ploy just so she could run away from the life she’s despised since their arrival?

“If you think that you’re having a bad day, I was just stood up by Tony who was supposed to meet me for lunch,” Cameron laments, licking her beer slick lips as she chugged down Declan’s drink. She lowered her eyes, almost chagrined by her confession as she tapped her fingers against the glass. “I waited two hours for him. I sat there looking so stupid,” She murmurs, swallowing thickly as she chanced a brief look at him.

She narrowed her eyes. “What?” She questions, almost accusatorially in her prose.

Declan shakes his head, “Nothin’.” But then he relents, pivoting his body in his stool as he turned to face her. “You’re aware that you don’t have to sleep with him, right?” And the way he phrases it must come out terribly wrong because she’s scoffing in offense at him and her lax demeanor’s suddenly one of hostility.

“Yes, I’m aware.” She accents, “Contrary to popular belief around the office I didn’t sleep my way to my position. Tony and I started after I was already producer.”

“I didn’t mean—” Declan pauses airily, taking a brief moment to carefully heed his words. “I just meant that you’re too talented and pretty to be wastin’ your years of youth on the likes of someone like Tony. He’s never leavin’ Monica. You’re being foolishly naive if you think otherwise.”

“I’m not naive. I know exactly what the situation is; Tony gives me what I want and I give him what he wants. What we have is enough for us.”

Declan nods, muttering his disbelief. He took another drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out into the ashtray. “Right and how’s that workin’ out for ya?”

“I don’t know. Just as good as it’s working out for you and your wife,” Cameron rebuttals, her defense stark in its abhorrence.

“You’re a bitch.”

“And you’re an asshole.”

“You come up to me crying over that elf looking shite and all I do is tell you that you deserve better and somehow I’m the bad guy?” He asks, bewildered at her misdirected projection. Cameron averts her gaze, suddenly feeling chagrined by Declan’s confrontation. She pushed the now half empty mug aside and clambered to her feet.

He takes immediate notice of this and sighs wearily. He didn’t intend to upset her. He was just frustrated that she was acting so oblivious to Tony’s deception. He knows that it’s not his business of who she chooses to sleep with and she’s not his for him to harbor this kind of concern for, but he does and he wanted her to see him for who he truly is, but he realizes that it would only be futile.

“Cameron, don’t — I’m sorry, alright?” He apologizes, reaching outwardly so that he’s grabbing ahold of her wrist to halt her from leaving.

He feels her pulse quicken beneath his touch just as his own hastens in an alike staccato. He quickly withdraws his hand away from her, feeling his cheeks flush in warmth and he hurriedly reaches for his beer and swallows down the disgusting froth to hide the blush from her. He’s surprised that she’s still standing there when he turns around again. Her expression is indiscernible as he looks at her.

“I’m not stupid.”

He blinks, confused by her sudden apropos, but nods nonetheless. “I know.”

“And I’m not a little girl who’s being blinded by some kind of forbidden love. So I don’t need you or anyone else worrying about me or who I choose to fuck, got it?” She’s standing so closely to him now that he could smell the saccharine fragrance of her perfume invading his nostrils; and though her expression’s furrowed in a moue, there’s a softness that’s revealed behind her eyes that makes Declan inwardly ponder if she too questioned the logic behind her loyalty to Tony.

But he doesn’t question it.

He only nods in understanding, concurring with a reaffirming, “Got it.”

…

He truly doesn’t know how it happened.

One minutes she’s berating him and defending her secret relationship with Tony and the next minute she’s grabbing him by the hand and dragging him down the hallway towards the bathroom. His reluctance is only brief; his mind wanders on Maud, his thumb brushes over his wedding band and he’s parting his mouth to tell Cameron that he couldn’t —

He couldn’t.

They couldn’t.

But then he does.

He doesn’t know who started leaning in first: her or him. But the distance that was once between them was suddenly beginning to decimate. Declan’s neck inclines as he leans down to meet her height. He brushes his lips against her mouth in a shy, yet chaste kiss. It was bare, the contact was so faint that it nearly feels like they hadn’t kissed.

Cameron retracts away slightly, licking her lips as the needy desperation to feel his mouth against hers arose. “Kiss me again,” She avers and Declan’s avid as he complies and leans in again, seeking out her lips.

He slides his mouth over hers, tasting and ravishing in the softness of her lips. There’s a soft groan that emanates (who it came from is also unknown), that causes Cameron to tilts her head and capture his lips at a better angle. Declan’s hand reaches up and cradles her face within his grasp as he tugged her closer.

Her lips are soft and insistent as they moved in a feverish tandem against his. When Declan slacks his jaw and deepens the kiss, Cameron feels her knees nearly buckle beneath her and she has to wrap her arms around his heightened neck to keep herself from stumbling over.

His tongue traces along the outline of her bottom lip begging for entrance. Cameron’s haste to concede as she widens her mouth open, allowing him to receive better access of her lips.

His face is flushed; lips are swollen and sticky from her lipstick that had messily transferred from her lips to his. His eyes are a little dazed, awestruck as he looked at her in a profound adoration. He leans forward and captures her mouth in a feverish kiss, teasingly nudging his nose against hers while his hands squeezed at her hips. And it’s ridiculous how Declan easily finds himself needy for Cameron; how he’s already so far gone just from a few exchanged kisses — and the earlier thoughts of his trepidation (and of Maud) had ceased to exist because all he was focused on now was her.

Her lips are soft and insistent against his, tasting faintly of his beer that she consumed earlier. She kisses him with fervor; tugging her teeth over the swell of skin on his lower lip as she ravished him completely. His lungs burn, desperate to part for air, but didn’t relent as he slid his hands down her back and rounded them until he’s got a firm grip on her ass. She moans wantonly in his mouth, reciprocating the gesture as she reached in between their bodies and cupped him through his jeans.

“Make me forget,” She murmurs against his mouth as she deepens the kiss, grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket as they nearly stumble into the sink.

And he doesn’t have it in him to question exactly what she wanted to forget — maybe it’s because he’s too focused on wanting to forget his own troubles of his marriage that’s still currently left in its arbitrary limbo. Or maybe it’s because he knows that after this, she’s going forget about him and go crawling back to an undeserving Tony. Either way he doesn’t question it, he only nods as he kissed her filthily and shoved his tongue down her throat.

Declan’s hands abandon their perch on her waist, lowering until they’re gripping at her thighs. His fingers are cold against her skin as he slides one hand in between the crux of her inner thighs. Cameron’s hands grip at the front of his shirt clinging onto him tightly when he brushes his thumb against her cunt.

He’s surprised when he feels that she’s wearing no underwear. His jaw clenched at the realization that she’d done that for fucking prick Tony. But he finds resolve in the fact that he didn’t receive the opportunity of having her body today, not like how Declan’s got her right now in this moment.

Without the frustrating barrier of fabric between them, he’s able to slide a finger inside of her without any qualms. He brushes through her coiled pubic hair and twists his wrist; turning it so that his palm is facing inwardly. Declan curls his forefinger and middle finger, using them to spread her open. His fingers drenches in her arousal; it’s sticky and has sweet smell that lingers in his nostrils.

“Declan,” Cameron’s body spams the moment his fingers pucker inside of her.

Her cunt clenches tightly around him; already sensitized to his touch. She spreads her legs further, allowing him more space to work his fingers inside of her. She bites on his bottom lip, still gripping at his shirt as she thrusts her hips against his fingers.

The wet squelching sounds of his fingers sliding diligently inside of her, in and out, along with their heaving labored breathing ricocheted throughout the airtight room. There’s a delicious burn that stings on his scalp when Cameron digs her fingers into his hair and tugs on it for leverage. She whimpers, fluttering her eyes close when she feels her stomach tighten in recoil. Her toes curl, her cunt throbs and envelopes a tight grip around Declan’s thick fingers.

“That’s it. C’mon,” He murmurs softly against her mouth and she’s a blubbering mess, body shaking, hips still moving to their own accord as she chases her orgasm. She’s close; he can tell from the way she flutters around him and how her breathing lulls.

But Declan wanted to selfishly prolong her orgasm. If all he would have was this one time with her, he wanted to savor every moment — wanted to taste every inch of her body, feel his cock penetrating every hole of hers.

He lowers himself to his knees on the filthy bathroom floor.

He nudged his face between her thighs, placing both of her legs over his shoulders as he adjusted himself. She’s leaking on his lips, the taste is sweet on his tongue.

“Hnn,” Cameron murmurs, tightening her legs around his head as she thrusted her hips against his face. His mustache burns against her thighs as he eats her out, but the pain of it adds a stimulation that has Cameron’s eyes stinging with tears. She runs her hands through his hair, nearly suffocating his face in her cunt as her head falls against the mirror behind her.

“D-Declan! Fuck. I’m gonna—” She stammers incoherently, averting her gaze down at him. She can see her wetness sheening and dripping messily down his chin; coating in the bristles of his mustache. The sight of it is all it takes for her to finally cum. She moans, high and loud as it spills out of her. Her legs tremble from the exertion.

He rouses to his feet and seeks her mouth out for a kiss. The taste of her passes between their tongues; sweet and salty.

“Fuck me. Now.” She avers, grabbing ahold of his waistband as she hefted herself atop of the coldness of the sink. And of course he’s willing to comply to anything that she’s asking of him. His hands are shaking with avidity as he unzipped his pants and tugged them around his ankles. His cock’s already half stout and messily leaking precum from its flushed tip.

Cameron looks up at him underneath her eyelashes, avid and ready, watching as he palmed his cock in his hand. He slicks himself with his precum, giving the half-stout flesh a few haste tugs until he’s fully hard and curled against his thigh. “Don’t cum in me.” She reprimands in forewarning, scooting herself to the edge of the sink so that he’s allotted better leverage.

Declan silenced her with a kiss.

He adjusted his position between her thighs and slid a hand underneath her as he hefted her legs around his waist. He lined himself at her opening; then in one fluid motion, slid into her with a nudging thrust. She’s so wet that he slides into her without resistance. She flutters around his cock; still sensitive and swollen from earlier.

“Jesus,” He marvels in awe at the tightness that captures around him upon his intrusion. She’s so tight and warm and she feels so fucking good around him that he nearly forgets to breathe.

There’s a delicious burn that spreads through her thighs as he penetrates her inch by inch, nudging her open until her cunt’s swallowing his cock whole. The pain subsides and is immediately replaced by pleasure. He continues to nudge until he feels the tip of his cock buried completely at the hilt as he bottoms her out.

His breath comes out in warm puffs as he sits there waiting for both of them to adjust to the stretch of his girth. It’s Cameron’s hand reached behind him and squeezing his ass that lets her know she’s adjusted to the accommodation. He leans down and kisses her slowly and sensually, sliding his tongue messily within hers as he gyrated the first thrust. He pistons a full body roll, letting his pelvis linger against hers as he fucks her slowly.

A breath catches in his throat at the tight pull her cunt captures around his cock.

Cameron’s eyes flutter and her throat clicks when he rolls his hips and fucks a long stroke back into her. Her jaw goes slack as her mouth parted open slightly ajar while she keened loudly in pleasure. Pleading whimpers and breathy moans falls off of her kiss-swollen lips as she arches her back and tosses her head back.

Her clenching cunt pulls him back in every time he slips out of her; it’s perfect the way they move in tandem, both reciprocating the emphasized gyration of their hips, fucking each other into oblivion.

They’re nose to nose, their breaths tickling each other’s face, their eyes never wavering from each other’s gazes.

He’s nearly distracted by how breathtaking she is.

He rolls his hips up into her, hitting her in her g-spot that makes her croon and nearly melt right there in his arms. Her hair is sodden with sweat. Her skin is sticky and slick; the sweat cascades down her face starting from her hairline and trickling down her torso where droplets of the salty body fluid travels between the valley of her breasts.

“God, you feel so fuckin’ good,” He mutters, his eyes now focused on the sight of his cock extracting and reentering her, as she shifts her hips and bottomed him out completely until the tip of him prodded against her hilt again.

He thrusts into her with abandon, grabbing her ass, pulling her already working hips closer to him, pushing himself deeper.

Their heavy breaths mingle and she chokes back a sob once she feels the precipice of her orgasm creeping up on her. Declan grunts as he thrusted shallowly inside of her. She cums moments later, the saccharine milkiness of her orgasm spills from inside of her and messily coats his cock.

Declan continued to fuck her through it, milking her completely dry until she goes boneless. His hips jerk, body goes taut as he feels his own release creeping along the precipice. He pulls out; groaning gutturally as he feels his cock lurch when he cums messily all over her thighs. He falls haphazardly onto her, burying his face against her sweaty neck.

They stand there in each other’s embrace until he softens. He pulls his flaccid cock out of her, using a piece of paper towel to aide her in the post orgasm clean up. He shoved his cock back inside of his briefs before tugging them back over his hips. He runs a hand through his hair, chancing a hesitant look up at Cameron.

She avoids his gaze as she settles unsteadily to her feet. Declan reaches a hand out on her back to help her. “I’m okay,” He nods, quickly withdrawing his hand from her as he shoved them into the front of his pockets instead.

He looks at Cameron, sighing softly. “I-”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Cameron says with a shrug, pulling her dress back down over her hips and ass. Her tone was dismissively insouciant but the way she looked at him completely contradicted her words. “It was just a one time thing. An itch that we both needed to scratch.”

But Declan’s not positive that he would deduce with the same trivialization as her. Sure, maybe that’s what it started off as — a way to release the pent up frustration that had been festering for weeks because of his issues with Maud but somewhere in the middle of it he felt something…shift. Like a realization had dawned upon him, one that he’d been completely oblivious to prior to today.

“Cameron,”

“Declan,” She mimicked, causing him to sigh deeply in exasperation.

“I can’t…” When he pauses, she raises an eyebrow up at him in curiosity. “I can’t go back to pretendin’ like things are normal between us,” Not after knowing what you feel and taste like. He could already feel himself salivating for another taste of her on his tongue, could feel his cock stirring at how her dress cups her ass.

God, he’s never been this pathetic before.

“You’ll forget all about it once your wife comes back.” She says, turning away from him so that she could do some last minute touch ups on her disheveled appearance. “Don’t try to get attached to something that we both know won’t last. I learned that a long time ago.” She reapplied another coating of her lipstick that had gotten smudged from Declan’s mouth and blotched her lips.

When she looks at him again, she gives him a sympathetic look. And her mouth fixes like she wanted to say something, but whatever thoughts wandered her mind became lost in the void because she only walks off leaving Declan standing there conflicted.

[caer-oswin]

stolen moments

[wyrmst]

Something Borrowed (Part Thirteen)

M Gargoyle x M Reader

PREVIOUS || STORY TAG

Wordcount: 7485

Content Warnings: Discussion of a Breakup, Rope Bondage, Condom Use, Anal Sex (Reader Receives)

This part took so, so long for me to get how I wanted it, but I'm really pleased with the end result now- it might be one of my favorite scenes I've written so far! So, I'm glad I stuck it through. Just one more part to go!!

Before you can second guess yourself, you’re subtly ducking out into the hall. Seeing the area is devoid of witnesses, you proceed to rush down the corridor at a half-dash, your hand still clutching Carlyle’s. Luckily, he was paying close enough attention to not be yanked off his feet, and is on your heels all the way to the elevator.

You sneak a kiss or three in the ride up to your room, the thought of another guest entering the scene the only thing even slightly holding you back. You hum a giggle against Carlyle’s lips pressed to yours.

Once inside the privacy of the hotel room, you immediately shrug out of your suit jacket, uncharacteristically flinging it across the corner chair in the strength of your relief. One of you has the presence of mind to see your discarded blazer to an appropriate hanger (though it isn’t you).

“It’s over! Hahah-” You exclaim in joy. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the standing mirror next to the chair- seeing a brighter, less burdened version of yourself you haven’t seen in a long time.

You’re tempted to flop flat on the bed, limbs out like a starfish, but you settle on idling in front of the window to look at the view, instead. There’s a whole sprawling world out there where your ex’s wedding isn’t happening, and you are ready to rejoin it with a smile.

“It’s over.” Carlye repeats in rumbly approval, threading his own jacket onto a hanger before placing it in the closet alongside yours. “And with no casualties, even- I consider that a win.”

“I’m just so chuffed to be done with it.” You say, the strong mix of relief and glee a clearly audible tremor in your voice as you stretch. “Feels like the first breath of air I've had in months!”

“Good.” You can feel his presence looming behind you now, confirmed moments later by the feel of a clawtip running along the length of your dress shirt’s yoke. “You deserve to relax.”

“...My, that does sound nice.” You say, the last scrap of your restraint barely clinging to you.

“Perhaps you would like some assistance, then-” Carlyle closes the gap from your back to his chest, nestling his chin on your shoulder. His hands find your necktie and despite doing the motions mostly blind from his vantage point, uses a claw tip to gently pry the loop with immaculate precision. “Some help to unwind?”

“If anything, I think I could use some- some more winding.” You huff, already finding it hard to think straight from the pleasant pressure of his forearms flexing against your torso. “If you catch my meaning…”

“Oh, well, if that’s the case, I certainly have ample ideas on that.”

“Ah, you’ve got things all planned out, have you?”

“Something like that.” Carlyle easily finishes undoing your tie, the fabric taut against the side of your neck before it’s loose and slipping away over your shoulder and out of sight. You miss the feeling of him at your back immediately. “I haven’t stopped planning what we had negotiated before… Well. Before.”

Carlyle leaves the word hanging as it is, clearly not feeling the need to dredge up what happened when you already know what he means. You’re almost concerned that the thought has soured how things were progressing, but your worry is short lived, as his touch returns as soon as he’s set your tie on the dresser.

You let out a pleasant sigh when he’s embracing you once more and pressing kisses to your neck. His hands find your torso again, possessively this time- fingers digging just ever so slightly into the soft flesh of your abdomen, grinding the fabric of your dress shirt against your warming skin.

“I may have brought the supplies with me, even,” You hear the smirk in his voice over your shoulder. “Just in case you were still interested.” 

“Definitely still interested,” You exhale the words, finding it hard to think when his middle fingers slip between the gap of two of the buttons of your shirt, tips grazing the slightest touch across bare skin. “I’d like that a lot.”

“One moment, then.”

Finding the warmth of his body gone, you turn around in curiosity and trail his path with your eyes. He returns from a brief visit to the foyer area with the small duffel bag he brought with his luggage. He sets it on the dresser and undoes the zipper, pulling out a flash of pastel pink from within.

“What a nice color,” You blurt out playfully at the sight of the bundle of rope in his hand. “Did you pick my favorite on purpose?”

“Of course. I bought a new set specifically for you.” Carlyle smiles pridefully, wide enough to show fangs. “I would never tie you with used rope.”

“Well, thanks a million.” You say, letting out a laugh that you hope doesn’t betray the bit of nervousness settling in your chest.

“If we’re going to get started now- you’ll have to take that shirt off for me, first.”

With great haste, you start working off the buttons at your throat, your usually dexterous fingers fumbling over the small motions in your haste. Despite the frantic quality to your movements making you feel a bit embarrassed, Carlyle looks nothing but pleased with the sight of what surely must be obvious desperation on your part as you struggle with your clothing as if you’re taking it off by yourself for the first time.

When you finally shed your unbuttoned dress shirt, you’re acutely aware of the eyes soaking in the sight of your exposed torso.

“Handsome…” He observes as he runs his fingers from your jaw to the underside of your chin.

“Hmm-” You let out a soft noise from your nerves lighting up at the teasing touch.

Carlyle’s hand comes to a stop at the point of your chin, gripping it and slightly tipping your head back until you’re forced to make eye contact with him. His gaze is sharp, but in a pleasant way that hides no ill intent.

“Do you remember the safe word you decided on last time?”

“Buttercream.” You say obediently, trying not to cringe at the slight squeak of excitement in your voice.

“Good.”

A gentle gust of wind rustles the curtains around the open window behind you, then grazes across your bare skin, making the already forming goosebumps on your skin even more pronounced. 

Carlyle lets his hand slip from your chin. His hands instead move to loosen and remove his own tie, which he sets aside. Then, after letting his eyes loiter on you for a few moments, he motions to his own shirt buttons with one raised finger.

“Now, undo mine as well.”

If you thought it was embarrassing fussing over your own shirt, struggling to undo his shirt is it’s own special kind of torture. Clumsily undoing the buttons goes about as well as you could hope, as you languish at what feels like a snail's pace. The awkwardness is made worse knowing he can not only see your poor attempts, but must be able to feel every bit of your faltering and fumbling through the thin fabric between your fingers and his chest.

“There’s no need to be so nervous.” He laughs warmly, resting a hand firmly on the nape of your neck, then pressing a firm kiss on your lips. You groan into the show of affection, the desire building up in your chest growing harder to ignore by the moment. When you part, he adds; “You’re in good hands.”

“I’m so glad it’s you.” 

His words calm your nerves enough to let you steady your hands, having a much easier time with the last few buttons needed to fully expose Carlyle’s chest.

Once his shirt is open, you take the opportunity to trace some of the lines of water wear on his skin, the routes of which you’re starting to become familiar with.

After a moment of lingering, he captures your hands, bringing your knuckles to his mouth to place a gentle kiss to them, then shrugging out of his own shirt before adding it to the contained but growing pile of discarded clothing nearby.

Now unbound, Carlyle’s broad stone wings appear behind him, making his presence in the room feel that much bigger. It’s hard not to be taken back by the sight, despite it not being the first time you’ve seen them.

“Ah,” Carlyle rubs out his shoulder with one hand while his wings slowly flap and stretch out behind him, making low grinding noises. “That feels so nice, after being cooped up all evening.”

You’re so tempted to reach out past him to feel the power in his extra limbs, but you simply relish in the rare occasion of getting to see them fully out in the open, in all their glory.

“Blazes, I forget how big they are.” You say, cringing slightly after words come out. “Oh, uh- Is it rude to comment on wing size? I meant it as a compliment. They’re really quite nice to look at...”

“Hmm. Thank you, I think.” He smiles, amused, brow quirked up like you’ve just told him a joke. “Now, then... Ready? Still feeling good about this?”

“Yes.” You confirm eagerly.

“Good. Be sure to tell me if that changes. Now, just one last thing before anything too fun can start.” 

Carlyle lifts his hand towards you, first two fingers lifted together, like he’s offering you a dance. 

“Grab my fingers, with just one hand.”

You do.

“Now, squeeze as hard as you can for me.”

You comply, concerned for a moment you might hurt him, as you’ve always been stronger than you look- but then feel relief, remembering how unlikely that possibility is as your fingers graze his stoneskin.

“Hmm. You have such a nice, strong grip.” Carlyle praises, all but purring in approval. “It must be kneading so much dough, hmm?”

You’re immediately plunged into bashfulness, a bit mortified that such an obscure compliment can ignite such a sense of smittenness in you- but it is nice to be known.

Carlyle then confirms you remember how to perform quick sensory and motor tests on your hand and fingers- and is seemingly quite happy to find that you retained most of the information from the first time he showed you.

“Since you’re still new to this, I’ll be describing what I’m doing as we go.” Finally, Carlyle starts by unfastening the bundle of rope, pulling the strands straight, then measuring them in equal halves by eye. “I’m going to start by centering this rope, then tying the first knot between your shoulder blades.”

Once he’s satisfied with the distribution he’s made of the rope in his hands, he drapes the soft, pink rope around your shoulders and searches for that midpoint, taking time to let it glide over your skin and measure your response.

“How does that feel?”

“It’s softer than I thought it’d be.” You hum in approval as Carlyle’s slow and deliberate adjusting creates soft, ticklish pulling sensations across the dip between your shoulders and neck.

“It’s feather lotus silk.” He explains, moving the rope so that the bight of it is perfectly centered on the nape of your neck. Behind your back, his hands make quick work of an overhand knot to form a loop at the nape of your neck by feel. “I wanted to make sure it was pleasant to the touch. You deserve to be treated with care.”

Finally satisfied with how the knot at your shoulder blades is positioned, he straightens the two strands hanging across either of your shoulders, joining them together at the top of your breastbone. With each motion of looping and pulling the rope through, there’s another taste of his stoneskin fingers brushing the sensitive skin on your chest.

“...This sort of reminds me of when you helped with my tie earlier.” You quietly point out the resemblance, amused.

“It is fairly similar so far,” Carlyle agrees with a soft laugh, taking a moment to playfully mimic the movements of straightening a tie with the knot he’s just made. “Though I think you’ll enjoy wearing this a fair amount more than wearing a tie.”

“I think so, too.”

He smiles, then after a moment of adjusting the placement and measuring by eye once more, eyes flicking to yours and back, he starts tying a second identical knot about a hand’s width from the first one.

“These knots are going to serve as anchor points for the pattern.” 

Watching Carlyle work has a soothing quality to it that allows you to focus on little else than the feeling of his hands tracing lines around your body as he works the rope. With your mind idle, you can’t help but let it wander back to your earlier realization.

“Gold piece for your thoughts?” Your date breaks the silence after noticing what must be a pensive expression clouding your face.

“I… Don’t really know why I’m thinking about this right now…” You meander sheepishly through your words. “I don’t want to kill the mood by making this yet another whinging session…”

“Hmm.” Carlyle hums in amusement, claw pulling another loop through. “This practice does have a therapeutic effect for some. It wouldn’t be my first time being a surrogate therapist in the middle of a scene. You can tell me.”

“...I didn’t want to marry him, I don’t think.”

“What is it that you think you wanted?” He asks thoughtfully, hands still working.

“I just wanted to be married. I wanted a wedding.”

Carlyle’s eyes flick back to yours, smiling faintly like you’re sharing a joke, just between the two of you.

“I see. It must have taken a lot of reflection to come to that conclusion.”

“Reflection is one way to put it- I’ve been so stupid, Carlyle. Things were going so well, and I just- I would have rather broken it myself than have my heart shattered again. And- I hurt you because of it-”

“I’m not feeling particularly hurt at the moment.” Carlyle interrupts the spiraling thought, punctuating his words by meeting your eyes and snapping the next knot closed into place a bit harder than the last, the particularly rough movement interrupting the thought in a more physical sense. You squirm at the pleasant, abrupt sensation of the tug- a reminder that you are relinquishing power.

“Mmh-! S-Still. I should have trusted you before, when you asked me too.”

“Do you trust me now?” Carlyle pointedly raises his brows, head tilted toward you.

“I… Yes. Clearly.” You point with your eyes down your body, to the fact he is currently tying you up.

Carlyle smirks at the gesture, taking a moment to touch the line of your hip in admiration before moving on to the next knot.

“Gods, you’re perfect.”

You can’t keep a bark of laughter from escaping your lips.

“Hah! I don’t understand how you can say that, not with the right mess I made of things.”

“I’m not afraid of a little mess. Certainly not when the reward is so sweet.”

The sweet words certainly make you feel better, but there’s just still that tiny bit of doubt left there, lingering.

“...I just hate the idea that maybe…” You manage to keep speaking through the breathy sigh that escapes your chest. “...I’ve just been making more work for you…”

It’s then that Carlyle reaches a point in spacing out knots down the center line where he needs to lower himself to continue. 

To your surprise, he chooses to take one knee- the significance of the position isn’t lost on you.

Carlyle pointedly looks up at you from his newly kneeling position, and a firm stone hand comes to hold the sensitive back of your knee. The sheer intensity of his gaze is something you’ve never quite experienced before from a lover before- or from anyone, really. When he says your name for emphasis, you might as well be spellbound. 

“Love is always work.”

You look down at him, rapt. 

“But if it’s you- I’m happy to do the work.”

The conviction in his words is enough to instantly shut down those negative thoughts still swirling around in the back of your mind. You can’t even form any meaningful verbal response. Anything you could say seems diminutive.

You’re glad for it. You’d much rather be here in the moment with him.

So, you just smile at him- a stupid, giddy, incandescent smile.

“Now, would you like to continue?”

——

“Please.” You hiss the word, any pretense of hesitation completely eroded.

With renewed permission, he places a set of soft kisses on the spot on your hip he was tracing just a moment ago. He holds your body firm to his mouth from the grip on the back of your leg, his other hand blindly working to undo your belt.

Your hand reaches out for stability in your excitement- coming to grasp the tip of one of his horn caps. If the deep guttural noise that emanates from his usually articulate mouth, you’d say that it’s an appreciated touch.

Soon, he’s completely worked your pants down, and they fall in a heap around your ankles. You shift your weight and sidestep out of them, but this time they stay discarded on the floor, with Carlyle much more focused on the task at hand than to tidily move them aside this time.

He starts to fondle you, but only just enough to tease. You’re already half hard from the building feeling of anticipation, so the light touch is welcome torture.

Warmed stone surface presses to your skin- lips at the fine hair below your navel, and his other clawed hand gently gripping the depression of your love handle.

Despite being handled with such care, the feeling of being so starkly vulnerable is electricity up your spine. You can still feel air at your back from the open window, and despite knowing you’re too far up to be exposed to any eyes on the ground. It gives you the slightest, sweetest sense of transgression.

Carlyle keeps you cupped in his hand while his other hand splits the joined strands of rope, forming a branch around the base of your cock that he rejoins in the dip of your scrotum. He leads the rope further under your undercarriage, the process of his hands moving between your legs making his skin brush against your inner thighs, making the urge to not squirm from the ticklish sensation hard to ignore.

“The knot I’m tying now has an interesting colloquial name.” Even with Carlyle keeping his tone mostly instructional, you can detect the undercurrent of mischief in his voice. “Do you know what it’s called?”

“N-No. What?”

“A happy knot,” Carlyle explains, positioning the knot in question behind your testicles, so that it’s sitting nestled against your body. “I’m sure you can imagine why it’s called that all on your own, clever man that you are.”

“Hah- I can hazard a guess.”

Carlyle runs the tail of the rope through your legs the rest of the way, then slowly raises back to his feet. He runs the rope up your back as he goes, finding the loop at the nape of your neck. Once it’s slipped through the loop, your suspicion is confirmed when he slowly cinches the line up your back just a bit taut, the pressure of the deliberately positioned knot tightens into the tender flesh of your perineum.

“Hmh-” You can feel your face momentarily twist into a pleasant grimace at the new sensation.

“How is that?” Carlyle asks, smirking a bit at your reaction. He eyes where the knots on your chest and back sit, then tests the tension on the loop around your yoke with a single claw. “Not too tight on your collar?”

“Ah- ” You let out a long breath, a bit of a loss for words. You’re still letting yourself fully feel the new sensation and acclimate to it, but you already know it’s something you’re enjoying. You manage to get out a single word; “G-good.”

Carlyle takes that as confirmation to continue.

“I’m glad. Now, I’m going to wrap the ropes around from the back, then pull them through these slits on the front, and then back behind you again. That will create the diamond pattern on the front, when the tension pulls on the ropes. It’ll be the same motion each time.”

He leans in close against your body, arms reaching under yours to part the ropes at the nape of your neck. The ropes pass across either of your shoulder blades and are brought forward around the side of your torso, then slowly, deliberately, drawn over the sensitive space at the base of your armpits, then forward over the top of your pecs. Both pieces are brought forward equally, through the first slit between center knots with practiced ease.

He continues on, following the same steps with the next knots at the middle of your torso and then above your belly button, not even having to pivot you around to work the ropes through the line on your back- instead making the closeness of the motion a tender embrace and taking the opportunity to take another kiss. You feel his hands working to secure the ropes where they meet the centerline down your back, points of his knuckles ever so slightly pressing into your skin.

You’re overtaken by the unfamiliar sensation of pressure distributed in the lattice pattern of lines across your body, squeezing and digging into tender flesh. It’s certainly new, but not bad by any means.

It’s a ghost of a hug- a reminder that you’re safe and supported.

“Unfortunately, I will need to have you turn around to add the wrists.” Carlyle says, hands trailing up your sides testing the ropes with a finger here and there, and across your chest until they rest focused on your shoulders. “I’m good, but I’m not that good.”

“You could’ve fooled me.” You quip back, letting him rotate you by the shoulder with the points of his claw tips.

Conveniently enough, your new vantage point gives you a nearly direct view of yourself in the ornate standing mirror as Carlyle gathers your hands behind your back. In your reflection, you can see the pattern across your front has come together- a string of diamonds down the front of your torso. You can’t visibly see just how hot your skin is in arousal, but your body is certainly finding other, more obvious ways to demonstrate your desire.

“There. How does that look?” He asks, beginning to wind the coils around your wrists.

“Beautiful.” You muse, eyes tracing over the soft pink lines on your body where your hands aren’t able to. Beautiful enough even that you are second guessing the next steps of the plan you were originally negotiating before. “Though, it would be a shame to not be able to see the design after spending all the effort to make it...” 

“I have a solution for that predicament in mind-” Carlyle says in a gravelly tone. “Though you may need some help to get into a suitable position to ride, with your hands restrained like this- if that was something you were interested in.”

“I’d love that.”

“Are you sure? It might be a bit more physical work on your end than we had planned.”

“I want to do the work.” You cheekily repeat his words back to him.

You smile at him hovering over your shoulder in the mirror, your skin flushed and eyes gleaming with excitement.

He gives a performative sigh, but the returned smile makes his true feelings obvious.

“Well, I suppose there will be plenty of other times in the future for me to bend you over furniture.” He takes a moment to trace one of the paths of rope up your front, claw tip barely tickling the skin inside the diamonds. “I’m not going to turn down the opportunity to see more of you like this.”

Carlyle efficiently finishes up the column tie on your wrists, and you feel the familiar bite of cold metal where his focus is inserted between the ropes where your hands meet.

“There, all finished.” He says, pride in his work evident in his voice. adjusting the placements of the lines just ever so in the mirror, meticulous to a fault. “But, before we go any farther- how do you feel? Take a moment to think about it. We can always stop if it’s not a good feeling.”

You flex your wrists where they’re gathered at your lower back and meet resistance. You flex your shoulders and forearms, and while you have more wiggle room, it’s not much. The full mental impact of your helplessness hits you, and you could describe it as discomfort at first. But then thinking about who is in control of that surrendered power changes the flavor of that feeling completely.

How do you feel? 

Vulnerable, but supported. A giddy cocktail of excited and relaxed.

Safe, certainly.

Like you trust Carlyle implicitly, which you’re sure he’d be thrilled to hear…

But while all those things are true, they don’t really encompass the feeling you’re trying to describe.

“I feel so… so…”

You grasp at the words, trying like mad to keep from saying the one that’s already on the tip of your tongue, trying to escape from behind your teeth. 

It’s too soon, you reason. You just made up hours ago and you’d really prefer to not make things weird or awkward between you. And yet you feel the weight of the word determined to leave you, whether you want it to or not.

“So…?” Carlyle prods, clearly invested in knowing your emotional state.

“I feel so loved.” You say anyway.

You immediately scan Carlyle’s features in the mirror, slightly terrified that you’ve thrown a wrench in the spanner.

You think you see a momentary flash of surprise on Carlyle’s features in the mirror, but it’s quickly supplanted by pure warmth and fondness.

“You are loved.”

You see his hand hovering before you feel his claws on your jawline, moving to gently tip your head back and to the side. Then your lips are on his, hungry and searching, like you’re trying to convey your deep seated want without words. You find a similar truth in the slither of his tongue over yours, and the restrained prickle of his fangs on your lips.

With that enthusiastic approval received, Carlyle takes you gently by the elbow and leads you over to the bedside. He empties his pockets onto the bedside table, keeping something in his palm, before making sure to hold eye contact as he undoes his leather belt. He disrobes the rest of his clothing efficiently, then sinks down on the bed, looking quite comfortable. 

“Now- come here.” He motions for you to come closer, and you do, but just sort of awkwardly idle, already trying to figure out how you’ll manage drastically changing position without control of your hands.

You lift one knee onto the edge of the bed, laughing just a bit at your predicament.

“Good. Lift your leg over, just like this.” His hands come to rest about your hips, guiding your knee over him to rest on the other side of his body, then boosts your other up, helping it come to rest on its respective side. With just a little more shifting, you’re poised above him in a half-hover, half-straddle. 

There are a lot of sensations to take in immediately, so you take a moment to feel them; Moving around so much has reminded you of the rope lacing across your body, as the fibers drag friction against your skin. You can feel the slightly rough, stone texture of Carlyle’s hips on the sensitive, usually untouched skin of your inner thighs. Most importantly, you can feel a pillar of stone already grazing against your own partially stiff dick.

Looking down at him from a slightly higher angle is certainly something you don’t often have the chance to do, because of his height. It’s a heady reversal to have what would normally be the physical advantage, and yet be purely at his mercy.

You test your range of movement on your haunches a bit, successfully not pitching forward,despite your clumsiness. It helps that Carlyle keeps a firm hold on your waist, careful to not let you lean too far. The movements quickly devolve into you simply grinding yourself against him, seeking any little bit of pleasure you can get with what you have at your disposal.

“Be careful, now. You wouldn’t want to fall.” Carlyle says, and while you know that he has your wellbeing at heart, this statement is clearly made in amusement.

“Mmh-” You wince. You’re hopelessly aroused already, and your lover seems to be unfazed by that fact. You can feel your pulse throb dully in your groin.

Seemingly convinced enough of your ability to keep yourself upright after a few moments, Carlyle sinks back down against the bedding and pillows, wings splayed out on either side, and the look on his face almost one of smug satisfaction- if it wasn’t so full of adoration- and lets out a deep, approving sigh.

“I’ll be fine, I promise.” You whine. “Can we… move along now, maybe?”

“Hahah. Relax. Maybe I’m enjoying myself.” Carlyle teases you, drinking in the pure want emanating from you. “I think I could soak in this view for quite a while...”

You let out a soft whimper. You suppose you don’t have a choice on how long you’ll have to wait, given that you’re currently at his mercy. You grind against him helplessly, trying to keep eye contact past the warmed round of your cheekbones.

Carlyle obviously doesn’t have the heart to torture you too much, though, as he pretty quickly relents. With a smirk, he finally shows you what was in his hand- a packaged condom that he’s now holding up between two fingers.

“Care to help me open this?” He holds it out closer to you.

You look at him with a snort of a laugh, slightly confused, and still able to quip back despite the rising sense of desire clouding your mind.

“Aah- And how do you expect me to do that, love?” You shrug your shoulders for emphasis.

He pauses for a moment for effect, and just when you are tempted to speak again, he adds to his thought with a wiggle of his fingers.

“You have teeth, don’t you?”

That might as well be a jolt of lighting directly to your core.

You take a moment to think about how to approach the predicament.

Then, you carefully and obediently lean forward, craning your neck, and delicately take the corner of the wrapping between your teeth.

“Careful not to tear it,” He purrs, managing to keep a completely cool facade, apart from his wing tips clearly flexing in excitement. “Or we’ll have to stop so I can get a fresh one. I’d hate to have to start all over…”

You use your whole torso to pull back, and with a turn of your neck, the point of your canine tooth shears the top open from the point where Carlyle’s dull stone claws hold the bottom in place. You can feel a bit of the pre-packaged lube slick your tongue, but you’re so horny at this point you couldn’t care less.

Carlyle takes the rubber from the package, and seeing that it’s intact, his smile widens with a glint of fang.

“You’re so clever. Good work.” He praises you. “It’s no surprise, you always do such good work.”

You let out a triumphant noise somewhere between a laugh and a scoff, grinding your hips in impatience.

Carlyle finishes the process of putting the condom on himself, rolling the material down his shaft with practiced ease.

“Maybe with some training you could do the whole process yourself, hands free.“ He teases, but you have a feeling he’s not joking.

“W-Wouldn’t that be grand.” You exhale, back to grinding yourself against the now slippery surface of Carlyle’s cock.

“Now, normally I would be more than pleased to prepare you by hand myself, but you were very vocal about wanting to do the work yourself. I wouldn’t want to take that away from you…”

“I do. I do want to- myself. Let me…”

You oblige and lift yourself back up on your knees, eager to get back into your element. Not only are you comfortable being in the position of the one giving service- but it’s long overdue that you got the chance to demonstrate your feelings to Carlyle on a physical level.

Firm hands on the underside of your thighs gently hold you steady while you inch forward, though you’re pretty sure with Carlyle’s strength, he could just lift you, put you back down, and be done with it, if he chose to do so. Instead, you sidle forward just enough so that you’re hovering over your target, rather than grinding against it.

Carlyle assists enough to get your entrance lined up with the tip of his cock, but seems to be content with letting you handle the rest.

He eases back down into the bedding once again with a look of pure admiration. It’s the kind of satisfaction that you’d think would have him propping his hands behind his head, if he wasn’t clearly still vigilant with your vulnerable state, making sure his hands are free and close to catch you if you start tipping over. Instead, it’s just the slightest movement of wings or swish of tail where it’s hanging off the bedside.

Despite being quite preoccupied, it’s hard not to get distracted by the expanse of Carlyle’s chest when it’s laid out in front of you like this. You want to touch him, feel the rough yet smooth texture that his skin has, like a boulder worn down by years of weather. 

But this stone is alive and breathing underneath you. Strong and dense, but still pliant enough that you can observe the rise and fall of his chest, his breathing growing subtly heavier now with his building arousal.

You slowly begin to lower your weight down, mindful to not go too fast and risk him slipping out completely before you can get him more firmly inside of you. All you can really do at first is squirm back and forth and try to keep your inner muscles relaxed.

Even through the barrier, you can still feel just how hard he is, even without being able to feel the direct texture of the stone.

With a bit of work, you manage to press past the widest part of the tip of Carlyle’s cock, starting the insertion process in earnest. 

The next few plunges are easy, until the next obstacle asserts itself.

“Aah-” You take a sharp breath in. The first ridge of stone on the underside of his phallus catches you off guard, despite you knowing it was coming.

“Oh, excellent. You’re- ngh- doing so well.”

That little morsel of praise is enough for you to redouble your efforts, pressing back down. If the squeeze feels this tight on your end, it must be doing wonderful things for him- that’s more than enough incentive for you.

There’s enough pre-packaged lube on the condom that you’re not in discomfort, though the process could be easier. Instead you’re going much slower than you’d like to, gradually and diligently working yourself down onto him.

You’re acutely aware of just how desperate you must look. With your arms bound behind you like this, you can’t hide your face when you feel your face is unflattering or cover your mouth to stifle any unbecoming noises.

There’s nowhere to hide, so you’re forced to show all your imperfections- every little twitch plain for him to see, every little grunt clear as day. You can feel his eyes follow every movement.

How lucky for you that any lingering embarrassment you’re feeling is overwhelmed by how pleased your partner looks to be with the show.

“D-Damn,” It’s not often you find Carlyle at a loss for words, or anywhere close to it. But the way his brows are knit together and one hand is holding his temple, as if in disbelief, is betraying his normally collected demeanor. “You’re- perfect.”

You can make out each ridge as it presses deeper inside, wider each step you manage to take, but somehow easier to engulf now that you’re warmed up to being stretched.

“Agh-” You groan and shudder, unable to keep yourself from leaning precariously forward when you finally manage to sink all the way down, the added pressure of the happy knot making your thighs tremble.

His hands quickly return to the soft round of your hips, keeping you steady.

You’re so desperate you barely give yourself enough time to adjust before you’re rising back up on your forelegs, just to lower back down on him again. Quickly you’ve built up to a decent rhythm of bouncing, seeking more of that full, stretching feeling.

Carlyle’s not able to abstain from touching you for very long now that his hands are on you, his claw tips burrowing between the ropes and your skin, touching you everywhere he can reach.

“You’re taking it so well.” Claw tips just barely bite into your flesh. “How does that feel?”

“G-Good!” You barely manage to heave out with a breath between thrusts.

“Mmh- I think you’re capable of something more- ah, verbose, than that.” The hand exploring your side twists the slack in one of the diamonds between its fingers, adding just a bit more tension.

“Really good! Grand! Fit to break in half,” You sputter as your spine arches when your sinking motion hits a particularly sweet stroke against his stone ridges. Then all you can choke out is; “Fuck- Nngh-”

You nearly lose control, overcorrecting in a swing forward, but Carlyle’s hands are already there to stabilize you.

It barely fazes your rhythm- you’re too determined to get what you want at this point, and if you stop you might just run out of steam.

Hands now back on your hips, they don’t seem willing to leave. Instead they provide just a little bit more pressure on your downward motion, to meet the increasingly less subtle thrusts he’s driving into you from below. His fingers tangle in the lowest rope on either side, reigniting the feeling of friction.

Carlyle’s heaving breathing rises into a string of grunts, and his lingering grip tightens on you. You squeeze him as tightly as you can, trying to goad him across the threshold.

He lets out a guttural groan, muscles clenching and shuddering against your skin where your bodies meet. Almost like a small, localized earthquake underneath you. 

His wings spread to their full length, frozen in place.

Then, the tension releases, and there’s the familiar feeling of a heavy warmth settling inside of you.

“Haaah-” His head tips back as he chases down his breath, finally at a loss for words, a spent and love-drunk smile plastered across his face. Several of his locs have come loose from their gathering at this point, in sharp opposition to his usual polished look. 

It’s a kind of silent praise of its own, to see him so undone like this.

You keep up your movements as best you can, seeking the same release for yourself.

Carlyle is struggling to stay focused through the haze of bliss, but he seems more than fine with enduring the overstimulation- His fingers are still twitchy against your overheated skin, jaw still clenching intermittently to endure the sensation, and the low rumbling of approval still emanating from deep in his chest.

Despite having already cum, he’s still hard, given the nature of stoneskin always providing a hard outer layer. Even if he’s gradually becoming less erect, it’s more than enough to keep stimulating you.

“You’re amazing. Such high endurance,” Carlyle observes, idly touching you tenderly. “I wonder how much longer you can go?”

You keep it up as long as you can, another minute or so-  but said endurance is fading fast.

You’re barely able to lift yourself off your haunches at this point, the burn of lactic acid in your thighs growing intense. Now you’re merely grinding his still hard dick against your insides at the best angle you can find, thrusts growing far too weak to get anywhere on your own.

“P-Please-” You finally beg in need, fatigued and winded, skin slick from the effort.  “I- I want to cum-”

“Of course, sweetheart.” Carlyle says, lovingly. “You’ve more than earned it.”

He sits up and after a long kiss, holds you to him with one hand on your back, claws slipped under rope to clutch your skin. Your chin comes to rest across his solid shoulder, seeking to be as close as possible.

His other hand wraps around your shaft in a tight squeeze, the tip of his hard thumb immediately rubbing circles against the underside of your glans.

“Aaah- Mmph-” A few pumps later you’re burying your face against him, your moans muffled into the crook of his shoulder while you roll your hips with what remaining energy you have.

His stoney grip on you is tight, without being crushing- just the right amount of pressure and glide to really pull you undone.

Then there’s the sensation of his lips on your neck, soft kisses that then make way for the points of his fangs every so gently grazing against you.

You clench hard around his cock, squeezing until your breath catches in your lungs and all your muscles go stiff at once. You cum so hard you see lights in the darkness behind your screwed closed eyelids.

Then, all of a sudden, it’s a few moments later and the color and sound and air comes rushing back to you, and you’re gasping against his chest while he continues to stroke you through the very end of your orgasm. Your body is still shuddering and you feel dampness collecting in the corner of your eyes, all from the sheer force of sensation.

You’re still shaking and charged with sensation as he lays gentle kisses on your face and jaw, each touch a jolt of electricity now, as he praises you with sweet words you can barely parse.

Regardless of how much you’re retaining, the message is clear- you are indeed loved.

——

Not too long later, you’ve been fully undressed for the third time this evening. Carlyle has just finished undoing the ropes netting your body, and you are enjoying the renewed sense of freedom in your unrestrained limbs and torso.

You lay sprawled naked and face up, taking up the entire hotel bed, gazing up at the ceiling of the mostly dark room. The only source of light left is the lamp on the dresser, and the small, distant twinkling lights of Windrise City far out past the open window, framed like a painting where the curtain is still billowing in the night breeze.

Your heartbeat is still slowing back to normal and the rope indents are still fresh marks on your body.

If you strain your hearing just enough, you can still hear the sounds of the wedding reception going far below. The night owls must have moved the celebration out into the gardens at some point.

You’re drinking in the quiet, the dark, and the feeling of the fresh air on your still over-warmed, but freshly cleaned, skin.

You let out a long, contented sigh.

Goosebumps.

For the first time in a long time, you feel completely at peace.

Even the voice that breaks that peace is a welcome one.

“Do you need anything else at the moment?” Carlyle asks as he emerges from the bathroom, the task of cleaning the both of you up now complete, then rattles off his usual short list of things you might want for additional aftercare. “Extra blanket, water, something to eat?”

While all of those things normally would sound amazing, there’s only one thing you really want right now.

“Just you.”

Your hand reaches out for his smiling face when he hastily returns and leans down for a kiss. You lovingly cradle the dense feel of it in your palm. 

He slides back into bed to embrace you, careful not to pin you to the bed with the full heft of his hewn body, but still holding you tight. You wrap your arms around him in turn, clinging to the sense of security there. 

His wings flap the air idly above you, blocking out the soft glow from the lamp and casting you fully into shadow.

Despite that, you feel lighter than you have in years.

>> ✨ MASTERLIST

[killeromanoff]

I KNOW YOUR GHOST | prologue

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

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

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

w.c: 9.8k

notes: would you want me to continue the series

[here], [chapter one], [chapter two], [chapter three], [chapter four]

oo. You know what your words can mean

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But what about her?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But instead, she was here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But tonight? Tonight, it felt empty.

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

Cheerier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She wanted to be more than this.

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

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

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

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

“Take care of yourself, Cass.”

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

But that didn’t make the choice any easier.

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

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

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

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

The radio filling the background quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She hated it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cassie paused for a moment, weighing her words carefully.

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

Bas raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued now.

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

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

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

“I already have a job, Bas.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cass? What’s wrong?”  

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

“Turn. That. Up .”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cass, think about this—”

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

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

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

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

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

The line clicked after a few rings.  

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

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

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

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

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

Bas exhaled sharply, gripping the phone tighter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cassie’s hands curled into fists at her sides.

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

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

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

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

Dan chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair.

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

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

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

Crawford straightened, his expression hardening.

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

That was all the time Cassie needed.  

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

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

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

Behind the glass, Crawford was screaming at the technicians.

“Get her off the air! Now!”

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

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

Her voice filled the airwaves, clear and commanding.

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

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

“Cut the feed!”

The lead technician hesitated, sweat beading on his brow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get her off the air!”

“That’s enough!”

“Someone call the police!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Declan inhaled sharply, breaking his stillness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s not,” he said simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Declan shot him a look, more amused than irritated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Interesting,” Rupert murmured.

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

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

Talent , he corrected himself silently.

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

Declan tilted his head slightly, considering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[beingalive1]

𝐀𝐧 𝐀𝐝𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐈𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐏𝐭. 𝟐

Rupert Campbell Black x Oc (Lady Francesca Wellington)

Summary: Francesca Wellington was everything Rupert Campbell Black was and more. A successful show jumper with a title and an estate, she had it all. She was a constant reminder of the man he once was. He couldn't help but hate her for it and yet, he loved her for it just the same.

Part one : Here

Part two: Coerced by a friend

As the tyres of the O'hara's family vehicle graced the gravel of the Priory's driveway, Francesca Wellington was doing what she considered a valuable part of her daily regiment: 

dancing in her underwear to Donna Summer's 'Bad Girls.' 

The athlete sighed blissfully as cigarette smoke wafted from her pink lips, her feet shifting rapidly along the fluffy carpet set upon one of her home's many living room floors. Her tan skin glimmered in the sunlight that poured through large bay windows overlooking her estate. Green grass and flowers hypnotic with scent played a delightful background to her mildly risqué dancing. Her body moved along to the beat of the music, her curtain of dark curls swayed in time with each of Donna Summer's lyrics. 

She was in absolute bliss. Nothing could spoil her mood. 

Not even Freddie Jones, who, for the last ten minutes had been knocking loudly on the door of her home. The portly man wiped his forehead in annoyance, his moustache twitching. He knocked once more. No response. 

He huffed as he pushed the door open. It was unlocked, as always. His ears were promptly assaulted by loud music wafting from the large home's second lounge. He minced forward, his eyes taking in the many familiar pictures of horses and other animals displayed proudly upon the tall walls of the entrance hall. The dogs greeted him at the door: two Saint Bernards, a golden retriever and a basset hound. Their tales wagged in sink as they hounded Fred, a usual guest. He stumbled forward, his mildly ill-fitting suit now covered in copious amounts of hair. He wandered towards the living room, catching sight of Francesca in her state of undress. 

"Jesus Christ!" The man spouted out, his hand jumping to cover his eyes from the sight in front of him: Francesca dressed in only a pair of red panties and a silk cami. 

"Freddie." Francesca greeted calmly as she moved towards the stereo to pause the music, her tan legs slowly stepping across the carpet with grace only possessed by swans and athletes. "No Valerie today?"

Freddie sighed, his eyes now fixating on the rug below his feet. His eyes staring deeply at the blue pattern of the carpet as he slowly made his way to the couch. "No Frank, not today." he replied. Thank god. He could only imagine his wife's face if she too had walked in on the antics of one of his closest friends; he figured he'd swiftly be banned from ever seeing Frank again.

Francesca, or Frank as Freddie referred to her as, disposed of her now finished cigarette into an ashtray before wrapping herself up in a silk gown and placing herself next to her dear friend. She had met Freddie Jones the week she moved to Rutshire. She had been on a run, training for the next riding world championships when Freddie had very nearly ran her over with his bright red sports car. He apologised and offered her a ride home; she told him that she'd only accept his apology if he could secretly bum her a pack of cigarettes behind the back of her riding instructor, Marty.

They became good friends swiftly after that.  

"So Fred-Fred," Frank mocked gently, "not that I don't enjoy your visits but why exactly are you here  disturbing my afternoon cigarette and session of dancing in the nude?" Due to the strict regiment of an olympic athlete assigned to her by her multiple trainers; coaches; and Marty (who she more feared then respected): Frank was only allowed one cigarette a day. To disturb her whilst she smoked was either a considerably brave act or, considerably stupid. Freddie Jones was definitely not a stupid man. She couldn't help but wonder why exactly he was so desperate to speak to her at this hour. 

Freddie shifted uncomfortably, his back leaning against the copious amounts of pillows set upon Frank's couch. He tried his level best to avoid her eyes. He knew, with one look into that sharp stare of hers he would be instantly coerced into talking. Freddie swallowed deeply, his hands finding comfort in stroking the hair of Barnaby: Frank's Basset hound who too had found himself on the couch. The basset  lying blissfully asleep between Frank and Freddie's laps, acting almost as a protective barrier between Freddie and the spitfire he affectionately called his friend. "...Tony Baddingham is having a garden party at his estate in the next two days. Valerie is desperate for us to go and I was wondering if you could maybe come with? I know you must have been invited and-" He was swiftly cut off by Frank jumping off the couch and walking towards the other side of the living room. He watched her worriedly, his hand still stroking Barnaby who now appeared frustrated at his owner for disturbing his slumber. 

"Absolutely not I don't do press Fred." Francesca shook her head, her curls flapping ferociously along with the movement. Freddie often thought, despite her gracious and humble disposition in front of the cameras and the Olympic committee, that his friend resembled a  fire. Just as warm and as comforting  as the flames but also just as dangerous. She looked like every other Lady: with aristocratic features and a slim athletic body, but her hair was as wild as her soul. 

Freddie continued to pet Barnaby slowly, his eyes watching Frank as she looked outside towards the fields containing her horses. Fred knew Frank only looked towards her horses or her dogs when she felt uncomfortable. The confident and strong-minded woman only ever felt true peace within the company of her many animals. "Frank," he started gently, "it's only one party and you could avoid the photographers at the front gate by sneaking inside within the boot of my car?"

Francesca smiled slightly, the mental image of her body draped in some ridiculously expensive dress being stuffed within the confines of Freddie's car boot made her want to giggle. "You couldn't fit me in that ridiculous sports car of yours."

"No," Freddie chuckled slightly "I couldn't. But I doubt Val would mind you being stuffed in her boot beside her party gift for the Baddinghams."

Frank outwardly laughed this time, her thoughts drifting towards lying in a boot parallel to some ridiculous gift basket Valerie would purchase for Tony and Monica Baddingham. "Fine," she conceded. She could never say no to the sweet smile of Freddie Jones. "But I'm not buying them a bloody gift."

"Darling." Freddie began, walking from the couch towards her and placing his hand upon her shoulders. "Your presence is more than an appropriate gift." 

She snorted, lightly slapping the lapel of his suit. Her feet stepped away from Freddie and walked across the blue carpet towards her pack of cigarettes. She lit another one, smoke puffing its way from her lips and swirling around the large room. Freddie opened his mouth to protest but was swiftly stopped by Frank's manicured hand lifting up into the air. "Uh-uh, I deserve this if I'm going to be spending my weekend conversing with Tony Baddingham and all of his entitled friends." 

Freddie nodded in begrudging agreement, a smile perched upon his lips as he gazed at her in thanks. "Thank you Frank." He said genuinely. 

"It's alright. Better you and I face those sharks together than you alone." She said, shrugging off his thanks as she often did. "Besides, how bad could one afternoon listening to Tony Baddingham beg me to join Corinium's board be?"  

If only she knew. 

[devourable]

wips still because i have terrible time management, ✨ but ✨

the teammates! @darling--core huehuehue 🫶

i plan to at least sketch all of mazzy's yanderes so everyone stay tuned 😌

[football-rambles]

Bonus Dad...Introduction.

Call it stepping up or stepping in

But step by step my world went spinning

Around that little heart and angel face.

* * *

Bex is a single mother with a five year old, being a freelance journalist she spends most of her time at home chasing after her five year old daughter, she forgets that she use to be fun before she became a mother it isn't until one night out with her best friend she realises there's more to life than writing and watching Ms. Rachel.

She didn't expect to fall in love with a high profile footballer who happened to wear number 19 to her dads favourite team. But with a child in the mixture could she let him in?

*  *  *

Introducing...

Rebekah Cooper

aka Bex

Mason Mount

aka Himself

Paige Cooper - Thomas

aka Little Coop

Scarlett Bowen

aka Best-friend

Declan Rice & Lauren Fryer

aka themselves

Ben Chilwell

aka Himself

Also Will Appear/Mention:

Mason's Family aka Themselves

Chelsea Squad aka Themselves

England Squad aka Themselves.

Jarrod Bowen aka Himself

Jake Thomas aka Baby Daddy

Tiffany Rose aka Bonus Mother

* * *

Bonus Dad...Loading...

A/N: This whole book is fictional I do not know any of these characters mentioned, I only own: Bex, Paige, Scarlett, Jake, Tiffany. Images for Paige could possibly be Mason's nieces but for purpose of this story I'm trying to get photos of the back of shirt.

This Book belongs to me. I do NOT give permission for this story to be published anywhere else by anyone but me. This book will be posted on Wattpad which you can find here.