#i got four mugs for like $25

[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.

[thedvilsinthedetails]

rosekiller band au microfic pt2

yayyy part 2 is here! (Again if there’s any typos lmk ty)

(also yeah I changed their ages slightly, the skittles r now 23 not 25 what r u gonna do about it?)

anywayssss here’s the ppl that asked to be tagged/said they wanted more so im tagging them anyway (sorry if u didn’t want that): @always-reading @lady-stardust-incarnate @lulublack90 @idk-what-to-put-here-123 @weirdtinkerbellversion @depressedtheatrekiddo @blu3stars @nikholascrow @good-oldfashioned-lover-girl @picklerab23

(As always if u wanna be tagged or not tagged pls lmk I won’t mind at all <3)

Link to Part One

Link to Next Part

***

Evan woke up the next morning to the harsh bleep of his phone that always managed to elicit pure terror in his body. He groaned and rolled out of bed. He’d forgotten to turn off the alarm and of course he was awake at six in the fucking morning on a Saturday.

He threw on a dressing gown over his tank top and plaid pyjama bottoms, slipped into his fluffy slippers and trudged to the kitchen for some coffee.

Once he got to the kitchen he saw Dorcas was already sat at the little island she passed him a warm cup of coffee as soon as he sat down. Dorcas had always been the earliest riser of the band, always eager to get ready quickly and get the hell out of the house, he supposed that’s what growing up as the eldest sister to four brothers did to you. 

“Heard your alarm go off, figured you’d forgot to turn it off.”

“Dorcas you lifesaver. And I mean seriously a lifesaver, I might have murdered someone without this coffee.”

Dorcas laughed.

“Who?”

Evan rubbed his eyes.

“Barty probably. He’s fucking annoying.”

“Any excuse to get up close to him then more like.”

Evan’s head snapped up.

“What?”

Dorcas rolled her eyes.

“Please you’re shit at hiding it.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking ‘bout Cas.”

Evan mumbled, taking a long drink from his mug. 

“Please, save the crap. If you don’t have a crush on him, why do you get so worked up by people calling you a couple. It consumes your every waking thought, now why is that? Tell me.”

“Ughhh I don’t want to think about it.”

He groaned and stared into the brown murky depths of the mug he was cradling close to him.

Dorcas softened.

“Look, Marls and Barty are really close, our next tour stop is London which means she’ll obviously drop by rehearsals. I can get her to ask him if he-“

“He doesn’t.”

Evan ran his thumb over a tiny chip in the ceramic. It was a mug Barty had painted around four years ago, Dora had decided for her sixteenth she wanted to go to a pottery painting place like when they were little. Barty was- honestly pretty shit at painting. The background was covered in vast uneven strokes of black. He’d tried to paint a white ferret on it - ‘Ev this one is for you, if you were any animal I’d say you’d be a ferret.’ - thing is it looked more like a snake with legs that was also, well, a zombie. It was Evan’s most prized possession. He’d be taking it to the grave. He turned it to look inside the handle. Barty had been too lazy to paint that part so instead he’d just written crudely with the brush - ‘B + E forever bitches!’. His eyes crinkled fondly as he read it. 

“I just need to get over it.”

His expression hardened and he looked up at Dorcas again.

“Get over what?”

They both turned to find Barty in the doorway. His hair was sticking up in all directions. Fuzzy spikes of green and black. He stretched his arms all the way up as he yawned, flexing his wrist so his ‘SKITTLES’ tattoo was on full display. He had one of Evan’s jumpers on over his pyjama top. Evan really wanted to reach out and hold. Why’d he have to go and look so soft? Wasn’t fucking fair. 

“Nothing Jr.”

Barty nodded in response as he padded over and sat himself in the chair next to Evan.

“Why’re you even awake?”

Dorcas asked.

Barty dropped his head down onto the island counter dramatically.

“Forgot to turn off my alarm.”

Dorcas laughed out loud, fully threw her head back and everything.

“Two birds of a fucking stupid feather you two are.”

She got up and put her mug in the sink before heading out of the kitchen. Barty turned his head up to look at Evan as soon as she was gone.

“You don’t have to tell me anything Evan, but if you want to you can. You know that right?”

Barty lifted his head and propped it up on his hand as Evan nodded.

“Yeah. Yeah I know Barty.”

“Good.”

Barty shuffled his chair closer before dropping his head onto Evan’s shoulder and falling quiet. It was instinctual, the way Evan brought his arms up around him. After a few moments he looked down though, Barty was suspiciously silent.

“Bee?”

He whispered.

“M’awake. You’re just comfy Ev. You’re really good at hugs.”

Might be ‘cause I was built to hold you.

Damn that’s a fucking stupid thing to say. Fuck I’ve turned into Reg whenever he’s around James.

Yeah Evan needed to get over this like fucking yesterday.

•••

Barty breathed in deeply, face buried in the crux of Evan’s neck. He couldn’t help it really. Evan smelled like home. Probably a creepy thing to say, oh well wasn’t like he said it out loud. Evan was home though, plain and simple.

He didn’t want to move, probably ever. Still eventually as the rest of the group came pattering into the kitchen and things got livelier he had to shift away.

•••

They got on the train at noon, ready to head to London. Evan took the window seat watching as the city turned to rolling hills turned to city again. Barty kept sneaking glances over at him, wasn’t really sure what he was looking for honestly but-

“What?”

Evan asked finally, tone irritated.

“Nothing, just bored.”

“Oh um-“

Evan glanced around, he and Barty were in a two seater while the rest of the band sat around the table in front of them, chatting animatedly.

“S’fine Ev, not anything you can do about it, I’m gonna be bored till we get off this bloody train. Fucking buzzing.”

“Excited for tomorrow then yeah?”

Barty turned to him with shining eyes. 

“D’you remember when we were eighteen? First time at the O2 for a concert? Fuck d’you remember seeing it like that, covered in all the lights ‘n shit. Eventim Apollo doesn’t even compare.”

Evan chuckled. They’d gone to the O2 for the first time June 2019 to see a concert when Evan was still in his backstreet boys phase, something no one was allowed to talk about now under any circumstances.

“D’you remember what you said to me?”

•••

“Look at that stage Ev. Imagine playing there. For all these people.”

Evan turned to Barty and ruffled his hair.

“One day Bee, we’ll be playing here. I promise you yeah? We’ll be playing here and it’ll all the fucking sold out.”

“You think?”

•••

“Yeah. Yeah I do.”

***

AHHH I HOPE U LIKED ITTTT (idk when part 3 will be coming but hopefully soon <333333)

[blu3-ja3]

141 drunk playing truth or dare, Soap asks Doc. Doc asks for truth.

"So when can we meet your son?" O'Connor freezes before downing her remaining rum and coke. They've all heard stories from Doc about her son William "Will" O'Connor but never met him. There's been opportunities too, plenty. Only a week ago was Christmas and they all got together with their families to visit and celebrate before heading to their respective holidays. But O'Connor just arrived with homemade eggnog, no family in tow. Price knew about it, maybe Ghost but the other three were surprised to see her enter the base alone. After that they were incredibly curious.

She smiles and Doc reaches for her dog tags and on the same chain is a small four leaf clover charm, the boys are confused until Doc rolls up her left sleeve showing off her intricate sleeve tattoo. She points out a section almost hidden on her inner arm. There's another lucky clover next to a bit of text:

William "Will" O'Connor

Fed 3rd 2001 - Oct 25 2019

Gaz freezes instantly and it takes a second for Roach and Soap to do the same. The Piccadilly Square Massacre... Price puts a gentle hand on Gaz's arm.

"Went to meet his dead beat of a father, bastard never showed up. Kept Will waiting at that damn street corner hoping." She pours another drink before downing it, "Ashlocke (asshole) had the nerve to show up to the funeral and make a scene, demanding I not cremate him..." A tear falls from her eyes as she looks at Gaz "You saved so many that day, don't forget that Kyle," and she smiled as another tear rolled down her face.

"You've all met him in a way, he never leaves me. But maybe one day I could take him some flowers and make some introductions," She smiles at the boys around her. "He would've fit right in with you lad, just as chaotic and impulsive... Ah I'm sorry that was a bit of a downer donae why I did that,"

"We could beat up your ex for you if you'd like Doc!" Roach offers and that gets them all smiling again. "Heh, Captain Price has beat you boys to that but I'll be sure to let you know if he shows his mug again... Lieutenant! Truth or Dare?"

She smiles as he says Dare "Kiss your favorite Sargent" He pecks Soap on the cheek, mask still on before turning his focus towards Price. They continue into the night enjoying drinks and laughter.

COD Master List

[fishnoodles]

The Drugs, The Strokes, The Future: Albert Comes Clean

Albert Hammond Jr, photographed on 10th Street, Manhattan, August 15th 2013

On the cusp of releasing a new solo EP on Julian Casablancas' label, Albert Hammond Jr opens up to Matt Wilkinson about some very toxic relationships

Mirror of an interview of Albert Hammond Jr by Matt Wilkinson for NME, originally published ~7th September 2013. Photos by Guy Eppel.

I hear Albert Hammond Jr before I can see him. Lying horizontally on a couch by the window of The Strokes' managers' office in Manhattan's East village, he offers an LA-infused drawl of "Hey, maaaaan" from the shadows. When I do clock him, he's surrounded by mementos of former glories - NME Awards, a huge map with loads of pins punched into every continent conquered, gold records, platinum records, framed magazine covers blown up to beyond life-size proportions. Even the coffee mugs here bear the words "The Strokes" in big, bold blockbuster letters. It seems like the perfect place for a bunch of savvy New Yorkers to plot world domination.

But of course, The Strokes haven't been doing much of that lately. As 'Comedown Machine' came and went - perhaps the most low-key album release ever by an active band who still mean anything to anyone - their radio silence spoke volumes, vast tombs of lingering questions left agonisingly unanswered, about the band's personal relationships and their future as whole.

Today, with Albert gearing up to release 'AHJ', a new solo EP on Julian Casablancas' label Cult Records, we get some way closer to the source of that silence. From the off, his enthusiasm for the record is infectious. Produced by long-time cohort Gus Oberg and with Julian offering advice on an almost-daily basis, he's convinced the songs are the best he's ever written on his own. What's more, he's champing at the bit to get back on the road with his solo band - it's what he wants to do "more than anything". What'd top it all off? "I'll play anything, man, literally anywhere," he laughs, adding that a support slot with Arctic Monkeys would do nicely. But perhaps the most arresting aspect of our chat is the 33-year-old's own story. This is his first solo sit-down interview in years, and he's keen to open up.

The funny thing about 'AHJ' is that, just like on Albert's first two solo albums - 'Yours to Keep' (2006) and '¿Cómo Te Llama?' (2008) - most people are likely to overlook the depth of the lyrics. Like all The Strokes' best material, his songs are happy-go-lucky garage-rockers on the surface. But whereas Julian's words are often cryptic, Albert's open up an altogether more confessional front. On 'Strange Tidings', where he sounds uncannily like Tom Petty, he sings, "I can't believe I lost my mind".

In 2009, Albert undertook a well-reported rehab stint, which he discussed to some extent when The Strokes gave interviews around the release of 'Angles', back in 2011. None of them went as far as to detail the true extent of his problems, however. Heroin was mentioned, but then so were exhaustion and relationship woes.

"Around the second album, I'd say, 'I was in a dark place, dude, I was in a very dark place," he says today, jesting at his understatement. "I'm just now being able to understand or speak about that time, and it's been almost four years." He'd "always" done drugs, he says, but from 2006-2009 things got out of control. "It was, like, oxycontin and cocaine at 24, 25, 26. And then I became {addicted to} heroin around then. So from 26, 27 'til 29..."

Today, resplendent in short-sleeved black tee, black jeans, and black Converse, he's teetotal and altogether happier.

"It's not so much that I wasn't in a happy place; I was just... God knows where I was. I was just very high. That's where I was."

How bad did it get?

"I mean, do you want me to get specific? I don't mind, but yeah, I used to shoot cocaine, heroin and ketamine. All together. Morning, night, 20 times a day. You know, I was a mess. I look back and I don't even recognise myself. I did my own thing. I mean, you have moments when you're fine. And if someone meets you, you seem fine. But I remember when I was showing someone music and I was wearing a short shirt and (points to wrists)... there were just purple {track marks} all the way down here. And then they would call someone - 'Did you see Albert, he looks crazy?' That's where I learned to wear long sleeves. I've had these tattoos forever and I {still} have people coming up, "Oh, you've had new tattoos?" I'm like, "No , you just haven't seen me with a short shirt on..."

The Strokes, shot in 2011 while promoting 'Angles'

He laughs as I tell him I thought exactly that when I walked in today. He's recently read and been surprised at NME's Peter Doherty cover feature, where the Babyshambles man described his own failed attempts to get clean.

"I didn't really understand what he was saying. He was like, 'If you reach a certain point and you don't stop, you might as well keep on going.' I thought, 'Huh? No, it makes sense you should stop.'"

With Peter, I reply, I think it's more about keeping him in as safe a place as possible these days.

"I don't want to be that. I don't want to be that. I think drugs were a great way to get out of your head. You enjoy that for a while, it helps you to go to new places. But then it stops you from growing and puts you in a place where you're just not as good as you could be - for me. I'm not judging. I did it hard and for a long time, so I'm in no place to judge, nor would I. Something clicked one day, and I got out of it."

Albert's open to talking about this stuff now, because "I felt like I never got across how I was feeling" during 'Angles'' press campaign. But he's still cautious about discussing what you'd imagine to be a less difficult topic: The Strokes.

"When you're doing your own music that you're excited about, to talk about Strokes stuff - things get sensationalised so easily."

I respond that I can't not ask about The Strokes' that every fan of theirs in the world is wondering what the fuck's going on right now.

"No, of course, but also there has to be an understanding I'm one fifth of something, and I don't want it to come across to our fans that I called this interview to speak about stuff, {as if} I'm taking advantage of {the opportunity}. I hold very dear what we have together as friends. I'm just very careful at how things get said, because I don't want something to be misunderstood and then become the face of saying that stuff."

He doesn't mind chatting about The Strokes, but he won't really talk about them. On their future plans? Nothing concrete, apparently. Touring prospects?

"No comment."

I ask him why the band didn't do interviews around the last album.

"We just made a decision to keep a {lid on it}. We thought it'd be cool to keep a quietness to it, to see what a record would do {if you could only} listen to it."

Fair point, but it jars with what he says about the 'Angles' interview campaign, where the band were painted as being at loggerheads. "Look, I feel like {the press} got everything wrong," he says of that time.

So why not get the five of you together now to put it right?

"But what would be the...? It just seems that... I don't even know the words. It'd just be weird."

Ask him where, figuratively speaking, the five Strokes are at the minute, and he paints a sunnier picture ("We're in a great place!"). He played with guitarist Nick Valensi at a Dylan tribute concert in Dublin recently, has worked with Julian on 'AHJ', is still tight with bassist Nikolai Fraiture and drummer Fab Moretti.

"I hold what The Strokes have as friends very dear" - Albert Hammond Jr

I witness it for myself during NME's photo shoot. We're stood outside the offices on Manhattan's sunny streets with Albert, when at the end of the road we spot the unmistakable figure of a moustachioed Fab. The two men catch a glimpse, wave heartily, and carry on with their business. They'll hook up later, Albert says.

For now, he's keen to get back to the EP. He whips out his phone to show us the artwork, talks animatedly about how he's gotten so into Metallica that he might cover one of their songs, raves about his favourite records (from Adam & The Ants' 'Car Trouble' to Wipers' 'Is This Real?'). He seems relieved he's still here, still playing music, happily sober.

"The first two years you're kind of standing on the edge and watching a river go down, and that's the world," he says of life without drugs. "You're like, 'Why am I not part of this? How do I get in?' But you just can't. You're an outsider."

Albert takes stock for a second when I ask him where he's stood now.

"You know... I feel comfortable with myself, I guess."

-

Cult Status

What's Julian like as a label boss?

Albert: "I'd been talking to Julian about wanting to release something on his label Cult Records since he started it. He was like, 'Let's put out a song.' So I went, 'Alright, I'll start working with Gus [Oberg] and maybe after we do a few songs there'll be one that's fun in there.' I sent him the first, 'Cooker Ship', and he was floored. I got an email back with a million 'yes'-es on it!

It wasn't originally going to be an EP, it was going to be one song, then it was going to be two, then it was going to be three. Julian was like, 'Let's cap it at three.' But then I went, 'Well, I have one more', and he said, 'That one's good, we'll do four.' Then again, I was like, "...I have one more". He goes, "We've got to stop now... but that was your best one!'"

[uriekukistan]

HI I BRING INTERACTION pls feed me megu headcanons if u feel so inclined,,,,

hii ty for the interaction :D ofc i am always inclined to megu hcs! he's in my brain 25/8...megumi my beloved <333333333

megumi's always been a light sleeper/had a hard time falling asleep. even when he was a baby, he'd be up like 37 times in the night, so toji and mamaguro would take turns pulling all nighters because what's the point of going to sleep when baby megumi is just gonna start crying 10 minutes later...even when he's older, he still wakes up several times in the night. it's too hot, it's too cold, i'm thirsty, the door slammed four apartments down, etc. of course this only gets worse after the detention center because he starts having nightmares :( dw, this opens the door for some cute itafushi moments down the road im writing a fic abt this

he also wakes up reaalllly early because of this, like 5am...that doesn't mean he's a morning person though. he's very grumpy and almost completely unresponsive to anyone trying to talk to him. not that anyone else is really up at 5am with him...maybe yuuji, but he's on the other side of his sleep cycle (hasn't gone to bed yet, was binge watching a new series) and probably equally zombie-like. anyway, megumi is the epitome of "don't talk to me before i've had my coffee." gojo got him a mug that said that once...

megumi didn't eat breakfast (much to tsumiki's chagrin) until he met yuuji, but that's mostly because he doesn't want to waste yuuji's efforts food :)

to add on to that, he has a pretty small appetite, my personal thought is this comes from when he was younger. he and tsumiki struggled to get food between when their money ran out post parental departure and when gojo came into their lives, so he just got used to not eating a lot...but for the same reason he'll never leave food on his plate. lingering fear that he'll wake up with nothing to eat one day (SORRY i had to make it angsty bc that's just Who I Am 💔💔💔)

um. to end it on a lighter note :) if megumi wasn't a sorcerer, he'd work at an animal rescue facility or a no-kill shelter and he's all the dogs' fav employee :))) (ik a lot of people like vet megumi, but i feel like he'd get too sad when he had to put an animal down bc he couldnt save it........). if he wasn't into that, he'd be interested in ecology and habitat preservation for endangered species.

um i was gonna do a Day In the Life of Megumi but the first points got sooo long so uh. stopped after breakfast.

(the way i write abt him all the time and still had to take a while to write this,,,had to separate au megumi from real megumi)

[bootswiththefur565]

DEAD ENDS (Creepypasta OC Origin Story)

Chapter 3 Until the day break, and the shadows flee away (Cant. ii:17)

This chapter may include but is not limited to: slight nudity, talk of scars, harassment

There may be errors in my writing, I am open to criticism! Sorry for yapping so much, enjoy my story <3

Clara laid in plush, tan sheets. Flat on her back with her arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes were half-lidded and gazed up at her ceiling. She doesn't remember when she fell asleep, nor when she eventually woke up. Nevertheless, the morning fast approaching, the sun would rise soon. Clara tore her eyes from her ceiling and glanced around her room, her copper toned walls greeted her. She did not care to really do much when it came to decoration, her walls lay bare before her. Her bed was twin sized, yet she didn't mind. There wasn't much furniture in her room, minus the nightstand and a dresser that held all her clothes. Though she did have a full sized mirror hanging off her door.

Slowly, she leaned her body closer to her nightstand, her warm beige arm reaching out for the bottle of water resting upon it. Once she drank her fill she placed it back in its designated spot, and gazed at the framed photo behind it. There stood a girl in a bright red leotard holding a gold medal, behind was the gymnastics gym. Her lips pulled into a half-smile at the sight. 

Clara then slid her legs off her bed and began to get up. Popping and cracking sounds echoed off her joints. Checking her little flip-phone she found it was 4AM. She let out a small groan as she turned to face her bed. Kneeling down, she reached under and pulled out two 25 lbs weights.

“If I’m up, I mind as well be productive.”,the brunette mumbled with a huff. 

The young adult stood in front of the mirror hanging on her door and began to curl the weights. Once she had felt like she had done enough of those she’d move on to a different upper body exercise. With each exercise she did three sets of each, and made sure to keep her form tight.

Clara put the weights away and grabbed her diner uniform. She made her way into the bathroom as well as shutting the door behind her. The brunette knew her housemate was still asleep due to her door being shut and no light to be seen peeking out from the bottom. She decided to be quiet.

Beginning to undress herself, she made it to her bra and underwear before she stopped. Her eyes lingered on the right side of her abdomen, a decent sized scar greeted her. Decorating her damp skin, it was about four inches long and maybe an inch wide. Her jaw tightened and her eyes narrowed in on the eyesore.

“мать-ублюдок (mat'-ublyudok)”the brunette practically growled through her teeth. 

She kissed her teeth as her eyes traveled down to the side of her left thigh. Clara pushed her left hip up and forward to get a better look at the part of the body. There on her upper part of her thigh was a blotch of discolored, tight skin, a burn scar. Yet at the sight of it, Clara’s gaze softened. Somehow this one was easier to look at, one might say she even looked at it fondly.

Not wasting any more time, the young adult turned on the shower. The water rushed out of the shower head and a faint smile tugged at Clara’s full lips. The water remained cold as she got in, she recoiled away from it’s touch at first, but slowly enough she eased into it.

The shower didn’t last more than ten minutes. Once she was done in the bathroom she left with her diner uniform on, the pencil skirt was tight on her thighs. Her dark locks were sopping wet and hung just a little below midway on her back. 

Now Clara stood by the kitchen sink, peering out the window. A lilac mug with “World’s Best Sister” engraved into it was held firmly in her hand. A gift from Soraya. The contents inside were dark and emanated steam. The sun had finally began to rise, kissing the sky with dusty tones of orange and pink. Her eyes shifted down to the forest that lay behind her house. Both residents of 76 Main Street,  Burnsley enjoyed a casual stroll in the woods together. Though now, Clara couldn’t recall the last time they had done such a thing.

After a few minutes more of enjoying the scenery, Clara then whipped up some scrambled eggs and dowsed them with grated cheese. She left them on the counter with a plate placed over the pan along with a sticky note with a smiley face on it. The young adult was about to turn away when she decided to leave one more note.

“Don’t forget to take your medication.”

This was the routine: work at the diner, then cut meat at the grocery store, come home, sleep, and repeat. Of course when she did come home and had the extra energy she would get some work done around the house. Soraya helped too, which Clara greatly appreciated.

A couple of days came and went. The sun had risen once again and the routine reset over and over. Once full, green trees had slowly started to change into dark oranges and golden yellows. The black top concrete was dry as Clara walked atop of it. The smell of car exhaust and something sweet became heavier as she neared the Walkman diner.

As she pushed through the glass revolving doors her eyes landed on a short, middle aged woman. Her platinum blonde hair was messily thrown up into a bun that sat upon her head, all held together by a hot pink scrunchy. Her uniform consisted of tan slacks and a pink hoodie covered whatever else she was wearing. Her oval shaped head gazed up at the mountain of a man next to her, her pointed nose and her cheeks held a soft blush. She then pointed out a slender finger at Clara.

This caused the man to shift his gaze onto the brunette. He flashed her a smile, revealing the small gap between his front teeth. His bronze hair shaped his face nicely, and looked well-combed. An aquiline nose sat in the center of his face. Very few blemishes decorated his nude toned skin. His skinny, pencil mustache that had a slit in it right above his cupid's bow moved along with his mouth as he spoke.

“Hello.”,he greeted.

His voice was smoky and light, and may have a light southern tone to it. He shifted his weight and fully faced Clara. Adorning his broad shoulders was a soft banana yellow hoodie. His hands were tucked away in his pockets and he wore black pants. The only oddity Clara could find about him was his heavy duty work boots.

Did he look familiar?

“Brian, this is Clara, she’ll help you get assimilated with how things are done around here.”,the blonde woman announced, her gray eyes never leaving Brian’s face.

Clara’s slouched posture straightened as her honey brown eyes widened at the statement. Her hands formed fists as she bit the inside of her cheek. She opened her mouth to voice her opinion on the matter but was cut off.

“I need to run some errands, but if you have any further questions Clara is completely qualified to answer I’m sure.”,she commended as she flashed Clara a smile before walking past her and out of the front of the diner.

“Thanks Cathy!”,he called out after her.

Clara’s body tensed, her elbows digging into her sides as she fiddled with her hands. Her gaze followed Cathy’s form until she snapped her head back towards Brian. Her long curtain bangs rested on her face after settling from the motion. She clenched her jaw. 

His lips were still curved into a smile as he approached her. He took one of his hands out from his pockets and held it out to her. His hand was fairly large and calloused with a small scar here and there. 

“It’s nice to meet you Clara, thanks for taking the time to show me the ropes.”, Brian beamed with a silvery tone.

“It’s not a problem.”,Clara practically mumbled as she reached out her hand to meet his. 

His hand was unexpectedly cold.

“Cathy needed a new boy toy huh?”,Clara sneered within her thoughts.

The diner would open within the hour. Clara gave Brian a uniform and after he was changed they got to work opening. 

“You’ll just be a host for now.”, Clara expressed in a quiet tone as she wiped down tables. “Just until we can pick out days for you to work, shouldn’t be too long, Marge should be leaving soon to have her baby.”,she added.

“Sounds good to me.”,Brian chimed as he stacked menus.

Clara’s jaw once again clenched, her brows knit together and her nose wrinkled. Her grip on the rag tightened and she simply bit her tongue instead of speaking with the new hire. The silence was deafening in the front of the diner. That was until more of the staff started to filter in, including Bobby. Clara didn’t even have to turn around to know it was him, she could tell by the way he let out a bellowing laugh that echoed throughout the diner.

“Bobby you're late, the kitchen food needs to be prepped and the meat needs to be taken out of the freezer.”,Clara put out with a monotonous tone, her lip slightly curled as she continued to clean.

“Cathy ain’t here Clarabelle, don’t get your panties in a twist, it’s too early in the morning to hear you bitch and moan.”,Bobby sneered as he began to walk towards the kitchen, but stopped when his baby blue eyes locked onto Brian. “Well fuck me sideways, who is this?”, the balding man inquired.

“New hire. He’ll be the new host.”,Clara gave a curt reply through gritted teeth.

“Good!”,Bobby cheered, “I needed another man around here, being around pussies all day long really kills the mood.”

Brian didn’t answer him, he instead continued to diligently work. Clara quirked her eyebrow up, she side-eyed Brian. His warm smile had vanished into a thin line, his expression hardened and his inviting hazel gaze seemed dark now. Perhaps he wouldn’t be the worst person to work with, even if his “ready-to-tackle-the-world” attitude got under Clara’s skin.

Seeing that Brian wasn’t going to give him an answer, Bobby sauntered off towards the kitchen. He cursed to himself before announcing that the new hire had his balls in Clara’s purse. Once he was gone, the brunette turned to flash Brian a small smile of approval. He returned the gesture with a smile of his own, and a little nod.

Day fell into Night, though no stars shown in the sky. The waning moon was covered by a fluffy blanket of clouds. The night was dry and had a brisk wind that blew by every now and then. Clara strolled up her rotting porch steps. Her stride stopped in front of her agape door. Her muscles tightened and her honey brown eyes widened. She felt her jaw go slack, as her mind raced a mile per minute. Bile rose in the back of her throat but she pushed it down with a hard swallow.

Slowly she backed away from her door and made her way back towards her car’s trunk. She returned with a bat. Her eyes narrowed as she made her way into her home, the lights were off, and with no moonlight her home was pitch black. The young adult’s breath was shallow, but she did her best to quiet herself down. A soft padding could be heard approaching from the kitchen. 

“Hey Bunny.”,a soft, feminine voice greeted.

Suddenly the hallway light flicked on, and there at the end of the hallway stood a slender figure. Ginger hair hung messily above her sunken in siren eyes, a piercing ice blue gaze locked onto Clara. Loose, ginger curls rested upon her shoulders. Freckles danced over her upturned nose and her porcelain cheeks. A smile pulled on her thin lips. She wore a white tank top that wasn’t long enough to cover her whole stomach, it hugged her skinny frame, her petite bust were peeking out the top of the article of clothing. Paired with it were low rise jeans that were a blue-gray  and were ripped to shreds, revealing pieces of her long legs. On the right side of her stomach lay three hearts tattooed in a cluster. Decorating the entirety of her right arm the side of her neck was discolored, scared skin. One whole burn scar.

“Jen?..”, Clara’s voice was barely above a whisper, the bat’s handle slipped from finger tips. It landed on the hardwood floor and bounced slightly before it stilled.

[tortoisesshells]

3, 6, and 13 please!

3. ... that encompasses my style:

It's got marine ooze, it's got something wrong going on in the background, and it's meandering through thoughts without much dialogue. From One's A'self encounter - In lonesome place.

Maura Franklin found that she did not like the Prometheus any better on second acquaintance than she had at the first: the deck was cold underfoot – slick, too, but not only with the marine damp she had accustomed herself to. If she were to bend down, she was sure she would find some silty, primordial ooze, as though the Prometheus had been slumbering at Captain Larsen’s four thousand meters, and only lately returned to the surface. It was not only her vocational hatred of dirt that made her loathe to check her guess. That was not to say it didn’t tempt – the ragged swathes of some kind of sea-weed that almost remind her of something, the glittering of sediment within the muck. There was something terrible to it – too much discordant information, pointing to wild impossibilities. A sunken ship could not be raised four thousand meters, unless by a miracle, or something like it; it seemed impossible to her eye that the Prometheus could get into such a state without going beneath the waves, somehow. What little she understood of these matters – an item in the papers, now and again, glimpsed under a mug of coffee at her desk – an Irishman turned American named Holland, how could she forget something like that –

6. ... that I struggled with, but triumphed over:

There's a passage in Customs, ch. 25, that took three or four drafts to get the infodump-iness to a manageable size, by way of trying to weld potc into reality.

Lieutenant Gillette did not say where he expected Britain to enter such a conflict, which made Theo assume – with a kind of superiority he admitted was unwarranted – that Lieutenant Gillette was not privy to such knowledge, either. So much for Commodore Clinton’s flag lieutenant, he thought snidely. “It was this Charles who had claimed Spain’s throne in 1701,” said Norrington, by way of speculating where Gillette’s knowledge had fallen short, speaking of the war they had both been born into, “Though he driven off by his cousin, the current Philip.” “Has this Philip a claim on the Austrian throne?” “I doubt it. He was made to relinquish his claim on the French throne as a condition of the end of the late wars; I cannot imagine any power would consent to such a consolidation now. But he is still French.” Calling this the late war was eliding several smaller wars, but it was not worth belaboring the point: Britain was poised to fight Spain over several slights (imagined or otherwise), its right to sell slaves in Spanish territory, and to suit the humors of bullish braggarts in Parliament; wherever Spain went, then Britain would likely be opposite, and France and Spain had far more in common than they had with Britain, anyway. This was to be the shape of things, then – little wars strung together into a great strand of blood – Theo was conscious of wrinkling his nose at this, the wine muddling his metaphors. Thank God Norrington couldn’t hear his thoughts! The many sources of such conflict, on an imagined globe, bled outward, like wine dropped on white linen, leaving precious little space unblemished.

13. ... that helped me understand a character better:

I think she feels a little too Austen-y, but I liked writing Elizabeth in the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war -; sorting through what she knows and what she feels, before weighing her instinct a little heavier than the incomplete evidence she has.

And what was a wife but an ornament? On the infrequent occasions he hosted gatherings, Elizabeth and all of Port Royal society could wander past the blades of vanquished opponents as regularly as the more fashionable curios and shelves; Elizabeth could not help but think of the two crossed swords of the French and Dutch garrison commanders of Saint Martin, and how six years ago her father and all of Port Royal society had fallen over their own shoes to compliment young Captain Norrington on so great an accomplishment at so young an age and with so few men under his command – and how that had mirrored so exactly what he had said to her this morning – What I have not yet achieved. As if marriage were simply one more item on a list, a hedge to be hurdled as he sprinted towards his inevitable promotion to Admiral, and very likely eventually a seat on the Board of Admiralty – Though what he needed the Swann influence for there – with his late cousin Byng for many years the senior Naval Lord – There was something in that, Elizabeth thought, though she was reluctant to pull at the loose end of thought; it seemed nearly kind to attribute Commodore Norrington’s conduct to the workings of the human heart, and – life-debt or no – Elizabeth was not feeling kindly inclined. She was feeling cornered – again, as though this had all been fore-ordained, and she was being yanked along through her paces, like a puppet. As though no matter what she said or did, she would always be returned to the same well-rutted path that wealthy, well-bred women trod between the cradle and the grave.

Send me a number and I'll share an excerpt of my writing!

[helenarasmussen87]

It's been awhile so I gotta share a few things which just made me go like huh.

-Just got back like four hours ago and I honestly feel that I get the lame cabs when I go to the train station. It wasn't bad, but it could be better.

-My train was delayed due to snow and I made my second train on time, but I had to haul ass while hauling bags that weighed close to 25 pounds each. I swear I'll chill next time with the shopping, but I found so many figures, books, and art supplies and mugs I couldn’t resist.

-i have enough JJK figures I can start a shrine. No joke and I'm vaguely embarrassed about that. But again, Shanghai and HK made it easy.

-Loved HK and Shanghai due to there being so much to see and experience. Beijing was good, but the other two had a certain vibe that I found easier to relate to.

-Cat cafes maybe? I was a favourite of the kitties in the Shanghai one. The hairless guy and this baby with a stumpy tail were all over me. I stayed and just loved on them. I found out that you can adopt them and they're all rescues. The proprietors were pleased that I stayed with the kitties and snuggled and loved on all of them.

-I had ramen at Ichiraku’s! It was so so good!

-I destroyed shoes due to how much I was walking. And riding bikes. I got a different knowledge of the city that way.

-I get to my place and I see there's a box tucked in the handle of my door. I just drag everything in and don't think much of it until after I've washed my hands and start unpacking. I open it and find the nail polish I ordered in *December* I had given up for lost and cause huge issues with delivery and stuff.

-I am torn between laughing and bewilderment. This is also the second time I've had someone just find a lost nail polish order and return it to me. I don't even know what to think.

-Overall, I had a great holiday despite a few days were I was very down due to being tired. I'm glad I got to get out and do all the exploring to my heart's content.

[prince-rowan-of-the-forest]

5, 10, 17, 25, 27, and 29 for that ask game?

hope you don't mind me asking multiple just super curious

Ooh so many (gremlin grin)

I already answered 5 Here!

10. Is there a fic that got a different response than you were expecting?

Oh I entirely expected like NO ONE to like Faeries in the Forest I was so surprised when people kept asking for it lmfao

17. What’s something you’ve learned about while doing research for a fic?

Very recently, a lot of stuff about hypermobility, joint/chronic pain and related disabilities - for a fic I haven't talked about before yet :))

I've also already answered 25 here!

27. Is there a fic you were nervous to post/share? Why?

I was very worried about posting (Vi)vianne Marie Zephyr - almost entirely because I was terrified I'd have captured the experience of being a trans person badly and offend/hurt people -w-

29. Share a bit from a fic you’ll never post OR from a scene that was cut from an already posted fic. (If you don’t have either, just share a random fic idea you have that you don’t plan on getting to.)

I've already answered this one too (here) but I'm gracious and benevolent enough to give another snippit from a different fic :)

This is a long ass snippit but I love it so who cares

Maybe I will post this fic, one day, if I can ever finish it.

“...Virge? That you?” Ah, great, it was Roman, he sounded exhausted.

“...Yeah,” Virgil muttered as he grabbed a mug from the cupboard, no point trying to be fast now, he’d already been spotted. Unfortunately as he put the mug down he noticed from the corner of his eye the pattern on his sweater. It was white, mostly, with red and gold accents and a large simplistic crown in the middle. Of course it had to be one of Roman’s, Virgil thought as he went red. He should’ve guessed, Roman was about the same height as him, though he had broader shoulders, of course his sweaters were way too big on Virgil.

“What uh- what’re you wearing there?” Roman asked slowly, as if he was worried about getting punched, which was completely valid because Virgil really really considered it. Ultimately he was too tired for actual violence. He wasn’t, in fact, too tired for threatening it, though.

“Princey if you question me before I’ve had at least four hours of sleep and or a cup of coffee I will skin you and use you as a doormat,” Virgil said mildly as he poured the boiling water over his teabag, fully prepared to splash the hot water in Roman’s direction if he dared to say something else about the sweater.

“Woahkay,” Roman said, leaning back in his chair, “Was just gonna say that you look cute in my sweater,”

“Fuck you,” Virgil practically growled.

“Ok ok!” Roman said, raising his hands in surrender, though Virgil was fairly sure he wasn’t about to stop, “Just wanted to let you know.”

<3 thanks for the asks!!!

[brainrotcharacters]

The clock struck eleven when Angel peered at the front door for what felt like the hundredth time. No David yet. They hummed, wandering into the kitchen. There must be leftover chips in the cabinets somewhere.

12:43 AM flashed on their phone when they craned their neck in the direction of the door again. David had placed magical wards around the house on top of the security system he had installed, but Angel could have sworn they heard keys jingling. "Davey?" Still nothing. False alarm.

1:25 AM felt like a condemnation as they opened up their messages. Somehow, Angel forgot about the four other texts they already sent David. Oh. Heya! I know it's no phones allowed when you're on the clock, but I just wanted to check in on you. Call me back

They watched their thumbs trembling. The microwave made a sound, so much like the ward that kept David away from Angel during the inversion.

Call me back please. I love you.

2:58 AM was a mockery the entire time Angel sent a voice note to the group chat. "Guys, hi... I'm okay, don't worry. Um.. Have the rest of you heard from your mates? If you haven't, me neither. If you have..." They cleared their throat. "Let me know. Please. Thanks."

Asher's mate was the first to reply. You're up too.

3:37 AM had a vendetta against Angel specifically when they changed into David's clothes, a mug of piping hot coffee in hand as they sat on the floor next to the door. They leaned their head onto the nearest wall, staring and waiting.

Angel jolted awake from another nightmare of the inversion, toppling the now-cold coffee onto the floor. They had no energy left for that, taking the tissue and placing it on the spilled liquid.

David found them like that. He blinked. "Angel, what are you doing? Why are you on the floor?"

Tongue stuck to the roof of their mouth, Angel could only peer up at him. He's safe. He's alive. He's back. He's safe. He's alive.

David's vision adjusted to the dim lights enough to see the unshed tears in his mate's eyes, and his heart broke. He set his bag down, closing the door behind him. "Come here. Come here, baby. Let's go to bed. Come on."

He gathered that beloved human form into his arms, letting Angel sob onto the crook of his neck. "S-Sorry about the coffee. I'll clean it up. Promise."

"I'll handle it. Don't worry." He dipped his chin onto the top of their head, gently kicking the bedroom door open. David was vaguely aware of the messy bed sheets as he placed Angel onto them. "Did you try to go to sleep?"

Angel had a hand over their eyes, which did nothing to hide the tears slipping through their fingers. A double nod.

"Okay. I appreciate that, Angel. You tried. Thank you." He ran a reassuring hand over their arm. "Do you want water? A snack?"

They sniffled. "I had noodles. And chips. Before the coffee, I-I mean... I'm sorry. I know we agreed I was going to cut back, but those are comfort foods. And I needed..."

"That's alright. That's okay, Angel." David already had a water bottle in hand, loosening the lid as he placed it on the nightstand. "I'm not mad."

He made quick work of changing out of his work clothes before climbing into bed with them. He wrapped his arms around Angel again, brushing a hand across their hair. "We're okay. We got out."

"You mean you got out." Angel tightened their embrace around him.

"And back to you," David countered. "I'll always come back to you, Angel."

Ever since the Inversion, Angel developed mild separation anxiety.

Late nights where David was still out on a job were the worst. He told them that he would be back late, but their mind still reels with thoughts of that day - waiting. And waiting.

The first couple of times David was working late Angel would sit in front of the door, wrapped in a blanket, and wait for him.

“Angel, I told you I’d be home late today. Why didn’t you go to bed?”

Angel would look up at him with tears in their eyes, and David knew what they were thinking about immediately. He bundled them up in his arms and carried them to bed, staying there for a few minutes to ground them.

Nowadays they’re less anxious when he’s out late. They still prefer to wait for him to come home, though.

One night they decided to turn on the TV while they waited. A little Star Trek would keep their thoughts occupied.

Some time later, David walked in and noticed Angel in his hoodie, curled up on the couch fast asleep.

He let out a small huff, edges of his mouth turning upwards.

Even though he’d told them not to, it meant a lot to him that they’d waited for him.

Especially on this day.

[capriciouscaprine]

today feels like a monday to me; this would be more exciting if I had a normal schedule with weekends off, but I'm still loving the new week energy (numbers:)

I have a much longer post about the past several days that I'm working on and will post separately, so suffice to say I have been wildly off track since saturday and am now refocusing on what actually makes me happy and is beneficial to my long term goals

so, haven't had breakfast yet; I did some house chores, then did an hour on the treadmill for ~2.75 miles and 375 c's (I've seen way lower c numbers for other people's walks, but they're taking longer to do the same or less distance meanwhile I'm locked into a set pace, so perhaps that's why??) and had tea with 0 c sweetener and some milk for my typical 25 for the mug; kinda experimenting with not eating right when I get up, and so far it's more than fine, I think I'll be sticking to it!

I've got these cereal bars I want to finish and not take with me into summer, so I think I'll have one of those (130) with another mug of tea (25) now (it's been almost four hours since I woke up) and then a second bar ~maybe~ right before I go to work

if I do stick to this, that'll be either 180 or 210 c's for my morning!

[justarandompersonxd]

All of the asks if you feel like it! If not lemme know :)

(Ps I'm still working on your ask/answers sfgjldgrg)

hi love ^^, take your time hehe

weird asks that say a lot

in

1. coffee mugs, teacups, wine glasses, water bottles, or soda cans? water bottles

2. chocolate bars or lollipops? chocolate bars all the way

3. bubblegum or cotton candy? bubblegum

4. how did your elementary school teachers describe you? not cause it wasn't me lmao

5. do you prefer to drink soda from soda cans, soda bottles, plastic cups or glass cups? i prefer not to drink soda at all. glass cups if i had to

6. pastel, boho, tomboy, preppy, goth, grunge, formal or sportswear? tomboy

7. earbuds or headphones? headphonessss

8. movies or tv shows? tv shows!

9. favorite smell in the summer? flowerssssss

10. game you were best at in p.e.? sucked at all of em pfff

11. what you have for breakfast on an average day? bread with peanut butter

12. name of your favorite playlist? mix 1

13. lanyard or key ring? lanyard ^^

14. favorite non-chocolate candy? old dutch candy: boterwafels

15. favorite book you read as a school assignment? don't really like bok school assignments

16. most comfortable position to sit in? sideways or backwards

17. most frequently worn pair of shoes? work boots

18. ideal weather? 16 degrees celcius, no breazy, cloudy skies

19. sleeping position? whatever th brain wants that day

20. preferred place to write (i.e., in a note book, on your laptop, sketchpad, post-it notes, etc.)? note book

21. obsession from childhood? what is childhppd (joking). marvel and viva pinata

22. role model? lmao none

23. strange habits? i eat weird and i drink weird. don't really know how to describe it pfff

24. favorite crystal? bismuth

25. first song you remember hearing? no clue sorry

26. favorite activity to do in warm weather? swimminggggg

27. favorite activity to do in cold weather? sleeping probably

28. five songs to describe you? wolfpack (blind channel) hallelujah i'm not dead (citizen soldier) brittle (icon for hire) sunflower (icon for hire) in need of medicine (smash into pieces

29. best way to bond with you? ask me about my hyperfixations :D

30. places that you find sacred? my room

31. what outfit do you wear to kick ass and take names? none, i don't like confrontations

32. top five favorite vines? free shavacadoo, work road ahead and tomas sanders story time series

33. most used phrase in your phone? idk man, im on kaptop

34. advertisements you have stuck in your head? none at the moment

35. average time you fall asleep? 2 am

36. what is the first meme you remember ever seeing? fnaf memes

37. suitcase or duffel bag? duffel bag

38. lemonade or tea? tea

39. lemon cake or lemon meringue pie? had neither so-

40. weirdest thing to ever happen at your school? people really loved throwing chairs

41. last person you texted? my qpp ^^ @stephlastname

42. jacket pockets or pants pockets? pants pockets

43. hoodie, leather jacket, cardigan, jean jacket or bomber jacket? hoodie

44. favorite scent for soap? lemon

45. which genre: sci-fi, fantasy or superhero? superhero

46. most comfortable outfit to sleep in? n o t h i n g, just underwear

47. favorite type of cheese? all of them

48. if you were a fruit, what kind would you be? orange or banana

49. what saying or quote do you live by? try to be kind

50. what made you laugh the hardest you ever have? mostly stories my friend tells

51. current stresses? too much-

52. favorite font? wingdingssss

53. what is the current state of your hands? pretty a okay

54. what did you learn from your first job? s p i e g e l e n

55. favorite fairy tale? one out of a fabke book my gramma got me. it was about a fox and a heron finding about each other's struggles.

56. favorite tradition? eh. don't really have 1

57. the three biggest struggles you’ve overcome? accepting myself breaking free from my family choosing myself

58. four talents you’re proud of having? being able to calm people down drawingg writinggg and talking skills

59. if you were a video game character, what would your catchphrase be? dont actually know

60. if you were a character in an anime, what kind of anime would you want it to be? cooking anime

61. favorite line you heard from a book/movie/tv show/etc.? we're all different people troughout our lives

62. seven characters you relate to? tenth doctor 11th doctor felicity smoak

63. five songs that would play in your club? icon for hire and smahs into pieces

64. favorite website from your childhood? google+

65. any permanent scars? 1 on my left shoulder (innerworld). a couple on my legs. a couple on my left arm and shoulder. and a bunch on my head

66. favorite flower(s)? sunflowers ^^

67. good luck charms? phoenix keychain

68. worst flavor of any food or drink you’ve ever tried? sour

69. a fun fact that you don’t know how you learned? i know about 8 ways to dispose of a body

70. left or right handed? right handed

71. least favorite pattern? dots my beloathed

72. worst subject? maths

73. favorite weird flavor combo? sweet and savoury

74. at what pain level out of ten (1 through 10) do you have to be at before you take an advil or ibuprofen? 5

75. when did you lose your first tooth? sammich

76. what’s your favorite potato food (i.e. tater tots, baked potatoes, fries, chips, etc.)? poffed potato

77. best plant to grow on a windowsill? vinessss

78. coffee from a gas station or sushi from a grocery store? grocery store sushi

79. which looks better, your school id photo or your driver’s license photo? neither

80. earth tones or jewel tones? jewel tones

81. fireflies or lightning bugs? fireflies :0

82. pc or console? console

83. writing or drawing? writing

84. podcasts or talk radio? podcasts

84. barbie or polly pocket? neither

85. fairy tales or mythology? mythology

86. cookies or cupcakes? cookies

87. your greatest fear? becoming like my parents

88. your greatest wish? getting to run around the wild like my kintypes

89. who would you put before everyone else? my qpp 100 percent

90. luckiest mistake? dont actually know

91. boxes or bags? bags

92. lamps, overhead lights, sunlight or fairy lights? fairy lights

93. nicknames? so many

94. favorite season? winter

95. favorite app on your phone? simplyplural

96. desktop background? a screencap from no man's sky

97. how many phone numbers do you have memorized? my own and my mom's

98. favorite historical era? ancient greece

[msbarrows]

July 15 to July 27- managed to flake out of doing my Thing A Day posts, and for considerably longer than I thought it’s been at that (feels like a week, it’s been more like two). Haven’t done much in that time other than laundry, and partially cleaning the upstairs bathroom. Need to get out of the doldrums and start doing more stuff. Also resume doing these posts because mostly they’ve been at least partially successful in reminding me to do more.

What I can remember of the last week or so below the cut.

July 19 - dug meat sauce out of the freezer and we had that and pasta. I’m surprised I can even remember back this far.

July 20 - starting prep for a colonoscopy next Monday, so made an easily digestible supper of pan-fried haddock and homemade hash browns. The last “real” meal I’ll have until early next week. Thankfully brother is going on a trip starting tomorrow so I only have to worry about cooking for myself over the weekend. He spent the afternoon making a big pot of sausage & steak chili to take along with him

July 21 - made a vat of stock, partially to use up some freezer burnt chicken (a half chicken and four thighs), but mostly to provide myself with well-cooked chicken and stock for this weekend. Brother forgot to pack his chili, crock pot full of it was sitting out on the counter when I went downstairs to turn off the heat under the stock pot, whoops. Chili is now in fridge.

For supper I made a cheese and chicken sandwich with mayo on white bread, and picked all the very-well-cooked chunks of carrot out of the stock pot to also eat

July 22 - ran two loads of laundry. Deboned the remainder of the chicken and froze most of it. Also divided up and froze the chili and most of the stock (which I’d strained yesterday and then chilled overnight so I could skim off and discard any fat). Cut up a beef roast into stewing beef and froze it in 1 lb amounts for future use.

For supper I cooked some white rice in stock with a little dried tarragon, and added some of the shredded chicken to it.

July 23 - the fun of clear liquids only day! I will not go into the gross details of what prep involves (google peglyte it if you’re curious). When I was finally able to ingest stuff in late evening, my supper was some lime jello made using grape-apple juice, and later a soup mug full of chicken stock.

July 24 - colonoscopy day. Brother drove me there and back. I am now four polyps down, and am being referred to their big polyps specialist to remove a fifth (the big ones apparently need different instrumentation to remove), which will mean re-doing prep at some point in the near future. I am SO not looking forward to that - the colonoscopy itself is no biggie but the prep sucks so very, very much.

Pretty tired since I had to get up at stupid o’clock to do final prep. I will be avoiding blue gatorade for some time to come, since that’s what I was mostly drinking during prep (aside from the Peglyte itself) and now find its flavour revolting as a result.

Had to gently reintroduce my digestive system to food after getting home, so supper was vanilla yogurt, applesauce, a banana, and a slice of white bread and cream cheese, spread out cautiously over the evening.

July 25 - cleaned upstairs bathroom. Brother off at a golfing stag party for someone, so I stayed easy on my digestive system and made tuna rice with green peas for supper. So nice to have a vegetable again after days without any.

July 26 - finally got around to using up the chayote I bought before leaving Toronto (they last forever and a day when refrigerated) and made chayote & chicken wraps using some of the cooked chicken from making stock.

July 27 - supper was chili and rice; some of that steak & sausage chili my brother had made. It was delicious.

[shehungthemoon]

🔑Ep. 3

🔑Petey says he doesn't know what Sunset Park is... is he lying or even while reintegrated are his memories still chopped up?

🔑"WE MUST BE CUT TO HEAL" on Selvig's wall

🔑Petey says there's a whole department that he found that cannot leave their Lumon (or their Severed minds)

🔑Other severed people are discovering things like sex (lady that got pregnant at work)... I want to know more abt the internal rebellion in other departments!!! Has it gotten as "bad" as MDR before? Was it easily shut down or do they keep hiding it/people?

🔑Petey always knew Mark was hurt.... they made a song and joked about him having an elevator allergy but HE ALWAYS KNEW EVEN WHEN SEVERED UGHHHHHHHHHHH

🔑Could finally see the numbers on the lockers.... Mark is number 14, and there are at least four more above that. So addendum to point above from ep. 1

🔑They said Mark is suppose to get to the office first (and we see that happen the day after his promotion) but come ep. 3 he's somehow the last one there? Strange. Probably an oversight but I love this show's attention to detail so much that it kinda hurts to think it

🔑Harmony (with a key to Mark's house) takes Gemma's candle. Bc she's psycho? Or bc she's planning on using it somehow to mess w/ Ms. Casey? I don't think we see what she does with it.

🔑~21:30 "Did you give her directive praise?"

🔑 ~23:30 what is bad soap??????

🔑 Why was Cobel not willing to open Ricken's package to Mark herself? Could just be a power thing but she's so personally invested in Mark that's it's strange that she would potentially let Milchick know pertinent information abt him first (she tells him to check it for secret messages).

🔑The whole mug throwing scene just screams abuse. No way did Harmony grow up nurtured.

🔑Mark was kinda way too good at threatening Helly abt that sharpie cap note 😫

🔑Wonder if Mark recognized O&D by their faces or by their badge color.

🔑31:25 Irv's little skip run ahhhhhhhhhh stooooooop it Irv

🔑~33:50 Dylan's phrasing is interesting in its extremity: "unnatural, perverse" abt the "2" people in O&D only ever seeing each other.

🔑"Kier doing some Divergent sorting! Love that for him <3 "MacroDats are clever and true" while O&D is "more cruelty-centered." Pick ur fighter y'all! These are the only options <3

🔑Mark thinks there are "around 5" departments and Dylan thinks 30.

🔑Helly's uber-violent joke abt murdering Mark as a warning to o&d is maybe uhhhh! Indicative of her upbringing!!! Potentially!!!! It's insanely specific!!!!!!! Plsplsplsplspls let me be right s2. Give me face-wearing PLS

🔑Going insane. Fuck me. Kier's voice-clip is played over Petey stumbling and bleeding through the streets: "...people have begun to ask what I see as my life's great achievement. They wish to know how they should remember me as I rot." Biting biting biting. I have fallen in love with Petey so much more than I thought I could this time 'round. Third time's the charm. Biting biting biting.

🔑"Woe. Frolic. Dread. Malice."

🔑The scale by Kier in the perpetuity wing has a small vial of orange liquid on the left (heavier) and something metal on the right. Can't tell what is it but vaguely looks like a palette knife? (Immediate Irv sirens at that thought lol)

🔑Milchick laughing incredulously at Ricken's book and saying "Jesus" under his breath is fucking hilarious and the most natural things we've ever heard from him and IT SAYS SO MUCH ABOUT HIM!!!!!

🔑Just now asking myself. What the fuck does the R stand for in Helly R.

🔑Outie Mark who seemed honestly rather adverse to Petey still goes out driving aimlessly looking for him when he comes back to an empty house.

All of my Severance thoughts and observations from my rewatch will go here 🥳

[dragoncityinteriordesign]

Zhao Yunlan and Shen Wei’s Apartments are the same set

I know I sound like I’m hollering in front of a board with red string and pushpins all over it, but this has settled something that bugged me from the start.

It makes no sense that their apartments are the same layout. They’re on opposite sides of the hallway; they should be mirrored. My first instinct was that they were the same set, but I couldn’t imagine that the set designers would want to strike and re-assemble Zhao Yunlan’s nightmare of an apartment every time they needed it. So I figured there was just a Standard Apartment Set and the production had nabbed two of them.

But now I am convinced that it is a single set, and that they filmed all the scenes in Shen Wei’s apartment first, cleared it out, and built Zhao Yunlan’s apartment to keep for the rest of production.

A lot of this hinges on two pieces of information:

The first scene Bai Yu and Zhu Yilong filmed together was the post-mugging scene, where they sit in Shen Wei’s apartment and he rubs Zhao Yunlan’s bruised arm.

C-dramas often get filmed very out of order, but Guardian’s got a key piece of visual continuity: Zhao Yunlan’s bangs, which change between episodes 14 and 15.

With all that in mind, here’s the apartment hallway:

Note that there’s a poster on Zhao Yunlan’s side of the hall with a (made-up) character on it. That’ll be important.

We actually see that Shen Wei’s apartment is connected to this actual hallway - in fact, the show calls attention to it, because the punchline of the househunting scene is that it’s Zhao Yunlan’s doorway across the hall.

There are also a couple other shots where you can see other details through Shen Wei’s front door that match the exterior shots of Zhao Yunlan’s apartment. Even though the camera never travels through the door itself, you can see that this apartment and the hall are connected.

However, there’s only one shot where you see the connection between Zhao Yunlan’s apartment and the outside. As he’s storming out, you can tell by the poster on the wall that he’s storming out from Shen Wei’s side of the hall.

As amazing and memorable as Shen Wei’s apartment is (and there will be posts forthcoming on that), and as hard as he obviously schemed to get it, there are only four scenes when it’s all done up normally: the break-in (ep.6), the post-mugging conversation (ep.7), planning for the field trip (ep.9), and the “who told you I can’t erase your memories?” conversation (ep.14). All of them are before Zhao Yunlan changes his hair.

Beyond that, there are only two other scenes set there, and in both of them the apartment is manifestly different. The first is apartment-hunting (ep.5), when there are white cloths draped over the major furniture pieces. The second is arguably not even actually there -- it’s after it’s been burned out (ep.25), and the boys just stand in the doorway and scan a CG’d-up version of the place.

By contrast, there are tons of scenes set in Zhao Yunlan’s apartment, down to nearly the end of the last episode. It’s a much more important space, and it makes sense they��d need it longer.

I feel they do a great job of obfuscating the fact that they’re the same set. The little dividing walls they put up in Shen Wei’s apartment break up the space, and there’s the big difference of how Zhao Yunlan has a whole kitchen where Shen Wei just has low shelves and tall, curtained windows. The wallpaper color change gives it a whole different vibe, too.

So there you have it. Thank you for coming along with me on this wild ride; I feel better.

[wiypt-writes]

25 Days Of CHRIS-mas

Day 5: Baby, It’s Cold Outside

Summary: Johnny and you are spending a weekend snowed in…

Pairing: Johnny Storm (Fantastic Four) x Reader

Warnings: Bad Language, Adult situations, Smut (NSFW, 18+)

W/C: 1.4k

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction, any likeness to any persons or events in real life are purely co-incidental. I do not own any characters contained herein bar the reader and/or any original characters. I do not give consent for my work to be copied and posted/translated onto any other sites. If you see this fiction anywhere other than Tumblr, it has been taken without permission. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer and ALL warnings posted here.

25 Days Of Chris-mas Masterlist / Main Masterlist

Day 4: Bryce Langley (Fierce People)

Upstate New York was filled with snow as the Christmas holiday drew near. You were nestled in a blanket, watching as a fresh coat fell outside while a fire burned beside you, a Hot Toddy in your hands, which was more hot than toddy, truth be told.

"I really can't stay...Baby it's cold outside...I gotta go away....Baby it's cold outside...This evening has been so very nice...I'll hold your hands they're just like ice."

The sounds of your boyfriend softly singing and humming the catchy Christmas classic as he moved about the kitchen shocked you.

The ever suave Johnny Storm wasn't necessarily the romantic type. Not in the way you were seeing him now. And even after a few years, it still caught you off guard.

“You know, that song is actually kinda creepy and pervy.” You watched as Johnny flipped his hand, a small ball of flames leaving his palm and landing in the fire, sending it roaring.

"Exactly," he sniggered.

And there he was.

You rolled your eyes as he flopped down beside you, taking a pull from his beer.

"So," he propped his feet up on the coffee table, "dinner, check, drinks, check, what's next, baby?"

“To be honest, I’m just enjoying the quiet,” you snuggled into him a little. “It’s been a while since we got time to ourselves like this.”

"Saving the world does take its toll," he sighed contently.

“You know, if your head got any bigger, you won’t be able to fit through the door.”

“Well, then we’d be stuck in here, alone….” he looked at you, “I see no problems with that scenario.”

“No, you’d be stuck here.” You grinned, “I’d be free to leave.”

"Nope. I'll melt the door handles. You're my hostage."

“I’d call Sue.”

“You wouldn’t!” He spoke in a mock-horrified voice.

"Try me," you smirked.

"You, Miss Y/L/N are naughty," he plucked your mug from your hands and set it on the table next to his bottle of Peroni.

“Well, you’d know all about naughty, wouldn’t you, Torch?” You teased as he shuffled closer.

Johnny smirked, "Gettin' coal in my stocking for years." He bumped his nose against yours.

“Yeah, what you expecting this year?”

"You, under the tree, naked, preferably a bow around your little, tight ass."

“Smooth,” you laughed as his lips pecked yours.

He winked. "What do you say to finishing the night naked, in the hot tub?"

"Have you looked at the blizzard outside?"

"Uh, Human Torch," he pointed to himself.

“Fair point,” you chuckled, “okay, hot stuff, you’re on!"

He grinned, "yes!" He pumped his fist in the air. He gave you a deep but swift kiss and bounced from the couch to the covered back deck where the hot tub sat. He pulled the cover off and then frowned. There was no steam rising from it. His eyes flicked to the temperature gage and he gave a groan. It wasn’t even warm, let alone hot.

 He took a moment to fiddle with the controls, the jets worked, the circulator worked but the coils weren't shifting on, a flashing flame on the screen of the panel taunted him.

 And then, he smirked to himself. “Human fucking torch.”

 In a flash he was out of his clothes and in the cold water, his body a bright orange as he rapidly heated the water, watching the temperature on the panel rise. When it was to a suitable and comfortable temp for you, he maintained the heat but lost his glow. This was around the same time you came out in your fleece robe and snow boots.

His eyes watched as you walked towards him, pausing at the side of the tub.

You kicked the snow boots off and untied that belt around your waist, the fleece slipping from your shoulders and down your arms, dropping to the decking.

Johnny’s eyes started at your feet and scanned their way up your body, goosebumps erupting over your flesh from both the freezing cold air and the intensity of his gaze.

“Baby, hop in, you’ll catch a chill.” He popped a brow as his eyes locked onto yours.

You toed the water, a bite to your flesh as your skin turned pink from the heat.

Stepping in, you slipped down into the water and slid next to him. A contented groan left your mouth as you allowed yourself to relax, snuggling into Johnny’s side.

"You're so beautiful." He whispered into your ear, his lips at that spot behind your ear.

“Charmer,” you sighed, your eyes fluttering shut.

"Baby, you know I'm a charmer, but you really are beautiful."

“And here’s me thinking you loved me for my personality.”

"Your personality," Johnny kissed over your jaw, "your beauty," he kissed down your neck, "your mind," over your collarbone, "your ability to put up with my arrogant ass."

“Hmm,” your head rolled back a little and you bit your lip, before you moved to look him straight in the eyes, “our baby best turn out like me because I’m not sure I could cope with two arrogant assholes.”

"Our baby?" He squeaked.

You nodded, reaching for his hand under the water. You gently moved it over so his fingers splayed over your belly. “I found out two days ago, I wanted to surprise you on Christmas morning…but I couldn’t wait any longer. I know we said we were gonna wait till a little longer but…”

 Johnny's jaw dropped, "Babe, I gave you a drink," he shuddered, "and, shit, get out! Too hot, too hot!"

 You chuckled, “will you relax? I tipped most of that drink away and as for being too hot, it’s half you. Probably be throwing fireballs around in my womb. Besides, if I keep it to under ten minutes, I will be fine. I googled.”

"Fuck, I'm... I'm gonna be a dad!" Johnny was surely shocked.

You let him absorb the news, sitting back in the water as he processed it. You watched as his eyes watered and his mind turned.

He pulled you into his lap with a choked sob, "thank you."

“I love you,” you smiled, pressing a kiss to his lips, “now turn the heat down just a smidge.”

“What? How did-“

“Reed told me it was broken before we came out here.” You popped a shoulder, “thought it would be funny watching you try and figure it out. I’m impressed, only took you five minutes before you realised you could do it yourself.”

He dropped the temp down a few degrees. "I'm gonna marry you, I'm gonna be a dad, you've changed my life, Y/N."

"Slow down, Storm. Let's enjoy this for a bit before you jump the gun."

Johnny looked at you for a second, before his lips met yours in a soft kiss.

Before long that mouth trailed a path down your neck, lavishing affection on the breasts which would soon enough be nursing his baby. The thought was enough to have him rock hard.

"Is it safe... To you know...."

You sighed, "yes, it’s safe."

“Good, because I’m really fuckin horny.”

"Me too," you purred, scratching at the buzz cut hair.

“Ten minutes you say?”

“More like nine now…”

“Give me five.”

Before long, he was stuffed deep inside of you as you rode him slowly, his hands on your spine pulling you close. It wasn't rough or hard, it was slow and soft, deep, passionate. His lips never left your skin, tongue laving, kiss deep.

 It was making love with more than a deeper purpose. Still, he had you worked up in a ridiculously short time.  You felt the familiar tightening in your belly as you neared your release.

"Johnny...." you rasped.

“Yeah, honey, come on…”

"Oh yeah.... Yeah..." your body tensed and squeezed as that coil snapped, "yes....." you came with a hiss.

A few thrusts later, Johnny followed you, a groan of your name leaving his lips as he sagged down into the water a little more.

"Fuck, I love you, my baby mama."

You chuckled a little as you peppered his face with soft kisses. “Love you too, but I really should get out now. Meet me in the bedroom?”

"Oh definitely," he nipped at your bottom jaw.

He stood, making sure you got out okay before he sat back down, his hands running over his face, a dopey grin on his features. He turned to see you give him a coy smile as you walked back inside.

Little did you know he had a surprise of his own. A delicate but showy diamond nestled inside a velvet box hidden within a sock.

He too had been waiting for Christmas morning but… 

No time like the present.

🎄🎄🎄🎄

Day 6: Syd (London)