#i love the idea of ghost like remnants appearing all over

[chapinii]

Legend has it that after the devastating events of Purgatory away from Quesadilla Island, you may venture into the empty Gothic castle on the top of the hill - providing you get past the young man who fiercely guards its exterior with a scythe - and within one of its many rooms you will find a mirror with cracks forming around its frame.

Some say, when the moon is full and shining its brightest, that if you stare long enough into the mirror, a pair of empty, dull blue eyes will stare back at you. If you dare not to look away, it has also been reported that the form of a man, drenched in blood, will present itself behind you in the glass, a look of rage and despair scorned into his tired face. He will begin to mouth something as yet unintelligible (reported by many to start with a 'GA') before quickly fading away.

Witnesses have reported a light scent of smoke in the apparition's wake, with some even comparing it to a faint aroma of coffee...

[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.

[library-ghoulette]

Under the Spell - Chapter 2/?

Pairing: Mary Goore x f!OC

Rating: Mature (mostly for language, SFW, later chapters will be NSFW)

Tags: first person POV, unnamed Sister of Sin OC, he/they Mary Goore, slowburn, banter, jealousy, stressed out overachiever, if I don't admit that I'm attracted to you then it's not really happening

Words: 1704

Summary: Mary Goore is spending the summer at the Abbey to assist with the Ghost Project when one of the Sisters of Sin catches his eye. Can they find love--or even just a place to hook up--under the wrathful gaze of Sister Imperator? (chapter one)

A/N: Sorry not sorry ghesties, but I love a slowburn. And making them fight! It's their foreplay, I promise.

ao3 link

divider by @gothdaddyissues

I spend the next week haunted by Mary Goore. They don’t appear again at the courtyard bench where I take my furtive stress-smoking breaks–not that I hope they will–but that seems like the only place in the Abbey unmarked by their presence.

Everywhere else? They seem to follow like a song I hate but can’t get out of my head. They brush past me in the hall on my way to class. They’re leaving Sister Imperator’s office right when I need to talk to her about something. They even sit on the far end of my pew during mass–which I’m sure they only attend to annoy me–leaning forward across the other worshippers to catch my eye and wave.

They talk too loudly, and they laugh too much, and I have no idea how they’re managing to get any work done for the Ghost Project when they never seem to be in the music room. Why would they do any work, when they could be following me? 

Or when he could be sitting across from me in the dining hall, surrounded by a gaggle of Sisters, all of whom are looking up at him with bright smiles, playing with their hair and giggling at remarks that I’m certain couldn’t have been that fucking funny, touching his arm and–

My roommate nearly shouts my name from across the table, and I snap my attention back to her. 

“I’m sorry, what?”

She sighs. “I was saying, that’s so annoying.”

“What is?” I realize that I’ve lost the thread of our conversation so thoroughly that she could be talking about anything from being put on extra cleaning duty to the cafeteria not having the good french fries today, and I have no idea which. 

She flaps a hand Mary’s direction. I look over just long enough for them to catch my eye and give me a wink before I turn away again. 

“See, that’s what I’m talking about. He acts like he owns the place, and everyone falls all over themselves trying to get his attention.” She adjusts the clip holding back her profusion of dark curls and says something that I don’t quite catch, because there’s another wave of giggles from Mary’s table and I look over to see him stretching his arms over his head, the hem of his shirt rising just enough to reveal a sliver of pale skin right above his studded belt–

“Huh?” I ask, when my roommate reaches out to poke my hand.

“I said, I’m glad you’re not taking part in all that nonsense.”

“Oh. Yeah, I uh… I don’t really see the appeal.”

She gives me a suspicious look, eyes narrowing and lips twisting to the side in an expression that I know too well. “You’ve been so spacey lately.”

“Yeah, I know.” I drop my eyes to my plate, dragging my fork through the remnants of my salad. “I’m just kind of stressed out about my classes and everything.”

“Well, if you want to do some extra studying together, let me know,” she says. “The summer is going to be over before we know it, and if you want Sister Imperator to approve you to take your vows this fall–”

“Yeah, that would probably be good,” I cut her off, before she can fully launch into yet another reminder of why I’m spending my summer studying instead of… whatever it is that fun people do with their summers. “I’m free tomorrow after–oh shit, what time is it?”

She checks her watch. “Uh, 1:30?”

I swear under my breath, a litany of shitshitshit as I gather my things. “I’m half an hour late for my library shift.”

“Go on,” she says, stopping me as I toss my trash onto my tray. “I’ve got this.”

I might feel annoyed with myself for eliciting the look of concerned pity she gives me, if I had the time to spare. As it is, I almost sprint out the door and across the Abbey to the library.

I stash my bag in the librarian’s office with my apologies, shrug on my cardigan to ward off the air-conditioned chill, and collect a cart of books ready to be returned to their shelves.

I love my shifts in the Ministry library, hours when  I can disappear into soothing work, cushioned by the susurrus of research happening all around me, the turning of pages and the tapping keys forming the perfect backdrop for my thoughts. 

I’m looking forward to resuming the comfort of my usual routine, to clearing my mind and maybe passively mulling over Secondo’s notes on my most recent Latin translation. But when I locate the correct range and turn down the aisle, an all-too-familiar disheveled head peeks around the next shelf, stopping me short.

“What are you doing here?” I hiss.

“Research?” Mary offers.

“Nice try, but try again.”

“Okay, fine. I saw you giving me the eye back there in the cafeteria. Thought you might want some company.”

“You followed me?” I can already feel that tell-tale blush that I hate creeping up out of my collar and across the face, the one that makes people confuse pissed off for something else.

Mary grimaces as they approach. “Followed makes it sound creepy.”

“It is”--my words come out louder than I intend, and I catch myself, because they are not going to bait me into making a scene in the middle of the library--”it is creepy. Go away.”

Of course, he doesn’t go away. 

“Are you trying to deny a humble seeker of knowledge the opportunity to improve their mind and grow in their dark faith?” he asks, voice dripping affronted piety as he plucks a book from the shelf at random. 

“Fine,” I sigh. “But be quiet. And don’t bother me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” They lean against the shelf and flip the book open with an exaggerated motion that makes me cringe for the poor book’s spine. I try to go back to my work, but I can feel their eyes on me, and it can’t be more than a minute before they’re talking again.

“Did you know that weird Cardinal has, like, a whole stash of antique porn hidden in here somewhere?” Mary asks, snaping the book shut, voice getting progressively louder. “I hear it’s the really weird stuff!”

I hear a grumble from one of the nearby study carrels as someone shoots us a glare, and I shush Mary with a light slap on the arm with the book I’m holding.

“Shut up. And go away.” I turn to shelve the book in my hand. “I’m trying to work.”

Mary doesn’t leave, just cocks their head at me mischievously and rubs the spot where I hit them, right over the devil inked into their skin. “Sure, I’ll go away. If you come meet me tonight.”

The retort is poised on the tip of my tongue, but to my surprise, what comes out of my mouth is, “Meet you? Where?”

“The cemetery.”

I shake my head. “No.”

“It’ll be fun.”

“No, Goore.”

“Ugh! So impersonal!” He clasps a hand over his heart, wounded. “Don’t you think we’re on a first-name basis, babe?”

“No. And I’ve told you not to call me that.”

I start to wheel the book cart away, rolling down the aisle to the next range of books I have to shelve, finished with this conversation. But Mary’s hand shoots out, grabbing me gently around my upper arm, their calloused touch setting off sparks inside me, sparks that I refuse to label as anything other than anger.

I’m about to say something scathing, but they lean close, and the openness of their expression stays my tongue.

“I’m sorry,” they say. “I’m an asshole, I know. But seriously. The cemetery, midnight. We’ll have a little picnic, just you and me.” A lopsided grin. “It’ll be nice.”

I bite my lip, considering, looking down at their hand where it still rests on my arm. For whatever reason, I don’t shrug it off. And they don’t take it away.

Here is the part when I say no, I think. But what I say instead is, “Maybe.”

Mary smirks like he knows, just knows, that “maybe” really means “yes,” and it makes me want to take it back now to spite him. But I can see where the conversation goes next if I say no: the way he will relish teasing me for not having the guts while I get increasingly flushed and flustered, looking every bit the good girl being pestered by the bad boy who won’t leave her alone. Worse, looking like the good girl who doesn’t want the bad boy to leave her alone.

They’re leaning in close enough now that I can smell them: clinging smoke, the salty tang of sweat, and something spicy and earthy. There is a small voice inside of me that urges me to lean in closer, to breathe in more of that oddly intoxicating scent. That small voice assures me that if I just tilt my head up ever so slightly and close my eyes, then Mary will meet me halfway. 

Stupid. What would I want that for? He’s distracting, and annoying, and–

“Midnight,” he says again, breaking my train of thought and the inexplicable spell I had fallen under. “Don’t be late.”

I roll my eyes. “Maybe,” I say again.

“I’ll take maybe.” They squeeze my arm gently, briefly, before finally releasing me, having gotten what they wanted from me. 

I should let them go, should be relieved to be left alone, left to get back to the work I’m here to do. But for reasons unknown even to me, I say, “I’ve seen it, by the way.” 

It works: they turn back, intrigued. “Seen what?”

“Cardinal Copia’s porn collection.” Nonchalant, eyes cast down as I rearrange a misfiled book on my cart.

“No shit? Was it weird?”

I shrug, leveling him with a deliberate gaze. “I’ve seen weirder.”

And just for a moment, I’m rewarded with the rarest of occurrences: Mary Goore rendered speechless. 

And then one of those smiles that says I’ve won this round, while promising that there will be another.

“See you tonight, Sister.”

[carlatsukinamistolemyhamsandwich]

Alright I realise I’ve been talking about lots of different things with no particular direction over the past few couple of months so here is my current plan with regards to actual proper content. Please take the timeline with a pinch of salt as 1) I will often juggle multiple projects at the same time and 2) how much time I have to work on these severely depends on rl being nice to me.

Hopefully before the end of April

Your Diabolik Lovers Fantasy AU story (24 questions, 14 results)

Sometime within the next couple of months

Abandoned WIPs (these are fics I’ve given up on finishing and have decided to post as is so they don’t exist solely on my laptop forever, I’ve not yet decided how to spilt them between posts) - Ruki Mukami Soulmate AU (part prose, part bullet points) - Carla x reader x Shuu love triangle route (route written in full prose, endings done as bullet points) - Incubus!Laito x reader (all bullet points, never got around to the prose part) - Siren!Shin x reader part 3 (I do have some prose for this but I think I’ll just post the outline) - Supervillain!Shin x Hero!reader (about 10 % prose, the rest is bullet points) - Shin x reader beauty and the beast AU drabble (about 80 % finished) - Ghost!Shin x reader AU (not Remnant related) (bullet points only) - Diabolik Lovers x Cupid Parasite crossover AU (bullet points only)

Not abandoned and hope to pick up at some point

Demon!Shin chaper 3

Which diaboy would go yandere for you quiz

As for the people who followed me for lore content, I’m afraid I don’t have any plans of posting any (mainly because of the recent lack of new content outside of merch). I would at some point like to make a post talking about Endzeit and Tuberculosis (because for anyone who doesn’t know, I currently work in the biochemistry field and disease and medicine has always been a big interest of mine and in LE it’s specifically stated that Endzeit has tuberculosis-like symptoms (plus it would be a good oppurtunity to spread some tuberculosis awareness because it’s much bigger issue in modern times than you might think if you live in the west)) but I make no promises on when that may appear.

Hopefully that should give you guys some idea of what I’m doing behind the scenes. I do plan to reopen that five line ask game soon but I’m going to get that fantasy AU quiz finished first. Hope you all have a good day!

[psychedelic-ink]

Petals ║ Javi G.

pairing: javi gutierrez x fem!reader

genre: smut, pwp, minors dni

word count: 773

summary: The first time was an accident. Javi sees you getting out of the shower and can't help himself. It's not his fault you never heard of closing the curtains before. After that he should've stopped. You're the daughter of his favorite house keeper after all. But he can't help the way your body calls out to him again and again.

warnings: javi secretly peeping into your room through the window, male masturbation, female masturbation, voyeurism, age gap (it isn't mentioned but it's there)

a/n: special thanks to my soul sister @inklore who gave me the idea after telling her that I wanted to write more stuff with pervert javi g. but had no idea what to make him do. I love your beautiful brain and heart and thank you for listening to me ramble about pedro pascal non stop ilysm

also if anyone else has any pervert javi g. ideas feel free to slide in to my askbox

The first time was an accident.

Javi had no idea his bedroom window had a clear view into yours but there you were, wrapped in a towel, dripping all over the floor, and attempting to pat the remnants of water from your hair with another. He swallows, the air around him suddenly stifling. 

The first time he couldn't help but stare. 

It is an accident, he keeps on telling himself. It’s not his fault that when you evidently drop the towel that his cock is already hard as a rock. It’s not his fault that he wraps his thick fingers around his length, stroking himself as he watches you apply moisturizer to your arms and legs.

And it definitely isn’t his fault that he cums heavily into his fist, his cock still twitching with interest, as if he hadn’t just rubbed himself dry a second ago. 

The second time was less of an accident and more of him taking matters into his own hands in hopes of seeing you again. Before he knows it, he’s sitting on his bed, body facing your window, desperately waiting for you to come out. 

You didn’t appear the second time and he hates the way disappointment riles him up, the crease between his eyebrows deepening as he takes himself into his hand once more, looking into your bedroom and remembering the ghost of your naked body. Javi strokes himself without pleasure, he’s angry at himself for peeping, for being so desperate to see you, it’s wrong, he shouldn’t be spying on you. You trust him. Your mother trusts him. You’re the daughter of a valuable employee, an employee he knew for years. The thought only makes his stomach churn.  

When Javi cums, he feels no relief. 

His guilt riddled heart forces him to stay in one of the many guest rooms. Javi avoids you and your mother like the plague, he’s certain that you already know and hate him for it. He just knows. 

The whispers of his room follows him around the mansion. Wherever he goes, he can hear it beckoning him, poisoning his mind to come back and take one last peek. If you weren’t there that would be it. He would never look through those windows ever again. 

It’s late at night and he finds himself staring into your bedroom the third time. 

Again, you don’t come out of the shower. In fact, it seems like you’ve already taken it. You’re sprawled on top of the bed, towel between you and the bedding as you spread your legs, fingers rubbing fast circles around your clit. 

Javi feels darkness looming over him as he shoves his pants down, fisting himself at the sight of you. His cock is already dripping, fingers sliding up and down his shaft with ease as a string of moans part from his lips. He can only see your pretty little pussy and fingers, you push two of them in, palm snug against your clit. Unaware, Javi thrusts into his hand, groaning. He wonders how your face looks during times like these. Would your lips be parted? Are your eyes squeezed shut with ecstasy? 

And most of all, he wonders what you’re thinking about. Do you ever think of him just like he’s thinking about you? 

Of course not. You might care about him, but not in the same way he cares about you–

Your back arches off of the bed and the most animalistic groan rattles in his chest. His movements become fast and sloppy, wet noises fill the bedroom, echoing his sin back to him but it only makes his body burn with desire. Javi imagines how your cunt might feel wrapped around his cock, how well he would stretch you. He wouldn’t be above teasing you, making you beg for him, but knowing himself fairly well, he knows he would take pity on you and shove his cock deep inside your wanting cunt. 

You cum before he does. Javi’s eyes darken at the way your body jerks, toes curling when your fingers continue to draw harsh circles around your clit. Then you relax, reach out to your phone and scroll aimlessly as you lay completely naked on the bed. 

Javi groans, didn’t you know that anyone could see you like this? Didn't you know that your curtains are wide open? Fuck– 

White flashes before his eyes, forehead beading with sweat while his orgasm electrifies his every nerve. He curls into himself, teeth grinding together as cum dribbles down his cock. Everything feels incredibly wet and sticky. Chest heaving, Javi stares at the ceiling, his own pants filling the dark space. 

This time he feels no guilt, only the buzz of his pleasure. 

The next day Javi moves back into his room. 

[run-me-through-but-not-like-that]

Love your izzy/reader stuff!!! (The alphabet was really good <333) Would you do one where izzy and reader used to be lovers (maybe on blackbeard's ship?) and they reunite on the revenge? I have a soft spot for lovers who don't work out at first but end up finding each other again some time later and happily end up together (also, the revenge can be a good place for izzy to get some development and see how other healthy couples act!!! at least after the whole kraken debacle passes, lol)

This turned out much longer than I originally thought it would be 😂

Reuniting with your past lover, Izzy Hands (Gn!Reader):

When the crew of the Revenge pulled a survivor out of the remnants of a wrecked ship, the last thing they expected was to find a member of Blackbeard's crew.

For the most part, the crew didn't believe you at first. Black Pete had quizzed you about the infamous captain and your answers seemed to satisfy him. Captain Bonnet, however, believed you.

You were welcomed aboard and as part of the crew, eventually convincing the rest of them that your story was true. You were in fact a member of Blackbeard's crew before being left behind after raiding the ship they had found you on.

After realising that you were a much more seasoned pirate than Stede and were already teaching the rest of the crew how to effectively run the ship, Stede promoted you to his first hand.

You had become used to your new life, your new crew, you even liked it. It was very different to working for Blackbeard but it was a nice change, more relaxed, more friendly. It took some time for you to get used too the differences but you managed and you were content, at least for the most part.

Everything was going fine...unless your crew got into some trouble...and it was Blackbeard's crew that saved you all.

Thankfully, none of them had noticed you during the chaos and afterwards you kept your distance from Blackbeard and his men.

You didn't stand out from Stede's crew anymore, no longer in your leathers, so it didn't surprise you when they didn't recognise you instantly. Plus, you weren't sure if Blackbeard would remember you at all.

The Revenge was sailing off again before anyone noticed your familiar face, and it was the one man you had been avoiding the most.

You were crossing the deck when you heard your name being called, a familiar voice filled with an uncharacteristic amount of surprise.

You paused before turning towards the man clad in black.

"Israel" you greeted him blankly, the rest of the crew beginning to stop their tasks and watch on, not so subtly.

"We thought you were dead" and he really was looking at you like he was seeing a ghost, your surprise appearance shattering his usual façade for just a moment.

"Yeah, well, I'm alive. Always have been. You might have known that if anyone had bothered to look for me" your words were bitter, you knew that, but you didn't care much. You were left for dead by people you thought you could trust.

"Blackbeard gave orders" was Izzy's only defence. "We're glad to see you're alright" the words came out strained, almost unsure.

"Don't start acting like you care now, Iz. We both know you don't" you laughed humourlessly, shaking your head. "Now, I have things to do, so if you don't mind."

From that moment on the crew knew there was a tension between you and Izzy hands but none had suspected a past relationship of sorts. The crew adored you, you were one of them, and they didn't like Izzy at all so they didn't even consider the idea of you having been involved with each other.

They assumed he had just been a harsh first hand, even more so when he had near complete control over the crew, and you resented him for it. That made more sense to them than you having been lovers or anything like that.

You avoided Izzy as much as you could after that, but always reminding him that you no longer work for him when he gave an order to you or your crew.

Still, you were both first hands to the men who were currently...co-captaining, so you couldn't avoid each other completely.

Not one kind word was shared between you both.

-

You had been standing at the helm of the ship one night, enjoying the peace and quiet, when Blackbeard - no, Edward now - joined you.

"You were missed among the crew, I'm glad you're alright" his words had surprised you, but so had everything you had seen of him since he arrived on the ship. You never had much contact with Edward when you worked for him, only Izzy did.

"Thanks...to be honest, I didn't even think you'd remember me" you confessed, feeling much more able to speak honestly with the captain than you once would have.

"I might not have but Iz became insufferable when we thought you were dead" Edward was as equally honest with you, knowing he was never very personally involved with his crew.

"...what do you mean?" your face scrunched up in confusion.

"He's always wound up too tight but he's effective, he just became worse after raiding that ship. Ran the crew harder, questioned me more. Didn't know what was going on with him until he mentioned a crew member we lost, figured that's what caused the change" you listened to his words but still...you found it hard to believe they really meant much.

"Yeah, he's never took failing well" you scoffed, pinning his increased frustration down the raid not going as smoothly as possible.

"We've lost crew members before, we're pirates, it's what happens. Sometimes he gets pissy about it...but not like this time, this was different" Edward shook his head, knowing his first hand better than that to know when something is effecting him.

"...well, good talk, Edward but I should go check in with my captain" it was a weak attempt to get out of the conversation, you both knew that, but you honestly weren't sure how else to respond.

-

It's been torture for Izzy, watching you with this crew like you belonged. Dressed in your loose and more colourful fabrics rather than your usual blacks and leathers, laughing with the crew, sharing with them, talking about goddamn feelings like it was nothing.

He hated the whole fucking crew. These weren't pirates, how you could integrate with them, become one of them, and like it?

But Izzy was also seeing things that he hadn't seen before.

Lucius and Pete clearly cared deeply about each other despite not being completely exclusive, it seemed to work because they...communicated.

Olu and Jim were close, trusted each other.

It was all insufferable to witness, to see Fang and Ivan pulled into this...soft way of life.

The worst part was the effect Stede fucking Bonnet had on Blackbeard. Since when did Edward share his feelings, since when did he interact with the crew so much. This wasn't Blackbeard anymore, this was Edward Teach and it made Izzy sick.

You appeared to welcome these changes though, he had seen you speaking with Edward on occasion. You didn't seem afraid of your past captain, hell he even saw you laughing with him once.

No, the worst part was that interaction made him wonder when he last heard you laugh. Had he ever made you laugh? He couldn't remember, and it made his chest feel all weird. He really didn't like that.

Neither of you had spoke about your past dalliances, your past involvement, you had barely spoke at all. Like it never happened.

-

Even with you and Izzy seemingly trying to do your best to avoid each other, or to stubborn withstand each other's presence when you had too.

The two of you might have believed that you were being convincing and subtle, but the crew were picking up on, most deciding not to pry but...some just couldn't resist.

"So...there's some tension with Izzy" Lucius commented when the two of you were sitting together, a knowingly look on his face.

"He used to be my boss, of course there is" you attempted to shrug it off but you knew that Lucius must have seen deeper than that, he was good with that sort of thing.

"You get along with Edward just fine" he pointed out.

"Edward is tolerable. He's learning things from Stede, never spoke with him so much. Izzy is...a nightmare" you insisted, words unconvincing.

"Hmm, seems like more than a bad boss to me" Lucius hummed, raising an eyebrow at you as he uselessly hit his hammer against the railing of the ship.

"Fine" you gave in with a sigh, admitting, "yeah, we were...involved, I guess."

"Knew it" Lucius grinned, his hammering ceasing. This was far more interesting to him. "Can't believe it, but I knew it. You can do so much better. I mean...Izzy?" his grin faded, his expression turning into one of confusion.

"We ended it a couple of weeks before the raid were I got separated from the crew. It was never perfect but guess that argument was just where we drew the line. We...weren't going to work out in the long run" it did feel good to get this off of your chest, you hadn't talked to anyone about your relationship with Izzy before, and Lucius usually gave pretty good advice on this sort of thing.

"So, the ex-boyfriend" Lucius mused.

"I wouldn't really call him a boyfriend" you scoffed, figuring that title would be too sentimental for what you had, for Izzy's liking.

"Well, considering he wasn't a boyfriend, he sure does stare at you a lot" he sounded like he was trying to cause trouble, maybe he was.

"What?" you asked with a small frown and Lucius bit back an amused smile at your reaction.

"You haven't noticed? He's always looking at you, can't tell what he's thinking though" well, that gave you something to think about as you fell silent.

-

You were usually the last one to turn in for the night, being the first hand and your duty being to make sure that everything runs smoothly.

You weren't too surprised to see that Izzy was still awake, leaning against the railing of the ship and looking out at the dark waves.

At first you were going to ignore him, just go to bed, but he looked like he was deep in thought, like something was bothering him.

Damn your sentimentality.

"Fuck it" you muttered to yourself.

You didn't speak as you stood beside him, leaning your elbows against the railing just like he was. He didn't react.

"Thinking about something?" you asked but got no response, so you continued, "we share our thoughts on this ship, y'know?"

"Fucking pathetic, can't believe they pulled you into this" that's about the reaction you expected from him, that familiar sound of disapproval.

"It's not that bad...kinda nice, actually...to feel like somebody's got your back" you shrugged, refusing to let him drag you back down to your old ways.

Izzy didn't respond to that, just staring out at the waves.

He had your back.

...until he didn't...

"I know you don't like how Edward's...changing but it's good for him. Stede's teachings have been good for all of us" you told him, not wanting him to drag Edward back down either.

"It's made you fucking soft" Izzy scoffed but his tone was lacking his usual bite.

"...that's not always a bad thing" you defended, only receiving another scoff. "It could have done us some favours" your voice became quieter, finally bringing up your past together though it really wasn't that long ago.

"Never were good at that" Izzy agreed quietly.

"I'm happy here, Edward is happy here...you could be too, if you let yourself" you promised him. "We like to talk on this ship so...if you ever want to talk, I'm here" you assured him.

He didn't say anything so you just gave him a nod before leaving, hoping that some of your words might have gotten through to him.

-

Things change after that, nothing too drastic, but noticeable enough for you and some more perceptive members of the crew.

The tension between you and Izzy was easing up a little, the two of you even enjoying sitting together in a comfortable silence from time to time.

You could talk like co-first-hands, but it never really got too personal.

Strictly professional.

Even if that's not what either of you wanted.

You should have known that it was only a matter of time before everything came up again one way or another.

"Remind me, why did we end things?" Izzy's question caught you off guard, it being just a little too forward for him.

"Because we weren't good together" you reminded him but he must have already known that.

"We weren't?" he asked, the way he was looking at you was making it hard to meet his gaze.

"I couldn't do it anymore, we couldn't be what the other wanted" you told him, "you couldn't open up, couldn't put anything before your duty to Blackbeard, and I didn't even know what you wanted."

"I...I wanted you" in all fairness, he sounded honest.

"Didn't feel like you did" you admitted, striking a icy feeling into Izzy's chest, "it was like you wanted a version of me but not all of me, and you couldn't give me all of yourself."

"I didn't know how" Izzy confessed, surprising you a little.

He rarely opened up, this was probably the most honest and vulnerable he's ever been with you.

"Neither did I...but now I do and I can't go back to the way things were. So unhappy and repressed, I hope you come to the same realisation because, despite everything, I want you to be happy" your tone was soft, gently chiselling away at Izzy's defences.

"Why?" his laugh was bitter, like he didn't believe you.

"Because I really did care for you even if things didn't work out, still do I suppose. Never knew any different to what we were, what we had, now I know and I think you deserve it too" you couldn't tell what he was thinking and he didn't say anything.

Just like it always had been, he never could truly let you in.

"Night, Izzy" you sighed, walking away in defeat.

"I cared about you too" the words came suddenly as Izzy spun around, like suddenly deciding that he didn't want you to leave, "after the raid, I tried to convince Blackbeard to turn back, to just check the wreckage for survivors but he wouldn't change his mind."

You believed him, you really did.

"Night, Iz" you gave him a small smile before leaving, heading to your cabin.

Izzy knew he had to do something, say something.

He knew that somebody else would know what the right thing was even if he didn't.

Izzy is too proud to ask for advice, though he wouldn't admit that, he would simply insist that he didn't need advice. But the truth was that he was lost, he knew he had to do something but he didn't know what or how.

-

Everything came to a boiling point when you got hurt. Stede had gotten himself in trouble and, in true first hand fashion, you had put your life on the line for him.

Izzy had brought your unconscious form back to the ship, Stede and Edward guiding him to the captain's cabin, Stede insisting that you would be taking his bed until you had recovered. You had risked your life for his own after all.

Izzy had stayed when Roach did the stitches on your abdomen, Edward having to tell him to relax and stop chastising Roach for doing the best job he could.

He never left your side while you slept, nobody sure whether you would wake up or not. He barely slept, only ate and drank when one of the captains would bring him something.

There was no doubt about it among the crew now, everyone knew were Izzy had been for the last couple of days. He loved you, he must have.

-

When you finally woke up with a groan of discomfort, Izzy was the only other person in the room. He had never felt so much relief, seeing you wake up and look at him.

"Iz..." you croaked out, causing him to hurry to get you some water. You drank the whole thing. "What happened?" you asked.

"You got stabbed, protecting Stede fucking Bonnet" you knew he disapproved, it was clear in his voice.

"You would have done the same for Edward" you pointed out, having enough energy to roll your eyes at him.

He knew he couldn't argue with that.

Still, he tried, "don't do something so fucking stupid again."

"If you're just going to shout at me for doing my job, you can leave" you sighed, turning your head away from him and staring out the window. Maybe nothing had changed for him.

"...sorry" Izzy rasped, sounding tired. "I was..." there was something in his tone, like there was something he wanted to say but just couldn't.

You looked at him again. Alright, maybe he was trying.

"Some might come back from a raid mentally devastated. When that happens, we talk it through as a crew" you told him, slightly playfully with a small smile.

"Fucking Christ" Izzy groaned, dragging his hand over his face and you laugh.

He couldn't but smile a little. There, he did it, he made you laugh.

"It's okay, Iz. What do you want to say?" you encouraged, reaching out and taking his hand.

"I was...I was afraid, that you would die" Izzy confessed, earning another soft smile from you.

"I'm fine. It hurts but I'm going to be okay" you assured him.

It wasn't the first time you'd been on the wrong end of a sword, though it was probably the worst wound you had received.

"I already lost you once, thought you were dead, I didn't want to lose you again" his words warmed your heart, being unlike anything he had said to you before. Genuine, sentiment, caring, dare you say loving.

"You haven't lost me. I'm right here" you squeezed his hand as a physical reminder.

Izzy turned his hand around, lacing his fingers through yours.

"You were wrong, about us not being good for each other" he told you, staring down at your intertwined hands, "I wasn't good for you but you were good for me, I just didn't see it at the time."

You couldn't remember the last time he looked like this. Tired, defeated. Only then did you come to the realisation that he mustn't have slept for as long as you've been unconscious. Had he even left your side?

"You look tired" you frowned, stroking your thumb along the side of his hand.

"I...haven't slept" he confirmed your suspicions.

"Stede's bed is big enough for two. You can get some rest and watch over me at the same time" you reasoned, wincing when you tried to move over.

With a little more convincing and letting him help you shift closer to the window, Izzy did lay down with you.

Hands still interlocked as you both drifted off into well needed sleeps.

Stede and Edward did end up walking on on the sight when they came to check on you. That shouldn't be surprising, it was their cabin after all.

However, they decided to let you both rest and quietly slip back out of the room.

The colour had returned to your face and Izzy was finally sleeping, those were good signs so they would leave you be for a little while longer.

-

Once your wound was healed enough, you were back on your feet and back to your usual duties, giving Stede and Ed their cabin back as soon as you could.

Everybody was glad to see that you were alright but were a little less pleased about how Izzy had glued himself to your side.

You were barely ever alone but you didn't seem to mind, Izzy was always right there.

He had actually been your makeshift crutch when you first started walking around again, always there for you to lean against if you pulled on your wound.

The two of you were working together well as co-first-hands, better than ever.

Functioning like a well oiled machine, just like you used too.

The difference this time was that there wasn't a forced distance between you both, the walls that kept you apart had crumbled, letting you see each other properly for the first time.

-

Night fell, the sun setting, Stede having read to the crew and everyone had turned in for the night.

Except for the first hands standing at the helm of the ship, of course.

"You should rest" Izzy told you, it sounding more like an order than a suggestion.

"I'm fine" you told him, earning a disapproving look from him. "Honestly, I am" you chuckled slightly, appreciating the concern but you really were healing well.

"...alright" he nodded, giving in and choosing to believe you.

"Thank you, though" you smiled softly, clarifying, "for being here while I was recovering."

"Don't plan on going anywhere anytime soon" he shrugged, almost as if those words meant nothing but you knew they meant a lot.

They meant everything.

"I think we've come a long way, Iz" you truly had never felt so close to him.

"Still have some way to go" Izzy nodded, knowing that there were still hurdles to jump but he felt confident about his ability to do so.

"Obviously" you chuckled, nodding in agreement. "But...we're better, we're...something" you reminded him, nudging your shoulder against his.

"We always have been, just needed to..." he frowned a little, unable to think of an appropriate word to express himself.

"To grow?" you asked and he nodded.

There was a short pause before you took a breath and asked, "do you think...we could try again?"

"Yeah, I'd like that" Izzy breathed out as if he had been holding his breath, like a weight was lifted from his shoulders.

With a smile, you took his hand and turned to him as he turned to face you.

"I think this could work out this time. We just have to communicate, to be open with each other" you really had high hopes that the two of you could become something better.

"I think I'd like that, with you" Izzy breathed, resting his forehead against yours in a surprisingly tender manner, making you smile again.

When you noticed his eyes fluttering shut, you tilted your chin up, lips meeting his. Izzy returned your kiss with a longing that you weren't familiar with, something that he hadn't displayed so openly before and it gave you hope.

It told you that he felt the same.

The two of you could try again, could be better than before, the two of you could work out the way you both craved too.

[the-fae-folk]

Hello! Do you have any tips for when it comes to writing stories about the fae? Are there things to keep in mind and things to avoid? I have a story in mind, but am a little nervous to get started. Since you have a lot more experience, I wondering if you could please help?

CAWRK!

Hah hah! I do have some tips.

Let's start with things to keep in mind when you're writing Fae.

1. The Fae we know and love are really more of a mixing pot. They draw from a myriad of European Cultures and multiple different time periods. The notable ones are Brythonic (Bretons, Welsh, Cornish), Gaelic (Irish, Scots, Manx). Also important to note are the Germanic Peoples and their mythologies (Norse Mythology, Anglo-Saxon Mythology, and Continental Germanic Mythology), as well as influences from Slavic Fairy Tales and Folk Beliefs.

In addition to other European or other Cultures that might have gone unmentioned, there are some historians, such as Barthélemy d'Herbelot, who believed that fairies were adopted from, or at least heavily influenced by, the Peris of Persian Mythology.

And even with the slow borrowing of ideas over the centuries of passing around Folklore and Fairy Tales, our idea of what the Fae are keeps being added to or changed. The English Middle Ages had its influences on them, and the Victorian Era British brought about massive changes to how they were viewed.

Literature over time has played its part in evolving how we depict them, and Modern Fantasy Literature has produced countless changes, likely even more than the Victorian Era.

2. There's actually very little about Faerie Folklore that is consistent across all of it's varied and tangled forms. We tend to assume Faeries are all Elf-Like and pointy eared, immortal royals because those were some of the most influential interpretations that our Modern Fantasy has carried to us. But research even a little about the Folk and you’ll instantly start coming up with all sorts of contradictions, even between people in the same cultural area over time. While there are a number of ideas of what Faeries are, from both ancient times and modern, we’re not even sure of that. Some believed them ghosts of the dead, or higher spirits, elemental spirits, fallen angels, demons, demoted pagan deities, remnant memories of prehistoric humanoid peoples (this theory is considered outdated), or even beings wholly different from humanity and possibly from another world. 3. There’s no particular reason Faeries need to be depicted as human-like in appearance. It is true that at times the term Fairy has been applied specifically to various groups of magical creatures with a human appearance, magical powers, and a mischievous nature. But it has also been used as an umbrella term for almost any magical creature. Many of them are vaguely humanoid such as gnomes, goblins, imps, trolls, brownies, etc. And sometimes there are beings who are not even remotely humanoid that are slipped under the umbrella of Faerie. Such examples as metaphysical beings or living elemental forces, the Cat-sìth, Cù-sìth, will-o’-the-wisps, the questing beast, or even occasionally dragons. Something that adds to this inclusion is the fact that the word Faerie, as it changed and moved about, came to mean many different things. Latin “Fāta” meaning the goddess of fate, to the Old French "Faerie" which meant not only the realm of enchantment, magic, or dream associated with the Fae, but also the occult, the collective canon of magical or mythological beings, beasts, or creatures, or anything that is the product of enchantment or illusion. From there it moved into the Middle English Fairye (faierie, ffayery, fayre, ffeyrye, faerie, feyrye, fairi, fairie) where it was to mean enchantment, illusion, dream at first. Then it expanded again to cover the inhabitants of fairyland as a collective. When they are humanoid, the appearance of the Fae can be as varied as humanity and likely more so. When they are not, they could be in any shape or form. Not everything has to be elfin, slender, white, and pointy eared. And this isn't even counting the countless stories depicting them as having some shapeshifting abilities. 4. Faeries are given many traits by many different stories. Immortality, a trickster nature, an aversion to iron, an inability to lie. But not all of these traits came from the same places or time periods. Indeed there are many stories both old and new that depict Faeries of various kinds perfectly well with only one, two, or even none of them.

5. Classification. A lot of people like to split the Fae into courts and various other groups and types. But it’s impossible to fully classify fairies, there’s just too much in folklore to properly sift through it all in a single lifetime, or even several lifetimes. But categorizing does serve a practical purpose, it helps to separate elements and groups from one another, and to understand underlying distinctions that ancient people would have just known but we have no contextual knowledge for. But many folklorists actually caution against over-categorization. Folk beliefs tended to be fluid and ever changing, leading to many names and types of beings that were inconsistent or having multiple names for the same type of being. Folklorists trying to stick to strict definitions are doomed to frustration. Even our delightful fairy courts, such as the seelie and unseelie, are really much less distinct that we like to think. Groups of faeries changed from tale to tale, and even from one version of a tale to another. Alright. Before I get too carried away, let’s look at the few things you might want to avoid or watch out for.

1. Despite the word Faerie being used as a way to refer to all the magical creatures and beings that those people would have known, be warned that trying to pluck mythical creatures and races from other cultures or religions and include them under the banner of Fae is not generally a good idea, even for a work of fiction. Best stick to stuff already connected to Faeries in one way or another from European Folklore. Or you might borrow some of the newly invented races from Modern Fantasy (such as Tolkien’s Orcs, or the later Dungeons and Dragons version of Orcs). Or if you’re feeling creative you can create your own entirely new and unique Fae creature.

2. Faerie Folklore, stories, fairy tales, and myths are unfortunately home to a lot of truly nasty things. Enslaving humans or Fae, kidnapping, rape, child murder, murder, permanent transformation into inanimate objects, racism, and much else. And while these do not make up the body of the story, they are there and consequently at least one or another will appear in most adaptations of the Fae. This in itself isn’t a bad thing, as those are legitimate motifs and themes that can be explored well in a narrative. But just because the characters might do something horrific, doesn’t mean you have to frame it as a normal or acceptable thing. Be very careful when exploring such themes as these in your work, do your research, and if you feel like you cannot discuss a disturbing theme such as this in a way that does it justice, that’s okay. You don’t have to include that just because it was in folklore. There’s a lot of folklore that doesn’t have it, there’s plenty to draw from about the Fae that isn’t awful. While I generally encourage instances of Blue and Orange Morality when it comes to the Fae, whether disturbing or light-hearted, If you find that you’re not comfortable with the elements of your own story… please don’t force yourself to write those in.

3. Don’t worry about making your Faeries historically accurate. You could try to copy one specific European Culture’s version of the Fae and only that one. But it’s inevitable that it’s not going to be completely right, or anywhere close. Studying the Faerie Folklore from even one Culture is the work of lifetimes. Your best bet is to take the folklore as inspiration, bits and pieces from here and there as you need them.

4. Always do your research, and make sure your sources are trustworthy. In addition to just plain old misinformation, there is a lot of folklore from these old European Cultures that has been appropriated and twisted, or misrepresented, or purposefully removed from context and time in some way in order to promote or justify racist ideologies, harmful or toxic behavior, to purposefully cause conflict and divide people, or even just to cause confusion.

My point is that you should be very careful about what you actually believe when it comes to researching folklore of any kind, Fae included. Can its sources verify the information solidly? Does it even have sources? Is the place you got it known for its reliability in information of this kind? If your source is somewhere on a social media site then it's a definite no. A blogging site, like Tumblr? Then you should know that blog posts are not considered verifiable sources, though there is some acceptance for those that fuel further research. Alright. I’ll leave it there. Now some quick tips for you.

1. Think about what style and atmosphere you want for your story. If you want the Fae to seem a certain way, or to feel close to a particular version, you need to find out what it is that makes them feel that way in the original and try to learn the writing technique.

2. The point is to tell a story, a narrative. You cannot include everything. You cannot represent everything people associate with the Fae. If you have some problematic theme from folklore you want to explore, or some social issue you’re planning on talking about in fiction form, fine. But stick to one or two. Not all of them. To tell an effective story you must narrow the focus so you and your audience don’t lose track of the central ideas.

3. It’s tempting to spend all your time building a huge complex culture for your story. I’m definitely guilty of that one. World-building is addictive. But set reasonable limitations for yourself.

4. Do spend some time considering who the Fae are. If they’re immortal, that will affect their whole culture, from what they eat or if they eat at all, to how they dress, what their art is like, and how they might think. People often forget that the Fae are supposed to be Other, not just magical nature humans with fancy gowns and a lot of lawyer talk. They are alien, different, strange. Their culture, their biology, their needs. 5. If you want to make a cliched Fae people in fancy courts who are averse to cold iron and cannot lie but deceive and dissemble with every breath… go for it. There’s nothing wrong with that. Cliches are cliche for a reason, they work. There would even be advantages to using this common depiction of the Folk, because many people are already familiar with it, you can spend more time in your story focusing on other themes or ideas, using the well known Fae traits to draw your reader’s expectations to where you want them.

6. Verse and rhyme are important tools you can use. Fae are often depicted singing or speaking in riddles and rhymes. Take a look at some writers who use a lot of poetry in their stories. Tolkien and Brian Jacques are some that spring immediately to mind, though there are many more. Keep in mind that if your poems or verse doesn’t add to or match the flow of your story and have purpose in forming your narrative, then it will likely just break the reader's immersion instead.

7. With the Fae a common theme is that beauty doesn’t equate good, and ugliness doesn’t equate evil. But beauty as a theme with Faeries is quite old and has taken a lot of different forms. Beauty of the ethereal or the divine, of the otherworldly and alien. The extraordinary beauty found in the natural and ordinary that we are blind to every day. The alluring beauty of illusions. Beauty is a very subjective thing, and so thus it is an excellent tool to use in exploring Fae narratives where it can be shaped in countless ways to do different things in the narrative.

8. Point of view is also very important to how you’re going to frame your faerie people. If your story is set from the viewpoint of someone who knows nothing about Fae then their understanding of these magical persons will be very different from the viewpoint of someone who goes into this adventure already having some working knowledge of them. Or you could depict the Faerie from the eyes of one of their own, and a faerie would see their own people in a very different way than a human would, for good or ill.

9. I cannot stress enough the importance and effectiveness of WHIMSY as a narrative technique when writing about distantly metaphysical or surreal subjects such as the Fae. Balanced well with the aspects of your work that are more grounded, it can help the flow of your writing immensely and aid in keeping your reader engaged and immersed.

[7ndipity]

"Set me Free"(Preview)

Vampire Yoongi x Reader

Summary: After losing the love of your life to the cruelty of those in your village and being branded as a witch, you're given a second chance at life together, and perhaps at revenge?

Warnings: angst, supernatural/fantasy themes, character death, violence, injuries, mentions of depression, blood, resurrection/necromancy? Suggestive moments, Idk, lmk if I missed anything

A/N: first off, we just just hit 100 followers!! Thank you all so much! I'm so sorry this is late(I have been STRUGGLING this week) but hopefully we'll get back on track quickly. Anyway, this idea has been in my notes for ages?? It's quite shaky in places, but I hope to make this into a full series later on, so please consider this an early draft/sneak preview. Let me know if you like it!

Spooktober m.list

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

A warm breeze drifted through the small clearing in the woods, a final remnant of the fading summer causing the wildflowers and grasses to ripple gently around you as you knelt motionless, eyes closed.

If anyone had chanced passing by, you would appeared to be in prayer, and in some ways, you suppose you were, but it was not some faceless deity that you sought to speak with. You'd given up on them long ago.

No, you came to kneel at a different sort of shrine, a much more somber one.

Just as you had every day for the past year, you'd come to sit at Yoongi's graveside.

Usually, you came just to be near him, longing for his comfort, but today was of significant importance.

It was the one year anniversary of his death, you had work to do.

. . .

You'd known what he was from the first moment you'd laid eyes on him. Your grandmother had raised you on stories about creatures that stalked the night and beings that sustained themselves on the blood of the living. Before her passing, you would sit by the fireside every night while she worked on various herbal blends and poultices for her patients and would tell you various legends about ghosts, werewolves. Vampires.

From the first day he set foot in the village, you'd been able to spot the little tells. The lithe, cat-like manner in which he moved. His not so subtle avoidance of bright light. The tight-lipped way he spoke. The way his eyes had flicked to you immediately from the other side of the market at the almost inaudible laugh you'd let slip when you saw him being being cornered by a group of older women, having seen a possible sutor for their daughters.

He had carefully disengaged himself from the swarm and made his way over to you.

"Something funny?" He asked.

"Just that the Reverend's wife seemed so disappointed when you said you weren't religious." You said

"Eh, not as disappointed as she would be if I tried to attend a sermon." He smirked.

"True, bursting into flames on the doorstep might leave a bad impression." You chuckled.

"Might help get rid of some of the unwanted attention though." He mused.

That was one of the funny things about him, he'd realized early on that you knew what he was, but rather than serving as a deterrent for him, it had seemed to make him all the more determined to settle in your village.

"You're really not interested in any of them?" You asked curiously.

"Well, they aren't exactly my type." He replied mildly, looking at you out the corner of his eye.

"No?" You raised a brow at that. "And what is your type?"

His gaze didn't waver. "You."

Your grandmother may have told you about vampires, but she'd failed to warn about an even bigger danger,

How easy it was to fall for one.

. . .

Stirring the smoldering mixture of herbs you'd prepared, you pulled out a piece of paper and began to recite.

"One of my heart, come to my side

Blood of my soul, reverse the tide,

Arise gentle spirit, cease your mourn

Part the veil, speak once more."

You waited, listening for any sort of confirmation that it had worked.

There was only silence.

. . .

But you were not the only one who could tell what Yoongi was.

Superstition was strong in the area, and as the two of you grew closer, rumors began to circulate. Where before people had referred to you as a 'healer', like your grandmother, there were now mutterings of 'witch' and 'black magic'.

When several farmers went missing, whispers began that Yoongi had something to do with it.

It had become abundantly clear that you would have to leave, but it already was too late. The night before your departure, the two of you were awoken by the sherif and his men bursting through your door, overpowering yoongi and dragging you away.

You were put on trial as a witch, but they had come to the conclusion that you had fallen victim to yoongi's 'dark and wicked seductions' and had been bewitched into aiding him, and were spared the sentence of death.

But there was no such mercy for Yoongi. They had executed him as you had screamed in your cell.

. . .

For days after your release, you were unable to do anything. You couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. In all honestly your would've soon followed Yoongi into the abyss, were it not for one morning when you'd woke to a letter being slid under your door.

Darting across the room, you'd yanked the door open, but there was no one there. Curiously, you picked up the note and opened it, your tired hands causing a page to flutter to the floor. You moved to retrieve it, but froze as you looked at the other piece still in your grasp. Your heart faltered as you read the slanted handwriting.

"You can still save him."

Pulse pounding in your ears, you shakily picked up the page that had fallen.

It appeared to be a page ripped haphazardly from a spellbook. Part of the description at the top was missing, but what was still there made your chest threaten to cave in on itself as you read the faded heading,

'Resurrection of the Dead'.

Who would send you something like this? Why would someone send you this? You checked both pages, but there was no signature. Surely it was a trick? Some sort of cruel mockery to further your suffering.

You kept reading the page over and over. It seemed genuine though. It was was simple enough ingredients, the preparation process lasting for several days and the key point being that the final spell had to be performed on the anniversary of their death.

You had heard stories about magic like this, but you'd always thought them just that, stories. But if there was even the smallest chance of getting Yoongi back, you would've done anything.

. . .

Silent tears slipped down your cheeks, falling onto the cracked remnants of the grave marker.

"Free"

Your eyes flew open, quickly scanning the clearing, but it was still empty. The breeze had begun to pick up again, whipping around you, almost feeling like hands clutching desperately at you.

"Set me free"

Tears welled in your eyes again at the familiar voice.

"Yoongi?"

You hadn't said his name out loud in almost a year, it felt strange and heavy on your tongue. The wind stopped, but the feeling of a hand on your arm remained.

"Y/n." It was no more than a breath, but it was the most beautiful sound you'd ever heard. His voice.

You stared down at the page, stunned. It'd actually worked.

Jumping to your feet, you picked up your shovel.

"Please be real." You prayed, digging it into the earth.

The hush that had fallen over the clearing was noticeable, as if everything right down to the crickets had felt the shift in the atmosphere and had fled from the space.

Working quickly, you gathered the last of the ingredients and knelt over Yoongi's withered body.

Gritting your teeth, you dragged the knife blade across your palm, allowing the crimson liquid to drip down over the bones as you began to repeat the incantation.

"From ashes rise, a phoenix reborn

Hecate grant favor, from death restore."

As you finished the third repetition, a powerful gust of wind swept through the clearing, nearly knocking you over. You could feel the energy draining from you as your muscles locked, unable to look away from the sight before you.

It was awful, like watching a body burn in reverse. The blood soaked bones blackened before muscle and tendon began to creep over them, like moss over stone. The dry parchment-like skin patched itself together over writhing mass below. Dry, brittle hair relaxed and took on it's original deep black color.

It had taken only a few minutes, though for you it had felt like hours, the wind died down and everything was still again. It was done.

You could hardly believe your eyes. The figure that lay before you was perfect, it was like the past year had never even happened, a bad dream you'd finally begun to wake up from.

His face was so still and tranquil, he looked like a marble carving. The only traces of his previous state was the tattered remains of his funeral clothes.

Reaching a shaking hand out, you leaned forward to touch his face, feeling the cool, smooth skin beneath your fingers.

A ragged, gasping breath suddenly left his mouth, making you fall back in surprise. His chest jolted into movement, rising and falling rapidly, marble at last come to life.

His eyes flicked open, revealing dark brown irises, glowing almost red in the light as they flashed about in confusion before locking on you and freezing you in place.

There was something wild in his gaze, like the wolves you'd seen in the woods, that sent a chill of fear through you. But just as soon as it appeared, the feral glint calmed and his features relaxed as he recognized the figure before him.

"Y-ygh" He attempted to speak, coughing weakly. Snapping out of your trance, you quickly fetched your bag and pulled a water skin out, offering it to him as you helped him sit up. He accepted it gratefully, quickly draining it before trying again.

"Thank you." His voice was low and soft, the same as you'd heard in the breeze. The same one whose every word you'd hung on.

"You're welcome." You said quietly.

You both sat in silence for a minute, not quite sure what to do now. He looked around curiously, reacquainting himself with his surroundings, flexing his hands, touching the grass.

"H-how do you feel?" You asked hesitantly.

"Good, I think." He said softly. A breezed ruffled his hair making him shiver which then resulted in him letting out a breathy chuckle.

"I almost forgot what the cold felt like." He smiled. You suddenly remembered the the thin, tattered clothes he was wearing.

"Oh! here." You scooted closer, removing your cloak and drapping it over his shoulders.

"Thank you." He said again quietly, his expression soft as he stared at you, covering your hand with his and sending a shiver through you that had nothing to do with the cold.

He brought his other hand up, brushing his fingers over your jaw. "You're warm." He let out an unsteady breath.

The last strand of restraint you'd been holding onto snapped at that sound as you pushed forward, closing the gap between you and crushed you lips to his.

In that moment, the universe could've ended and you wouldn't have noticed. Nothing else mattered. Everything you would ever need was here, wrapped up tightly in your arms.

"I missed you." You breathed as you parted.

"I know, I missed you too." He said, pressing another kiss to your forehead.

You leaned against his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heart for a few minutes before reluctantly pulling away.

"We have to go." You said. "We have work to do."

He looked at you confused.

"I'll explain when we get home." You assured him, taking his hand and helping him to his feet.

You'd had a lot of time to think over the past year, time to plan.

You weren't the the first ones that your village had wronged, but you would be the last.

They would pay for what they did to the two of you.

[wyattjohnston]

not as bad as it seems - tyson jost

series: this is getting good now

summary: tyson gets traded to minnesota.

word count: 1,960

note: it's entirely unedited because it's 1am and i want to post this before i go to sleep. if there's anything glaringly wrong please tell me.

Flick still felt remnants of an anger she didn’t know she was capable of just over a week removed from finding out that Tyson was going to play with a broken jaw.

Even his birthday had been more tense than previous years, despite them only having the morning together before he got on a plane to California. There had been presents and sweet kisses because, despite the lingering anger, she loved him. She had to trust that he knew his limits when it came to playing injured. They even spoke on the phone after he was taken out for dinner by the boys.

Nothing could have prepared her for the next day. An over exaggeration, maybe, given all the trade rumours involving his name but she never expected the day to actually come.

She was sneaking in a quick lunch between client when the notification banner appeared at the top of her phone.

Peter Baugh tweeted: The #Avs have traded Tyson Jost to Minnesota for Nico Sturm.

“You alright?” Jane, her boss, asked as she walked into the salon’s backroom. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Flick didn’t raise her head when she said, “Tyson just got traded to Minnesota. I have to move to Minnesota.”

There were tears at the edge of her vision yet she couldn’t make them fall. Beyond the sadness there was an emptiness-she had no idea how to process any of what was going to happen.

“I can call your clients and reschedule if you need to be somewhere.”

“No, I can—I can work. He’s—god, he’s in LA.”

Jane didn’t look convinced and Flick knew she was going to be monitored for the rest of the day. She packaged up the remaining half of her sandwich, ignored the next tweet that came with through Nico Sturm’s stats, because the bell above the door chimed and her next client walked in.

Flick’s phone started to buzz when she was talking to her client about what they were going to do with her hair. It started to ring again as soon as it stopped—and then again. She focused on the hair between her fingers and the colour she was mixing. The call vibrations turned to text messages and they were more easily ignored.

It was much harder to ignore the door flying open and Piper appearing in the mirror, glaring holes in Flick. Piper continued to do so until it was time to wait for the hair dye to prove, at which point she hooked her hand in Flick’s elbow and pulled her into the backroom.

“What’re you doing here?” Flick asked in a mumble.

“We thought you might be dead,” Piper said tersely, her arms crossed. “Judging by the look on your face, there’s a reason you’re ignoring calls.”

“How do you even know?”

Piper might as well have been tapping her foot she was so mad when she said, “Nate called me.”

“I didn’t think you and Nate were talking.”

“We aren’t. That should tell you all you need to know about how fucking worried Tyson is. He’s having a fucking breakdown.”

Flick closed her eyes, inhaled through her nose, pushed the idea of Tyson having a meltdown out of her mind and said, “I’m working.”

Piper’s hand touched Flick’s forearm. “Felicity,” she said, the use of her first name enough for Flick to open her eyes, “Tyson needs to talk to you. If you think you’re not taking this well, he’s dealing with a trade and his fiancée ignoring him.”

“I don’t know what to say to him,” Flick admitted, her voice small.

“Anything. He just wants to talk to you.”

Flick knew she had to. She wanted to because, despite everything she always wanted to talk to Tyson anyway, and she herself needed to know what was going on. Deep in the back of her mind she knew that this trade wasn’t about her, that it wasn’t Tyson’s job to calm her down. She needed him to, though.

Piper disappeared from the room, coming back moments later with Jane, mid-explanation about what was happening.

“Just finish up and take the rest of the day,” Jane said, looking to Flick with a kind and caring and expression. “We can talk about where the trade leaves you another day.”

Flick nodded mutely—the more she thought about it all the closer she was to actually crying, and she didn’t want that to happen in front of her boss. Piper thanked Jane and then watched Jane leave.

She managed to ask Piper, “Can you let Tyson know?”

“Yeah,” Piper said, sarcasm and displeasure laced in her voice. “I’ll play messenger between you and your fiancé.”

“Please,” Flick pleaded, not up to handling or understanding Piper’s sarcasm in that moment.

“I will,” Piper said, her tone shifting to something more caring.

Piper pulled Flick into a hug, then, and it was the final straw. Flick started to cry. She didn’t really know what she was crying about—it could have been because of the trade itself, because she was already upset with Tyson, because she’d made him upset. It was likely a combination of all those and more.

Flick made sure she was comfortable on the couch before she dialled Tyson on FaceTime—wearing an Avalanche hoodie she’d stolen from him and with a blanket pulled tightly around her.

“Hey,” Tyson answered the phone, looking and sounding tired, breathless and relieved all in one. “Flick—hey.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t answer my phone.”

“It’s just good to hear your voice. To see you,” he said solemnly. “I’m at the airport waiting for my flight and I didn’t—I wanted to talk to you first.”

Flick buried herself deeper into the blankets. She honestly didn’t know what to say to him, but it seemed that Tyson didn’t know either. She couldn’t begrudge him just wanting to be on the phone with her, especially not when they often had a call running while they went about any number of activities, including total silence on the odd occasion.

She did end up saying, though, quiet and worried, “Did you know?”

“I called my mum as soon JP called. I hadn’t even been on the phone for two minutes when the tweet went out. I’m sorry you didn’t hear it from me.”

“But did you—did you know that this was going to happen now?”

“No,” he said, honest, “I thought they’d stopped trying to move me.”

Flick nodded. It was the answer she expected because they’d spoken sporadically about trades and Tyson hadn’t mentioned anything since the summer. It didn’t make the idea any easier to stomach and she’d honestly been on edge since he first requested the trade.

“When am I going to see you again?” she asked, hating the way his face fell.

“They have—we have, I guess—a really long homestand. I’ll buy you a flight for tomorrow. You can visit every homestand if you want.”

“Visit?” Flick’s voice was weak and small, her heart beating nervously. “You don’t want me to come with you?”

Tyson’s face crumpled even more. He said, “If you want to come for what could be three months, then yeah. Of course, I want you with me. I just—I know you so well but I have no fucking clue what’s going through your head right now. That scares me.”

“I don’t want to live here if you live in Minneapolis.”

“It’s St Paul, actually.”

“Tyson.”

“I know,” he sighed, because it didn’t make a difference what city in Minnesota he was in. Neither changed their conversation. “I’m sorry.”

Flick wanted nothing more than to be with him in that moment, to be in that hotel room next to him on the couch. It would solve everything.

“What if I packed up some of your things and fly up on Thursday and we can talk about it?” she suggested. “About what we’re going to do?”

Tyson’s face relaxed. “That’d be great, Flick.”

“Are you, like, okay, though?”

“I have no idea. I cried in the car on the way to the airport.”

“I’m sorry.”

“We’re gonna sort it out. We always do.”

She wasn’t angry anymore, that feeling being well and truly taken over by misery and anxiety—if she tried to feel anything more, she would combust.

It went against everything her father has ever told her about stopping in an airport store. They were all disgustingly overpriced and filled with items only forgetful people needed, something that could be avoided with a proper packing checklist.

This was different. There was no better or more convenient place to get what she was buying between the apartment in Denver and the hotel room in St. Paul. It wasn’t a matter of forgetting anything.

Tyson wasn’t able to pick her up from the airport due to team things, which wouldn’t have upset her before but things were still more tense than she would like and all she wanted to do was see him. She wheeled two suitcases through the airport and out to a cab—a large one for Tyson and a medium sized one for herself—and then through the hotel lobby. By the time she had reached the hotel she had decided she was going to surprise Tyson instead of having him come down to get her. Especially because she had to put on her latest purchase.

The nerves flowing through her when she finally knocked on his hotel room door were nonsensical, and yet she was clicking the latch on the suitcase handle, the one that allows it to move up and down, to release some of the nervous energy.

Tyson might have been just as nervous because the door opened so quickly that Flick was certain he’d been sitting and waiting for her. Flick was being pulled into his arms immediately, his arms around her shoulders and holding her tightly. Flick leant her head back just enough to kiss him, longing and desperate as if they’d been separated for more than three days.

“That’s a good look on you,” Tyson said when he was helping her move the suitcases into the room, eyeing off the Minnesota Wild logo on her new hoodie.

“I couldn’t get a jersey made up so quickly,” she said.

Tyson nodded, promising to get her one the next time he was at the practice rink. They’d discussed after the Bruins game how good she thought he looked in the Wild’s green and she’d laughed with him as he told her, relieved, that he’d actually been a bit worried about it.

No unpacking was done at that moment, instead, Tyson led her to the couch. They wasted no time in cuddling up against each other, Flick sitting sideways on his lap because he wasn’t going to let her sit anywhere else.

So, naturally, that was when Flick said, “Minnesota ended Lola Faraday’s relationship with Alex Galchenyuk.”

Tyson froze, one on her waist and the other on her thigh, and his face nuzzled in her neck. He asked, “What does that mean?”

Flick sighed, understanding immediately what Tyson had taken away from her statement, “She—Lola’s a model and when Galchenyuk was traded to Minnesota she stopped posting photos of him. I think Minnesota ended their relationship.”

“Are you saying Minnesota’s going to end ours?”

She kissed his cheek, nuzzling as close as she could, and told him, “I don’t want to be in Denver and try to do long distance like I reckon they had to.”

“You want to live in this hotel? Leave your friends behind? Your job?”

“I’ve done it before. I’ll do it now and I’ll do it again if I have to. You’re my best friend.”

Please consider leaving feedback—reblog and write in the tags or send an ask, I’m not fussed. I just want to know what you’re thinking!

[judjira]

lost and found

AN: the plot that started it all. jihyo's story was the original idea that jumped off into apartment au, and it was meant to be a full fic that explored jihyo's relationship with dahyun in the past, before the apartment. who knows ? i might write it (lmao who am i kidding i probably won't) pls enjoy ! (note: this takes place a bit before slippery business!)

pairing: dahyo

apartment au

wc: 1039

Jihyo was tired.

How could she not be?

Years, decades, centuries of her life, given up for her search. A search that would take her across seas, above mountains, under the earth, through the forests. A search she had embarked on since she’d first learned of her return.

A fruitless search.

Civilizations had risen and fallen, species had evolved and died out, entire landforms raised and brought low by the tides.

And yet, she had still not found her.

She had come close a few times, when she could feel her soul so near she could touch it. Those were the most painful, when her search had almost been fruitful, until she came across her corpse, peaceful and content, as she always was when it was time for her to pass.

Jihyo was tired.

How could she not be?

She stepped off of the carriage, looking left and right. The directions she had been given were vague at the very most, and she had been wandering this dense urban jungle.

Humanity had progressed by much in the time she had receded from society, burdened by her lost love. Cities were much more than she was used to, sprawling skyscrapers that touched heaven, endless roads that formed labyrinthine tunnels, an uncountable amount of people that wandered the streets.

Yes, society had progressed much in the time that Jihyo was away.

“Excuse me, miss, your bus fare.”

A man called out from inside the carriage. Ah, yes. Compensation for travel. Some things certainly did not change over time.

Rifling through the pouch by her hip, she took out a few drachma, remnants of her time in Greece.

“My thanks, sir.”

The man looked confused as the coins were dropped into his hand, looking up at Jihyo.

“Um…ma’am? We don’t…er, accept this kind of currency.”

Really? Now, that was odd. Silver and gold was usually accepted everywhere.

“I have naught but coins on my person. Perhaps there is a service thou might have need of me?”

If not gold, then a favor. Favors could be used for payment anywhere, could they not?

To emphasize her point, she pulled the spear from her back, something that had drawn many gazes to her when she entered the city limits. She noticed no one carried weapons on their persons anymore. Odd, but she supposed people felt safe enough with the city guards. Not her, however.

Holding the spear in one hand, she nodded at the carriage driver.

“Is there someone thou findst a nuisance upon thy person?”

The man’s eyes widened, stuttering in response.

“What? Lady, this is a bus stop. We take money.”

“I’ll take care of it, sorry.”

The next person that walked out of the carriage caused Jihyo’s heart to stop in place.

Raven black hair, pale white skin, lean frame.

Sparkling eyes, soft smile, round cheeks.

No matter the era, Jihyo would have recognized her.

“My love.”

A strangled gasp left her throat.

Her world gave Jihyo a smile, before putting a folded piece of paper in the man’s hands. The man accepted it, muttering to himself as the carriage doors closed.

The carriage took off, leaving Jihyo alone with the woman she’d been chasing her whole life.

“You okay there? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Jihyo could not believe it. For years, she had spent all of her efforts searching lands near and far for her love, a Hero in everything but name.

And here she was, appearing to her when she was not even searching.

“M-my love, is—is it really thine eyes I look into?”

The woman that had stolen her heart tilted her head, eyebrows furrowing.

“I’m sorry…do I know you?”

No memories. Of course, she should have expected this.

“’Tis…’tis I…Scáthach. Thine…thine…”

Thine lover.

The words refused to leave her mouth, a distant ache and reminder of how, in life, she had never been able to confess her dying fervor for her hero.

“Scáthach? Like…Irish mythology?”

The recognition in the woman’s eyes only resolved Jihyo further.

“Yes, yes, I…I’ve been searching so long for you.”

The woman only laughed.

“Sheesh, if you only knew how many times I’ve heard that before.”

Then she smiled, ruefully.

“But…I’m sorry, Scáthach. If we’ve met before, I don’t recall.”

Jihyo cursed every god that lived, to steal away her love’s memories each time, to seal Jihyo in an endless state of torment.

“I…I apologize, I thought…”

Was there any point to any of it then? Her search? What good would it do Jihyo now, knowing that she would be destined to relive seeing the light leave her lover’s eyes?

“I…shall leave thee alone.”

Jihyo turned to leave, sheathing her spear on her back. Perhaps it was better this way, to not subject her heart to the pain of having to see her pass one more time.

But then a hand grabbed onto her wrist.

Soft, but urgent. As she always was.

“Hey, Scáthach, uh…do you need a place to stay?”

Jihyo turned, and the woman of her life stared at her, patiently but meaningfully, as Jihyo swallowed the lump in her throat.

“I…”

“I mean, it’s a pretty big neighborhood, and I’d prefer it if you didn’t get lost or something, y’know?”

For once, it was not Jihyo seeking out her love. It was her love seeking her out. And full of emotion, Jihyo could not find it in her to refuse.

“I…that would be very much appreciated.”

Then she grinned, and Jihyo wanted to sob at the sight of how beautiful she looked.

“Come on. I own a place. You can stay there for as long as you like.”

Jihyo could feel her heart leap into her throat, then remembered the exchange earlier.

“I…have nothing to payeth thee. Unless, thou accepts silver?”

The woman smiled, slipping her hand down from Jihyo’s wrist down to her hand, squeezing quietly. The action alone made Jihyo inhale sharply.

It was her. It was really her.

“Your story would be enough, Scáthach.”

The words left Jihyo’s mouth before she could stop them.

“Jihyo. That is…that is my name now.”

The woman smiled, taking over Jihyo’s mind, soul, and heart once more.

“Hiya, Jihyo. My name’s Dahyun. I’m the Lady of the Sanctuary.”

[rcksmith]

Dream a little of me — Kaz Brekker

Resume: One bed and two hearts.

Requests :”Hello, darling! Could I request sleeping with kaz? Imagine or general headcanons, as you like. No nsfw (no need of touching tho, do what you like with it!), just sleeping in the same bed - maybe for the first time. Also bonus points if one of them will have a nightmare👀Have a good night/day, hun!🧚‍♀️🧚‍♀️🧚‍♀️✨✨✨💗💗💗”

“My heart asks for all the angst of touch starved reader falling for Kaz Brekker... 😭😭😭 - 🐕‍🦺”

Couple: Kaz Brekker/ Grisha Fem!Reader

Warnings: swearing, mention of post-traumatic stress, angst, fluff.

Word count: 3k.

A/N: Thank you💖 I hope you guys like.

Normal Rules.

English is not my first language, so I so sorry if have a mistake. Requests are open. Love you❤️

— — — — —

The rain was pouring down in torrents, in a fierce storm that roared into the shadowy forest like a hideous, unearthly animal. Platinum lightning’s streaked the midnight sky and thunder rumbled like as giants footsteps crashing into the ground and shaking the earth. Everything had been orchestrated to work. But nothing could have gone more wrong.

Unfortunately, not even Kaz Brekker's millions of tricks and plans could defeat the force of nature. And even you, an Infernal Entherealki, hadn't mastered the art of controlling fire or keeping warm while under a torrent of icy, biting cold water.

Your teeth started chattering, your lips turned purple, and you wondered if you could run another inch. Your muscles felt like stones and for someone who had lived with the heat of the flames his whole life, being under freezing water was extremely painful. But Kaz wouldn't let you stop. And you, as excruciating as the pain was, didn't want to stop either. The pain was strong but the desire not to let him down was more.

The two of you part of the plan that night was to go through the forest with the diamonds in pockets and find the rest of the Crows on the other side. You two would have to spend the night in that place. But all of Brekker's machinations were washed away by the treacherous and atrocious rain.

The only alternative was to run. Run to the direction where there was a small civilization and pray to find an inn or not die of hypothermia.

The angry drops of icy water were enough to steal Kaz's breath. Not because the cold was unbearable, but because his own demons, his past, were ghosts that gripped his ankles like monsters from horror stories. He didn't feel the rain, didn't feel the biting wind, Kaz just felt the sensation of the freezing, oppressive ocean drowning him. And for a second, when he looked at the small strip of fur on he wrist that wasn't hidden by his glove and coat, he swore he saw Jordie's dead skin in place of his.

He had to get out of there. But when the storm started, and Kaz run his eyes at you, your face wet from the rain, your skin constantly whipped by the cold droplets, and your cheeks extremely red from the cold, it made him gasp in a very different way. Blood pooled in your cheeks. Pulsing. Alive. He had to get you out of there.

Finding hiding places was one of his specialties, and he focused his mind entirely on it. When an inn came into view, a small relief rumbled in both of you. And Kaz looked in your direction to make sure you were okay. Alive.

As the receptionist gave the key from the last spare room to the two of you, Kaz couldn't help but feel that there was no longer any heat pulsing in your body. That made him feel miserable.

The night was cold. Unusually cool for the time of year.

"I don't think it's a good idea to carry out a robbery like that in these climatic temperatures." Inej said, walking down the stairs after Kaz "One of the Dregs caught a serious cold too while you were away."

Kaz had to be away for two days to sort out some matters of his own. Check some ship ports and finding out the weaknesses of some new merchants. And as much as he ordered his thoughts to focus solely on that purpose, he found himself daydreaming at certain times about…

"It got very serious after a few hours." Inej completed.

Kaz felt a trickle of worry trace his veins, tighten his throat But it wasn't for some bruteman of his Dregs. His source of concern was more serious, deeper, and for someone he didn't want to think about too much. Even though he told himself to keep every nerve in his body under control, in the end he was Kaz Brekker, he couldn't help but notice he picked up his pace to get faster to the live room that was strictly reserved for the Crows.

And when he walked in, following by Inej, the tree branches hit the windows, blown by the wind, tinkling. The cold was oppressive and biting, but not enough to stop Jesper from playing cards with Wylan, nor enough for Nina not to eat her candy and listen to Matthias tell of his people's legends. But the eyes of Kaz, that treacherous and treacherous organ, ran to you first. Magnetically, inevitably.

And he felt like he could breathe again.

The sight of you sitting on the black velvet sofa, with a book in your hands and your legs stretched out on the padded stool in front of you, calmed Kaz's heartbeat as nothing had ever done.

As much as he denies, in those two days his mind has swarmed over you more often than he thought wise. Brekker liked to justify that action with the fact that you were part of the gang. As close and important as Jesper or Inej. It was normal for him to be worried about the Dregs.

But why did he only see you? Why did the questions about your well-being and comfort stood out so much from any other concerns with others?

It was you. Always late at night, when Brekker was a sigh away from sleep. You were what someone he was thinking.

"Who is alive always appears." Nina announced he arrival and Kaz was pulled out of his reverie.

"Did you kill anyone these two days?" Jesper placed a letter on the table and Inej sat beside Nina.

Kaz left his hat on one of the dark marble tables. “Does it matter?"

There were other seats available in the room. A leather armchair next to the burning fireplace - Brekker were sure that you was controlling the temperature - an extra chair around the table where Jesper and Wylan were play, and a small divan beside Matthias. But Kaz sat beside you on the couch.

You marked the page with your finger, lowering the book gently. He didn't need to see the cover to know what it was. It was a romance clichéd eighteenth-century. He had given it to you before he left.

"Everything worked?" You smiled and Kaz had the feeling that he wanted to memorize that smile in a painting to always appreciate it.

"And doesn't always do?"

Even with the biting cold that wasn't stopped by the fireplace, Brekker could feel the heat from your body emanating, like a delicious temptation. You were always so hot. Bathed in the sun's rays. He didn't know if infernal grisha like you gave off so much heat too, because it was impossible for that to be human. Were so intense...delicious. Even with multiple layers of clothing, if Kaz approached you he could feel the warmth of a tropical pirate island.

Was that why he always unconsciously sat beside you? Why did you radiate so much causticity that it made Kaz forget about the ocean's cold? Why were you like a piece of life and Kaz felt dead for a long time?

Or was it because, heat or not, you were the only thing worth being around?

All the questions were too disturbing. And Kaz Brekker didn't want to know the answer.

Now, even climbing the stairs to the room beside you, Kaz couldn't feel anything radiating from you body. Just the cold. And he hated it with every force of his being.

You're not made to take the rain, felling deadly cold, or turn your lips a bluish hue.You were not made to be cold as a corpse, with muscles stiff and sore like a dead. You were not made to look like Jordie. You were meant to be alive. To look alive. Exhale the heat of the most ardent fire and heat a room just with your presence. You were meant to scare off Kaz's winter with your summer.

For a second, Kaz wanted to hug you to give you the warmth of his own body.

You felt exhausted. The remnants of what you once day were. Every inch of your body protested, aching and tearing at muscles. The cold, sharp water did you no good. You didn't know if it was were something of your species or a trait unique to you. But it didn't do any good to you. You hated looking so miserable in that appearance, especially in front of the one man you always wanted to look beautiful to. But at that moment you were in too much pain to worry so much about it.

As soon as Kaz had put the key in the doorknob, his gloved fingers stiff from the cold, what you expected to find was a cozy room, promising a heat shower and a good, well-deserved night's sleep. But that wasn't it. You stared at the wide double bed with white sheets, perplexed. Shock competed with your pain and put your brain to work, and all your breath lurked in throat as your realized the situation.

Oh my fucking God.

You didn't have to look at Kaz to feel his entire body be rigid, in a way far more potent than the effects the rain had caused. As if the prospect of sleeping next to you was more whorse than dying of hypothermia.

You closed your expression. Half because your mood was already bad and half because the rejection was brutal. You didn't expect your passionate feelings for Kaz to be returned, nor did you expect him to feel the same longing to be close to you as you felt for him. But no woman wanted to see that a man would rather die of hypothermia than share a bed with her. Even more if he was a man she was in love with.

You entered in room first, the pain in your body clouding your thoughts.

"Do you mind if I shower first?"

Your voice was weak, and you didn't have the heart to look at Kaz. He hissed a “no” that hung in the air, and that was the last thing you heard before closing yourself in the bathroom.

His heart was beating eerily fast in his chest. As loud as the thunder outside and as unsettling as the chill of rain. His breath began to burn heavily in his throat, and suddenly his entire body was fully aware of the situation.

One bed.

Even when he took the diamonds out of his pocket and placed them on a small table, even when you came out of the bathroom and he walked in, even as he basked in the hot water, his heart still pounded wildly. Like a generator.

Kaz Brekker liked puzzles, challenges. Of things he could unravel and understand. Piece by piece. He played to win and to cheat, and the world knelt at his feet before the insight of his mind. Still, he didn't know what to do. You were like a fascinating and maddening riddle. The one thing that, no matter how hard Kaz tried, could never unravel yours mysteries. Or maybe, just, what he would never be able to do was unravel what he felling whenever he was by your side.

His heartbeat grew stronger.

Brekker remembered every deck of cards, every card played. He could keep up with the distribution of up to five decks, unlock any lock, and devise the most insane plans. But he couldn't stop the way his soul trembled whenever he laid eyes on you.

In those moments, when you looked at Kaz like he was someone much better than he actually was, Kaz wanted to be good. He wanted to be born again to become a damn decent man. For you. He wished he didn't have his demons and erase his past. Because that way, when the sun's rays hit your face and you were close enough for your scent of happiness to flood his senses, Kaz wouldn't back down. He would lean down and seal his lips in yours with the promise of a glorious future.

His heart beat faster.

Why did he feel that his whole life was always suspended whenever he were away from you? And why did he have the feeling his life could change forever if he walked out that door?

Kaz turned off the shower. The heart running like a horse. He fished out the towel and wrapped it around his waist, finding a small hamper that held neat, folded pajamas for guests. He was surprised he didn't notice you in those pajamas. You made him lose focus.

As soon as he dressed and walked out of the bathroom, his eyes immediately went to your figure. Sitting on the bed, your legs under the covers, your hands clasped together in a cupped shape with a small, flare of fire burning in the center.

You looked up at Kaz. “I managed to do something to warm you up.”

The phrase was: No for warm me up. No for warm us up. For warm you up.

Kaz lost his breath and his soul trembled. The air felt different since he stepped out of the shower, not just from the recent gust of heat. But there was something else, something lyrical, pink and lush. Something...beautiful. He did not say anything. First because he didn't trust his own words and second because he didn't know what to say. He sat beside you, a considerable distance away, but this time his fear was that you would hear the loud, racing beat of his heart.

You turned gently towards him, reaching out your hands towards him, not noticing how his hands trembled as they stretched under the hot flame. Kaz swallowed hard.

He knew how weak and drained you were, but he also knew you were aware that he loathed cold. Hated icy water. You didn't know the depth of his traumas, but the fact that you cared to the point that you were willing to use your last shred of strength to end his torment was something that reverberated in his soul.

You two didn't say anything else after that. After Kaz removed his hands from the flame, you understood that as the end of your two interactions. You two shared a mutual answer that neither would sleep on the floor. You two were adults and in no condition to be lashed by any colder.

The night moon bathed the dark room with lights in distilled silver, almost flickering through the windswept tree branches. You were back-to-back, blankets pulled up to your shoulders, breathing gently quickened. As exhausted as you two were, neither of you could sleep.

Suddenly, the whole atmosphere in room seemed to change. Like a private, enchanted piece of the world. The wind howled softly, on a calm note. The rain was still falling in torrents, but now it seemed to be adopted in a passionate tone. As if it had fulfilled its purpose and now hovered in the world with a romantic veil of water. Stars shining bright above the bedroom window, glittering like hundreds of tiny diamonds, accompanied by moonlight. Although the light was dim, it seemed to capture the lyrical essence, seem to whisper “Dream a little dream of me.”

Everything felt different, like the two of you had entered a rift in the world. A part inhabited romance, pure magic, love.

Your soul shivered, and as much as you could never prove it, you felt that Kaz's soul shivered too. Your breath hitched, burning in lungs, your body seized by a caustic tingle that snaked through every inch.

You didn't know why, but your body shifted gently on the bed, turning slightly towards the ceiling. The racing pulse in your veins. A second felt like an eternity. Kaz's body moved too, and you knew, just knew, that he was looking at the ceiling too.

Two hearts beating in the same time. Synchronized. And, by some magic or deity, you two knew that your heartbeat would never again beat another way. Always connected.

Your body moved a little more, now on belly up. And Kaz's seemed to do the same move, even without seeing you or your movements. His chest rising and falling with intensity. The rain calmed outside, turning the symphony of droplets hitting the roof into mysterious, passionate music. As if the world were plotting a whispering favor for you two.

Kaz could feel your body heat radiating once more, grazing his skin with rays of sunlight. Everything in that bedroom became poignant and intense and lyrical, inflicting sensations on him that Kaz never thought existed before. Later, it would be a shock for him to see that he was at the mercy of his own passions. Overcome by sensations that robbed him of control of his body. Later he would think about it. Later.

His soul tingled, sending gusts of heat from the inside out. The feeling was that, after 28 years of deep sleep, he had awakened. Awake. Alive.

His body moved once more, now completely on belly up. Kaz didn't have to look at you to know that you too had placed yourself in the same position. It was as if he felt the movements of your soul. His pulse was racing now, hot and boiling in his blood. And Kaz wondered if all the money in the world would bring half the sensations he was feeling right now.

What was he so afraid all this time? That question echoed through all the corridors of his soul. And Brekker feared for the answer. What kept him from having everything he craved?

Money? Pekka? Jordie's ghost and the cold ocean? Kaz feared never touching you any more than he feared his demons? Was that why he always walked away from you? Why was wanting to slide his fingers into your hot skin and not being able to fell you, be worse than any sensation he'd ever felt? Because, maybe, admitting it can change everything?

His breath hitched.

Would it be worse to be alone for the rest of his life? Doomed and cursing to a fate of revenge, death and red hate? Or, even worse for his heart, finding a girl with lovely eyes, sunny smiles and the smell of happiness? A girl that made him laugh, come out of his hiding. You. What do he will do with that? What if you open up the door that he can't close it? And If when you hold he and his heart is set in motion?

Would that be so bad? No.

His body became very aware of the approximation it was on to your. Your heat radiating into his. For some reason, Kaz was sure you was in the same condition as he was. Sharing the same feelings. The same passion hidden for so long.

Kaz should have thought of his brother, of revenge against Pekka Rollins, of the cold of the ocean. He should have weighed of his own traumas. Instead, he thought: What if I get a little closer?

The result of this was his fingertips brushing yours. And he knew the exact moment your heart sped up even more. Because his followed the same beat. Maybe following yours for the rest of his life.

You brought your eyes to him, calmly, as if that moment might disintegrate. and the world seemed suspended in that moment. Kaz slid his eyes to you as well, sharing sensations and emotions that didn't need to be put into words. It was all there, in the gaze.

His fingers crept higher, going to your hand, and plunging his touch - and his soul - into that contact. All your heat was too strong. Too intense. Doing Kaz wouldn't be able to think or feel, for the first few minutes, about anything but light, heat, summer and…happiness.

That's when you gave him a shaky, emotional smile. I would do anything for you. That's what that smile said. And Kaz answered, his hand tight with yours before letting go. Me too.

- -

As the sun's rays, shy and buttery, flooded the bedroom in soft color, Kaz's eyelids fluttered. The sound of birds reached his ears, and the scent of flowers and happiness invaded his nose.

It was nothing like waking up in Ketterdam.

That thought back him to reality. A reality in which he had stolen many diamonds, taken the rain and had to share the calm. A reality where Kaz Brekker touched you.

You.

Kaz opened his eyes immediately, his heart racing again. He looked frantically around the room, past the simple furniture, the closed bathroom door, the window where the light came in, and then looked to his side on the bed. That's when he realized what position he was in.

His soul heated up.

You had your back to him, your hair spread out on the white pillow, your back showing by your pajama top, your shoulder rising and falling softly with your resonant breathing. You were close. Very close. And Kaz finds, perplexed, that he is facing you. One arm rests around your waist, over the thick blankets, in an intimate and…romantic gesture.

He lost his breath. His warm, hope-shining soul whispered to him: what if it was like this every day? What if he woke up with you by his side forever? What if in time he learned to be a decent man? Trying to be normal?

Would Kaz do this for you?

You shifted in bed, turning onto his side, front for him, snuggling deeper under his touch and moving closer, as if Kaz were your oasis in the desert. No skin was actually touching, your breath hit his warm chest, and if Kaz lowered his lips even further, he could feel your lips on his.

Yes. He would.

[drwcn]

I loved your fem lwj take on things. How would thibgs go if WWX was the lady? Other than ppl assuming she stood up for the Wens bcs she jad feelings for WN ( and that Yuan was hers)

Heyyy friend, I think I’ve seen a couple of girl!wwx fics floating around in ao3 so i certainly won’t be the first :P.

Also I completely misread your ask initially, I thought you were asking me what I think would happen if A-Yuan was WWX’s kid, and I was like oh?? But then I realize wait... I can make it worse.  

Today, I decided that my mortal soul doesn’t matter, so here we go. Let’s see how accursed I can make this idea: 

[1]

It started with Jiang Cheng. Jiang Wanyin had set out for the Burial Mount with the explicit goal of throttling speaking with Wei Wuxian, but what greeted him at the entrance of the “Demon Subduing Palace” — more of a cave than anything really — was not his martial sister, but Wen Ning. Well, what had once been Wen Ning.

Black veins ran across his pale, ashen face, down his equally ashen neck , and into the major veins beneath his clavicles covered by the collars of his black threadbare robes. Lifeless eyes, white as his skin, stared into a void the living could not see. There were talismans littering his body, and Jiang Cheng knew that when he spoke to this fierce corpse, he was not speaking to the young Wen boy, but to his mistress who controlled him with her demonic cultivation. 

Wei Wuxian refused to face him. Refused him explanation. Refused him closure.

“Er-jie!” Jiang Cheng screamed into the stony expressionless face of Wen Qionglin. “If you continue to protect them, then I can’t protect you!!” 

There was no response. 

Suddenly, just as Jiang Cheng was about to kick and fight his way into the cave, Wen Ning thrusted out his right fist, and in his grasp was a piece of purple silk. Jiang Cheng unfolded the silk, vaguely recognizing that it had been cut from someone’s robe, and saw what was wrapped within was a slip of parchment.

割袍断义*, the paper read. Tell the world that I, Wei Wuxian, first disciple of Yunmeng Jiang has forever defected (Note: 割袍断义- to rip one's robe as a sign of repudiating a sworn brotherhood (idiom)).

With this, there was nothing left to say. Hurt and furious, Jiang Wanyin threw the piece of parchment onto the dirt ground, grinded his heel down on it, and left the Burial Mount without ever having drawn Sandu. 

Inside the cave, Wen Qing held Wei Wuxian’s hand. “Why won’t you just tell him? He’s your brother; he can help you, you can —” 

Wei Wuxian’s mile long stare seemed to be gazing at something — someone — very far away. Slowly, she placed her other palm over her belly, which horrifically was already starting to round out. “Nobody can help me now, Qing-jie.”

“I can,” said Wen Qing, blunt as ever. “I can make it go away, if you want.”

“No.” A droplet of tear escaped pass long lashes. “No.” 

[2] 

It continued with Jiang Cheng.

On a snowy night, the first winter after Wei Wuxian escaped with the Wen remnants to the Burial Mount, Jiang Cheng was rudely awakened from his slumber by a less-than-stealthy intruder breaking and entering into his bed chamber.

Zidian whipped through the air, lighting the room with her eerie violet glow, before the intruder could think to take one more step. It was a man, judging from his silhouette colliding against the wall and the pained groan he made in response. The very next second, the tail of Zidian coiled tightly around his neck and dragged him across the floor towards beneath Jiang Cheng’s waiting foot. 

The Sect Master of Yunmeng Jiang summoned Sandu, ready to deliver the final strike, but just as his blade sailed towards the intruder’s chest, a pale arm jutted upwards, blocking Sandu’s descent and revealing a pale hand holding a … a... 

Even in the dark, Jiang Cheng immediately recognized the mahogany comb. 

“Jiang — ! Zongzhu —!” The man croaked out urgently, throat still stomped on by Jiang Cheng’s foot. It was - it was Wen Ning?!

Jiang Cheng looked him over. He was pale, yes, but his eyes appeared human. His hair was brushed and haphazardly done up in a farmer’s top knot. He was wearing farmer’s clothing too, probably more inconspicuous for travel than his Ghost General getup.  

“Jiang-zongzhu! P—please!!”

No, impossible. 

“Wei — Wei-guniang—”

Jiang Cheng lifted his foot and dragged Wen Ning up in a split second. “What’s wrong with Wei Wuxian?!”  Wen Ning coughed and shook his head desperately. “No time to explain. My sister asked me to fetch you. Please, you have to come! Wei-guniang’s life is in danger! If you won’t come, I’ll...I’ll have to go to Gusu, and I don’t know if - if -” 

Jiang Cheng followed Wen Ning. 

For speed, they travelled by sword, but even so, dawn was breaking by the time they arrived. The crowd of Burial Mount’s villagers huddling anxiously outside of the Demon Subduing Palace parted for them upon their arrival. Jiang Cheng took a moment to gather himself and square his shoulders. Whatever it was; he was ready.  

He was wrong. None of the dozens of scenario he had agonized over on the flight here could have prepared him for what awaited him inside. 

Wen Qing, pale and drenched in sweat, was near complete spiritual collapse, and without Wen Qing’s spiritual energy sustaining her, the single tenuous thread by which Wei Wuxian’s life hung on would have undoubtedly snapped under the toil and devastation her body had been put through. 

There was so much blood, so, so much blood everywhere, and amidst the blood, there was a baby. 

Fuck. 

Jiang Cheng transfused his sister half of his total spiritual reserve over the course of a day, while an exhausted but unrelenting Wen Qing worked diligently under blood-soaked sheets. 

Then at dusk, when the storm finally passed, Jiang Cheng sat at the mouth of the cave with a tiny, perfect little human — a girl, a niece! —  in his arms and cursed Lan Wangji’s name. 

Wen Qing was extremely clear with them: 孩子要是留在这里，养不活。

If the newborn was left to be raised at the Burial Mount, she would not live. And so, because parting was inevitable from the start, Wei Wuxian adamantly refused to hold or nurse the child. Her child. 

I can’t. If I do, I won’t be able to let her go. Those dark eyes burned with more than just the delirium of her childbed fever. For once, Jiang Cheng could not find it in himself to argue.

Thus, he took his niece home and named her Jiang Yan 江曕. The name was not his doing. His foolish, misguided, stubborn sister had stroked her daughter’s soft, baby cheek and whispered it to her as a farewell gift. 

Yan - to be bathed in daylight. In the end, when given a choice, Wei Wuxian still opted for her child to walk on broad sunny road. 

It made Jiang Cheng wonder why, then, she would choose the dark twisted path for herself instead. 

[3] 

It ended with Jiang Cheng. 

The truth was simple: Jiang Wanyin killed his shijie Wei Wuxian. He did. He meant to. 

He killed her. But that did not mean he wanted her dead. 

In one day, he had lost both of his sisters, leaving two orphans in their wake. Jiang Cheng could not ignore the cruel irony of their fate: one’s father murdered by his aunt, and other’s mother murdered by her uncle. 

This was the kind of tragedy fairytales were made of, and if there were anything left in him to shed tears over it, he would.  Standing amongst Nevernight’s carnage, he could not dredge up even a single drop of tear.  

Jiang Cheng didn’t know how he could return home to Lotus Pier to face that cherub face, always so happy, so sweet, so utterly untainted by the world. She had her mother’s smile. Yan'er was starting to learn how to speak. Her first words were da-da. 

Da-da. Die-die. Father. 

He was standing beside her father now. 

Lan Wangji. Devastated. Destroyed. …Deceived.

Jiang Cheng hated him so much, so fucking much that for one insane second, he thought about telling Lan Wangji the truth just to see what would happen. Maybe he would run Jiang Cheng through with his Bichen - that would be a relief now, wouldn’t it? - or maybe he would jump after Wei Wuxian. 

Truly, if he knew, he would. Jump, that is. Jiang Cheng was almost entirely sure. Oh the utter melodrama that would inspire indeed!  

But then... 

Wei Ying birthed you a daughter, a lovely, perfect, blessed little girl, and she carried that secret to her grave. I may be damned by my actions, but you, who have done nothing for her and taken everything, why should you deserve something as sacred as the truth?

Jiang Cheng turned away. 

He was acutely aware that one day Jiang Yan may very well be the literal death of him. After all — 杀母之仇不共戴天 — one cannot tolerate living under the same sky as the murderer of one’s mother. 

Be that as it may, he would raise Jiang Yan well, just as he promised. Unlike his sister, he would not break his word. Jiang Yan was of Lotus Pier, of Yunmeng, like her mother and grandfather before her. That for him, was enough. 

Jiang Cheng clutched Sandu and gripped Zidian. Whatever his fate, he already made peace with it, and the rest was inconsequential. 

One day, he may die, but today he lives, and so as long as he lives, Jiang Yan and all of Yunmeng Jiang will be protected . So as long as he lives, they will flourish. 

[...and in between]

On the streets of Yiling, Lan Wangji tilted his head inquisitively at Wei Wuxian and the little boy at her side and asked, “This child, he...” 

In response, Wei Wuxian patted her chest in a self-declarative kind of way and announced, “Oh this child, I birthed him!” 

He stared at her in shell-shocked silence, his mind racing with panicked thoughts of but that’s impossible — that was just once — even if — the boy is too old to be —

“怎么，蓝湛，不要我们娘儿俩了？” What, Lan Zhan, you don’t want the child and I?

“Wei— Wei Ying—” 

Then of course, she had laughed, and Lan Wangji thought no more of it. 

Just a joke. A silly joke. 

In time, he would come to realize his mistake. 

~~~

[A/N]: I’m not even a little bit sorry. 

[jaigeye]

God, your OCs are killing me. Could you please tell me about the moment Bernie finds the holocron?

Just read what you wrote on ivy's post and nearly died thinking about Bernie and Lock finding each other even after death and order 66 and I would very much like to sue because I cry

omg you're literally so sweet 😭 thank you thank you !!! they compel me they're just so..augh...

It's about the courtly love of it all.. the fast swing into commitment because the swing of the axe is always faster.. when your life is limited youve got to live it to the fullest, right??

When the Kamino Guard survivors and defectors find their way into the same Rebel camp Bernie is in, it's already enough to have him in tears, dragging each of his old friends into tight embraces and asking them with pain in his voice if it was something the Jedi had done, if the clones meant what they did, and to please forgive him for leaving them behind.

He spent hours exchanging stories with them, because a lifetime ago they were friends, too; family, if you could say such a thing, and he'd always gone to see them when he visited his late husband on Kamino. He couldn't bear to mention his name for quite some time, knowing him to be dead from some data he had gathered about Tipoca City's fall, and he couldn't bear the idea that Lock's death might have been awful.

Finally as the fire dwindled he had to ask. And they told him; belated, all scrambling as if they'd gotten so swept up in the past or their trepidation that they'd not yet dared show him, and they procured a Holocron and left him alone with it.

It was the Holocron Lock had stumbled out of the Sith temple with. The sith temple where his Padawan- Lock's General- like a daughter to them both- had died. The holocron that was always empty, lacking the answers that haunted him. Bernie's first instinct was to crush it. It was just another remnant of another dead person he loved. A dead end solution that could only taunt him.

But then he thought about what Lock said years ago. Something about a puzzle never being finished, not really.

I think Bernie expected, after his death, that he could look to the Force to find Lock. He knew only Jedi really appear as Force ghosts- and he's read enough to know plenty about those!- but still, he thought maybe he could feel him, just some bare hint of the way he smelled, how his voice sounded, how it felt to be near him. but he found the Force, after Order 66, to be a cold, unrelenting place where he could not find his lost love.

Bernardeau sat by the campfire and unlocked the Holocron, using the Force for the first time in months. He'd been so afraid of it, of the cold feeling he got using it, and all the absences he felt within it. But he unlocked it and felt this wave of warmth flood over him and heard- for the first time in two years- the sound of Lock's voice saying his name.

Bernie held the Holocron to his chest, with the hologram of Lock kneeling in front of him, and wept.

Their relationship radically changed- they had a lot to work through and, of course, the loss of touch was heartbreaking, but having one another close again was enough to heal some old wounds.

Finding Lock in the holocron made everything suddenly make sense. He couldn't find him because he wasn't truly gone; his soul, the essence of him, could still be found in that fragile device. And wasn't it characteristic of his puzzle-loving, riddle-obsessed husband would be preserved in one of the grandest types of puzzle, a Holocron? Didn't it all make sense that he should, at the point of despair, near giving up, twist the key just right and find Lock waiting for him like he always was?

[zafirosreverie]

Share my infinite (Agatha x Fem!reader) Part 2

A/N: This is long, guys. But i didn't want to do two parts for this, since i still have to do another one for the reader's recovery. Also, I have a huge headache, so forgive any mistakes.

Anyway, i hope you like it! ^ - ^

You ran as fast as you could, voices screaming with rage behind you. They will kill you. 

“Shit” you growled when you tripped with a branch. You got up quickly and continued running, but that second was enough for the dogs to come closer to you. Those stupid dogs and their stupid owners, why couldn’t they leave you alone?! You didn’t do anything to them and yet they were hunting you, just because of your “family”. 

“I don’t even have the last name” you mumbled. 

You were part of a rich family that was respected among the people of your town, but you were never a part of it. You were the odd one, the freak, the mistake. You were the only one that inherited your grandfather's...condition. 

At some point in the family’s story, someone thought it was cool and a good idea messing up with dark magic and ended up marrying a vampire, condemning the entire lineage to fear for the purity of their blood. By the time you were born, that was just a legend, something the parents told their childs to make them behave. 

“Y/N, stop doing that” your mother would say. “It must be the vampire in her” your father would add. 

You were a pretty curious girl, which led to many misbehaviours, so you heard that phrase too often. 

“Wish something really hard and it will become a reality” you thought with sarcasm. 

When you were 8, the nightmare began. You had just lost your baby teeth and your new ones were appearing. Your parents thought it was cute, but then, your new fangs came and they screamed in horror. They were too long to be normal. They were like your grandfather’s. They were vampire’s fangs.

At first, they tried to pull them out, it hurted like hell, but they didn’t move. So, your parent’s kept you hiden, not even the rest of the family could see you (you would later hear that they didn’t want to). The only person that you were allowed to interact with, was the grandfather himself. He was actually your great great great great great great grandfather, but allowed you to call him Grandpa or Grandfather. Your parents decided that you were no longer their daughter, so he gave you his last name. His real one.

He was sweet and nice with you, teaching you how to retract your fangs and everything he knew about your condition. He told you that you shouldn’t worry, that it was something that happened every generation. Your uncle Nicholás had it too, so it wasn’t anything you couldn’t control. 

What he didn’t tell you was that uncle Nick was burned alive for it.

You weren't a full vampire, you only had a few remnants of vampire blood in your veins. Grandpa was sure that, with every generation that had the condition, it became weaker and weaker, so he had faith that you would be the last one to have it. And he was right. 

You were the last one. None of your nephews or nieces got it, nor their children or grandchildren or great grand children. You were there for the babies’ births, and for their deaths too. Generations came and went, but you remained the same. You stopped aging at 22, and were trapped like that ever since. Your grandfather died long after your great grand nephews did, but it proved that you were not eternal.

As the years passed, you became kind of a myth among the family, the maiden who didn't age. The ghost of the library. The shadow of the house. Generation after generation, you became just another part of the family heritage, something that came with being part of the Van Dales. Everyone treated you like another decoration.

Until now.

These new people (you had stopped thinking of the new generations as your family long ago) decided it wasn’t fair that you got to enjoy all the money while they had to die. It was a stupid argument, but that didn’t matter. You knew they just wanted to get rid of you. And that’s what they did. 

They spread the word around the town, that whoever brought your head to them would be rewarded with part of the family treasure. You barely had time to grab a small bag with your belongings (the ones you had since you were a child) before you were carried out of the house and into the woods.

They didn't tell you why, just to wait and they left you there. A few minutes later you heard the footsteps of the people and a man saying that he would be the one to kill you and claim the reward.

You started running in that very second.

“don’t change, don’t change, don’t change” you begged, feeling your eyes burning. 

One of the things that you learnt the hard way was that when you were in danger, your e/c eyes would change to dark red, and then you would go into a frenzy. That meant you would become a murder machine, and you didn’t want that even if it was your last hope. 

“Of all the things I got from the vampires, why couldn't it be super speed?” you thought as you heard the men coming closer. Your legs were burning and your lungs were about to explode.  

You weren’t paying much attention, so you didn’t notice the air changing nor the energy around you. You needed to escape. 

You tripped again and you cursed. But you couldn't hear the dogs or the men anymore. You lost them? How? They were right behind you, there was no chance that you could have lost them.

But you needed to rest so you weren't complaining at all. It didn't last for too long. 

You heard a leaf crushing and steps close to you. You stood up quickly and prepared to run again, but something stopped you. You couldn't move, as if your feet were glued to the earth. 

"Well, well. What do we have here?" A voice said behind you. You froze and your eyes started to burn again. The person walked around you and you saw the most beautiful woman ever. Her eyes and hands were glowing with a purple light and suddenly you understood why you couldn’t move. She was a witch. 

Your grandfather taught you about witches, saying that, just like you, they were usually misunderstood, and that you shouldn’t be afraid of them. Even if you ever meet an evil witch, the vampire blood in you would protect you. The fact that her magic had an effect on you, meant that she actually didn’t want to hurt you. 

"Aren't you a precious little thing?” she asked and you couldn’t help but notice how lovely her voice was. “What are you doing here, darling?” 

You opened your mouth but closed it again. There was so much to explain but words didn’t come to you at the moment. You remained silent for a few moments before trying to speak again.

“I- I escaped” you whispered, making the woman raise her eyebrow.

“escaped? from what?” she asked, stepping closer to you.

“Men” you simply said. Her presence was making you nervous and you felt your cheeks blushing. 

Your answer seemed to be enough for her and she nodded, unwrapping you from her magic.You noticed her eyes turned to an ice blue color and you gasped. They were the most beautiful eyes you’ve ever seen.

“What’s your name?” she asked. 

“Y/N” 

“Y/N” she repeated and your heart jumped a little. You loved the way your name sounded in her voice. “Come with me” she said and started walking. You blinked and stood there for a moment before you quickly followed her. You didn’t know her, but it was this witch or the hunters. 

They didn’t have beautiful blue eyes or a lovely voice. So the choice was easy.

She took you to a small cabin, surrounded by big trees and a little pond on the side. You blinked and blushed as she opened the door for you. The simple interior made you feel warm and protected. She saw you wandering around the room, watching her things carefully, not touching anything but being interested in them.

You noticed her smile and stopped walking, taking a step back. She was staring at you as if you were her prey, which, to be fair, might be the case. 

“Didn’t anyone tell you that you don’t follow strangers into their houses, love?” she finally asked after a long moment of just staring at you. 

Agatha was intrigued by you. You shouldn't be here. You shouldn’t have been able to pass the barrier she put around her house, not even other witches could do it. But most importantly, you shouldn’t be standing there as if you were comfortable in her presence. As if you weren’t afraid of her.

“I’ve been living with strangers for a long time” you said honestly and shrugged “i guess i’m not afraid of them anymore”

That made Agatha even more curious. She walked to you and locked eyes with you. You were a little surprised by it, but you didn’t look away. 

“You’re like me” she said softly, and you shrugged again.

“I guess so?”

The witch didn’t want to have high hopes, but she had been alone for almost 200 years now and the possibility of having some company was enough to let you stay some days. At least until she discovered more about you and how much power you had.

_________

“Don't” Agatha warned you, not lifting her eyes from her book “whatever you’re thinking, don’t”

You giggled and ignored her “I’m not doing anything, Aggie” you lied and she sighed. 

She was about to turn around to see what you were planning, when she felt your cold hands in the back of her neck, making her jump.

“Y/N!!!” she yelled and you laughed, watching her shivering. 

“Got ya!” you said when she turned to face you

“Those are ice! Are you sure you’re not dead?” she asked with sarcasm and fake anger, but the blush on her cheeks gave her away. 

“Could be. I haven’t checked my pulse today” you joked and she chuckled. 

You had been living with her for a year, and she had fallen head over heels for you. You were sweet, charming, always had a smile on your beautiful face and you were always finding ways to make her laugh. You were kind and loving towards her, making her loneliness fade away. 

But you were also naughty as hell. 

You loved making pranks, jokes and chaos. She was your favorite target, but it was something almost innocent, nothing that a child couldn’t do (a part of her knew it was because you were forced to grow up too quickly, so you were just doing what you wanted to do back then), but that benevolence didn’t extend to other people.

Your pranks and jokes were anything but innocent when the targets were people from the town near the forest. It made sense, because they were the same people that tried to kill you a year ago. But you once told her that you actually just enjoyed causing chaos, which made her fall in love with you even more. She loved being by your side whenever you caused something among the humans. It was a magnificent artwork, a chaotic, kind of evil, maniac, artwork. And it had both of your signaments in the corner.

She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t notice you talking to her. When you looked at her and saw that you had lost her at some point, an evil grin appeared on your face. Well, you were not a person that decline opportunities. 

Agatha gasped when you pushed her to the pond. 

“Y/N!!!!” she yelled again and you laughed harder. 

“That’ll teach you not to ignore me when I’m trying to declare my love for you, Harkness” you joked and walked to the house. 

The witch sighed as she stood and used her magic to dry herself. That has been your most cruel joke to this day. 

When she met you, she assumed you were a witch. You crossed her barrier, after all, so you must be a powerful one. But when she tried to steal your magic when you were asleep, she sensed it was too weak, she could barely call it magic at all. 

That confused her so much. How did you cross then? This amount of magic was not enough to do it. The next day, she confronted about it and you just blinked. 

“You think i’m a witch?” you asked before you giggled “I’m a vampire” you said and left her speechless. 

You taught her everything you knew about your condition, but it wasn’t too much since your family just wanted you to hide yourself. So she tried to learn everything she could about vampires. You frowned and said that if she was going to learn about your kin, then you wanted to learn about hers.

And just like that, your lessons started. The first days, you two sat at the table with a pile of books in front of you, but that plan disappeared the moment you saw her stretching to make her back more comfortable. You took the books and threw them on the floor, making Agatha gasp, then you took her hand and made her lie beside you on the wood. You’ve never used chairs for study or reading since then.

The joke started when she started to teach you some tricks. They were pretty simple and basic, but she loved the look in your face when you got one of them right. One day, you were so happy to finally do a spell you were trying for weeks, that you kissed her cheek with excitement and her mind went blank, her cheeks burning. You noticed it and never let her live with it.

Since then, you would make comments or do things that made her believe you might feel the same, but then you would just laugh and leave her with a hole in her chest. 

“Aggie?” you asked softly. You had noticed that she didn’t follow you and after a moment, you went out again to make sure she was okay. You frowned when you saw her just standing there, lost in her thoughts.  

You carefully took her hand and she jumped, looking at you. 

“Are you ok?” you asked and she nodded, removing her hand from yours. 

“I’m fine, Y/N” she said and your frown deepened. She never used that tone with you. The “I have something in my mind but you wouldn’t understand so let’s pretend i’m alright” tone. You took her face in your hands and made her lock eyes with you. 

“Don’t lie to me” you whispered 

Agatha stared at you for a moment before she sighed. She couldn’t. She always thought she was strong enough to lie to everyone, to take what she needed and do what she wanted. But you, you made her weak. And she would do anything for you. Even expose her heart and let you break it.

“Please don’t do it” she said “please don’t make jokes about your love for me. Not when we both know you don’t mean it.”

You frowned again in confusion, but when you understood her words, you blushed and felt your pulse racing. 

“Who said i don’t mean it?” you asked softly, caressing her cheek.

“NO!” Agatha said, more harsh than she intended “Don’t do it Y/N.” she said, whispering again “Please. Don’t give me false hopes. I can’t take it” she begged and you felt guilt invading you.

You had been making those jokes because they were the only way you could get your own feelings out of your chest without actually risking your friendship with the witch. If you had known she felt the same way…

Agatha gasped when she felt your lips against hers. She wasn’t expecting this, but she had been wanting to do it for so long that she took the opportunity. She wrapped her arms around your waist and pulled you closer to her. Your lips were too soft and she would be happy to lose herself in them.

“I’m sorry” you whispered when you broke the kiss “I’m sorry i didn’t tell you before” 

That made her open her eyes. There was a silent question in them, and only your own eyes had the answer. 

You kissed her again, and again, and again, wanting to erase all the doubts you accidentally planted in her mind. Each kiss was an apology and a promise. No words were needed at that moment.

[whump-a-la-mode]

Would you continue the villain nausea whumpee? To show how he is after he is removed from the chair? Do they set him free since he won’t be violent anymore ?

I loved the idea of Villain being set free, and ran with it a bit! I hope you enjoy! Thank you so much for the ask!!

This is a continuation from here, and, once again, the story below is below a read-more to prevent any accidental viewing of content that could trigger emetophobia very badly. I would hate for anyone to see it as they scroll past.

However, this time, the first scene is shown, as it contains no potentially triggering content.

CW//Emetophobia, graphic description of vomit, self-hatred, medical malpractice, low self esteem, hatred of former friends, Stockholm syndrome, whumpee liking whumper, minor eye whump mention, nausea

The auditorium crackled with the feedback of a thousand microphones, shoved towards the stage, frequencies battling and screeching against one another in chaotic choir. From a mass of bodies, of cameras and clattering boom mics, the wire spheres emerged in their dozens, all pointed centrally.

All pointed at the stage, and the podium that lived upon it, glistening in freshly-polished hardwood and media attention.

Behind the platform stood a figure, as equally basking in fame, and equally as glimmering. Upon their face, perfect white teeth glowed as freshly-fallen snow, pressed together in a wide grin.

In Hero’s eyes, it was pride that shone. The pride that came with accomplishment, with recognition, with glory, with perfect hair and thousand-dollar suits and the attention of the world, all upon their face. Their words.

“Thank you, everyone, for being here.” With a greeting alone, the world tucked back in hushed quiet. “Now, we will have plenty of time for questions later, but I wanted to start off with what has surely found itself on every headline this morning.”

A pause. The expected clamor erupted from the horde of media, incoherent shouting and stomping. A rioting crowd.

“Now, now.” It was a practiced ritual, between lion and tamer. “I will be taking all of your questions at the end, but let an old guy speak a little, first.”

Laughter queued.

“Well, then. I’m sure you’ve all seen the headlines-- you guys especially, you wrote them! But, for everyone at home, yes, the rumors are true. A villain is now loose in the city.”

A practiced gasp.

“And it’s a good thing! You see, for years, now, our in-house villainous psychology research has been working on a technique that they have dubbed Reaction-Based Morality Rehabilitation. Now, I’ll let you in on a little secret.”

The hero leaned forward, hand cupping the microphone, playful smile clear upon their face.

“They gave me this paper, and it was like, 100 pages long. And I didn’t know half the words in it.” They backed up, smile remaining. “But, trust me when I say, those guys in R&D? They’re amazing. They know exactly what they’re doing, even if I don’t.

But, I won’t leave you hanging. I do understand the just of the procedure, even if I’m not so sure on the jargon.

It’s a very simple solution to a very complicated problem. I am a firm believer in the fact that people are not born as villains. We are all born as heroes. Some of us, through unfortunate means, however, turn rotten. Through this technique, however, me and Organization believe to have found a way to separate the villain from the person inside.

By using innovative methods of therapy, our psychologists are able to help villains reject their evil ways, all the way at the center of their neurology! We have heard many concerns about the possibility of relapses, of a villain turning sides upon their release. Yet, with this technique, changing sides is not a conscious choice. It is as much a thought process as it is a carefully embedded instinct.

Of course.” They straightened momentarily. “That does not mean we are simply allowing once of those who have harmed you return to our beautiful city unsupervised. We ensure you, multiple surveillance methods have been put in place. This is only a trial run.

We at Organization wish to think each and every one for your cooperation and participating in the beta test of this revolutionary new technique. If this run receives positive results, you can all think of villainy as a thing of the past!”

From the crowd emerged a cheer. A cheer for glory, for fame, for progress!

For the destruction of a foe.

For unquestioned success. A villain defeated!

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

Villain’s fingers brushed over the top of the kitchen’s oak-stained counter, kicking up enough dust to suffocate, even as their tightly pursed lips protected them from such.

This was a house.

Their fatigued, half-haunted gaze turned to move over the surrounding interior. The kitchen was fully-featured, oak accented with shimmering, mottled granite. Not that anyone had bothered to clean in the place. Beyond the room and its attached dining area, a step lower, a carpeted area was positioned, furnished in felt couches and a television.

But this was not a home.

With a scratching nail to their neck, the villain moved forward numbly, to the base of the stairs and up them. Beneath their skin, the tracking chip was an awful feeling. Buried just deep beneath that it could not be seen, yet shallow to the point that its presence was unyielding and unignorable. A constant itch, embedded between twitching folds of muscle.

Maybe they could take it out. Maybe with the right kitchen utensil-

Halfway up the stairs, they dropped, keeled over themself with sickly pea soup filling in the space behind their eyes. In an instant, their mind retreated desperately from the thought, or any semblance of it, even as their stomach heaved with the residual ghost of it.

The tracking chip was fine and they didn’t care about it and they wanted it to stay there forever because it wasn’t coming out.

Legs now taking on an appearance that ever so slightly more resembled gelatin, the villain leaned upon the railing, ascending with a considerable additional difficulty up the stairs. In the very brief tour they had been given, their bedroom had been identified as the dark spruce door at the hall’s end.

Moving to it was a struggle on its own, insides still twitching and squelching with the remnants of acute nausea. Yet, their agony was only internal. They made it, and, all the way, kept their mind empty. Thoughts clear.

Not thinking of anything that could make them fall.

The bedroom was a bedroom. A dust-coated vanity. A small attached restroom. A nightstand. A bed.

At the very least, the quilts had some color to them.

Struggling in an attempt not to clutch their own stomach-- an action that they had learned, time and time again, only made the organ flip-- Villain shuffled to the piece of furniture that had been designed for use when they slept. Dust coughed from beneath the covers as they lifted them, crawling under.

Laying down helped, at least in some slight way that may or may not have been a placebo. It meant they could close their eyes. Make unwise thoughts that much less likely to happen.

For a moment, Villain succeeded in blackness. A blank mind. A world unmarred by the horrible jolts within their brain, the firings of neurons, the innate jostling of their frontal cortex.

Yet, it only lasted a moment.

With a jerk, they curled to a fetal position, legs bent and tucked beneath arms. Their body struggled as though weeping, though they had long ago learned not to cry. It was terribly difficult to produce tears, after all, when the metal drew their eyes to unbroken wakefulness.

This was a nightmare. They were certain of it.

That had been their first thought, of course, when the news of their liberation had been shared with them-- after it had been shared with the wider public. Things did not reach their cell very quickly. They had believed it to be a dream, for there was no other possible explanation.

Villains did not deserve freedom. They knew that. Violent little scumbags.

When they had been driven to the house, that was when the orinique connotations in their mind had flipped-- when dream turned to nightmare.

It was their home. Such had been stated clearly, so many times. Upon a thousand channels of media syndication. They had been given the keys, had stared at them for an agonizing moment. Watched them dangle between their fingers.

Hero had practically had to shove them through the doors, and even so, their attempts at escape ceased only after the fourth time they had been reprimanded for them.

Somewhere, something mechanical twitched. Moved. Buzzed. One of the cameras. They knew they were here, obvious, blocky, black eyes. At the very least, they provided some semblance of comfort.

Of home.

Of safety.

Oh, how desperately Villain wanted to go home. Everything had made so much sense there! Was so fantastically, wonderfully simple! If they were placed in their cell, they stayed in their cell. If offered food, they ate. When seated in their chair, they watched.

It was so easy. So invariable. Strict and stringently controlled, as the life of any vile beast who called themself a villain should be. Not a chance they could make a mistake, that they could do anything wrong. Only the slightest opportunities for their mind to slip, their thoughts to wander, to go somewhere bad.

Somewhere that would send them to their hands and knees, heaving and retching.

Food came often, with how difficult it was to keep it down. They’d counted once. Certainly the chefs must have become tired after preparing thirteens meals in a single day. Yet, in the end, they had only managed to fully digest one.

Especially since that was only the day on which they had counted-- it certainly wasn’t notable.

Now, there were no chefs. No cells. No chairs. No screens to watch. Order was gone, and chaos reigned.

Terrible, bloody chaos.

The house was far too large. So many times, Villain had begged for a schedule. For orders. For what they were meant to do-- when to get up, when to go to sleep, what to do inbetween.

Yet, the answers always came the same: A shrug, and four terrible words. “Whatever you want to.”

That which they wanted was not that which should be carried out! They were a villain! A terrible, retched thing! A monster! A devil! Their thoughts deserved no attention, their wants deserved only the click of the IV.

The sickness.

Somehow, despite the inherent maleficence that it most certainly carried with it, an idea manged to work its way through the folds of their brain. A thought. A plan.

A good one. One that did not incite their stomach to heaving.

Certainly, if they laid here, in this bed, then their freedom could not lead to the harm of anyone else. The world would remain safe, regardless of their liberty. And, when the cameras at last noticed, the heroes would be forced to return. To bring them back to the cell and the chair. To return them to where they belonged.

It was perfect-- though that wasn’t to say that anything they created could possibly be good.

Thus, they put the plan into action. Beneath the chains that were covers, upon the chair that was a bed, Villain waited.

Their plan worked for perhaps an hour.

An hour. Then the door was kicked in. This time, that which seized their chest had nothing to do with nausea, nothing to do with conditioning. Everything to do with terror.

Even their wildest dreams, their most optimistic ambitions, did not expect that the heroes would have come so soon. If they had, they would have knocked.

They curled tighter into their fetal position, fingers gripping skin until both turned white. Desperation and willpower, even together, could not stop their mind from tracking the noises as they moved through the house. Through the kitchen. The living room. Up the stairs. To the hallway outside.

Certainly, they would have noticed the lack of dust on the bedroom’s doorknob.

Perhaps it was a member of the public, come to take their righteous revenge. Such would certainly be deserved. Or, perhaps, a wayward hero, disliking the arrangement that had been made. Having decided to take the matter to their own hands. They deserved that, as well.

But, when the voice came, Villain knew that their hopes were as far as could be from the truth.

“Villain?”

Blank mind. Don’t think. Blank mind. Don’t think. Blank mind don’t think.

Beneath the blanket, they twitched.

“Oh, thank goodness.” Footsteps dashed to the bedside. Hands upon them. There was such a wholehearted relief to the voice, an unimaginable burden relieved.

Yet, such was impossible, as villains did not have hearts.

“We were so worried, so, so worried. You have no idea! Come on, come on.”

A hand, to the top of the blanket.

“There’s about a thousand cameras in here, buddy, so we need to get going. Everyone at base has been so nervous, all day. Ever since we heard... My car’s just outside, we need to go, quick.”

Villain’s only solace was torn away.

“Buddy? What’s wrong?” The voice was practically a whisper. “It’s me. It’s-

Supervillain.”

A blank mind, filled with thoughts.

The initial strike of nausea was enough to make them wail, even as they had no ability to. They hardly remembered getting to their hands and knees, hardly remembered as they began to heave. No. They registered only the horrid, green-and-brown mess that exploded upon the pale white bedspread.

Again, again, a thousand exhausting times, the heaving struck them, until chunky vomit was spilling off the side of the bed, ruining the antique carpeting. It only ceased to spill when their insides were well and truly empty.

That was when they were picked up.

It was a caring, warm hold, tucking them close to the chest of a vile demon. Yet, they had not the slightest ounce of energy to resist. Any muscles not exhausted by fatigue went back to work, heaving and coughing, even as nothing more emerged.

“I’m sorry.” With a broken voice, Supervillain spoke. “I’m so, so sorry. Let’s go back to base, okay? Everything’s going to be okay, I promise, I promise, buddy.”

No.

With evil like this in the world, nothing was even going to be okay again.

[acciowests]

19 with elorcan?

i had so much fun with this, two-year-old cal has my whole heart, he's so adorable

Bubbles and Baked Goods

WORD COUNT: 1707

PROMPT: Little one needing an emergency bath.

"There he goes again," chuckled Elide, her hand cupped over Lorcan's where it rested on her very pregnant stomach.

They'd just put Cal down for his nap, the toddler tucked up in his bedroom whilst he and Elide had some alone time downstairs. Nowadays, alone time just meant being in each other's company without their two-year-old climbing all over them. Lorcan had put on the new episode of their favourite show, letting his wife curl against him. With her bulging stomach, she could hardly get comfortable, but in his lap with her head on his shoulder, she was finally able to settle. Now, his hands were rested on her stomach, feeling the seven-month-old babe kicking and squirming inside her.

"He's moving so much more than Cal ever did," Lorcan commented, hand circling Elide's tummy.

She nodded in agreement, shuffling a little so her back was to his chest, "I'd be happy about that except his most active time is night-time… No wonder I'm so tired."

He let out a laugh, pressing a kiss to her hair, "I know, I'm sorry baby. Not long until he's here though... but we won't be getting much sleep then either."

She hummed, shifting forward until she was off him completely, going to stand and stretching awkwardly on her feet, "Speaking of, that son of yours is being eerily quiet. It's been an hour so he should have woken up like fifteen minutes ago."

He reached out, grabbing her hand and pulling her back toward him, "Five more minutes, babe. C'mon, I'll even give you a foot massage, you did say your ankle's been playing up again."

"As tempting as that sounds," she sighed, pulling from his grip and making her way to the stairs, "I'd rather go collect Cal than wait for him to start crying for us. You know how much he hates being stuck in his cot once he wakes up."

He watched her go, one hand on the stair railing and the other cupping her back. He'd definitely have to give her a massage later once Cal had gone to bed, maybe if they were lucky they could have some actual alone time too. Reaching for the control, he skipped through the channels, knowing that Cal would probably want Paw Patrol on but putting on the sports channel just in case. He was somewhat immersed in the ice hockey game when Elide's voice came, echoing down the stairs.

"Lorcan!" she called, "Lor, quick!"

He had never moved so quickly, taking two stairs at a time as he rushed toward his son's room. When he entered, pushing open the door, he first noticed Elide. She was sat on the floor, away from Cal's crib and was looking down at something. A giggle erupted from the corner and he followed the sound, finding Cal where he sat happily before Elide. Only, it was clear she hadn't put him there, hadn't even collected him from his cot. His little two-year-old baby boy had managed to climb down from his crib and emptied the art cabinet. Now, he had covered himself in the paints they had been playing with before his nap, yellow pigment spread across his cheeks, his hands smothered in red and blue that appeared in prints across his arms, legs, and clothes. Luckily, the cream carpet had been rescued, Cal sitting on his blue rug and not having ventured yet to painting the walls.

He clapped, paint splattering like freckles over him, "Dada, look, paint!"

Letting out a sigh, he collapsed down next to Elide, "Right, yeah, I see that, buddy."

Cal giggled again and Elide pressed her head to Lorcan's shoulder in defeat as their son only made more mess. He picked up a paintbrush before decisively dipping it into the yellow paint that, luckily, was beginning to dry up. "Mama," he started, waving the brush toward her, "Paint Mama's belly yellow like the sun!"

She could only laugh, smiling at her little boy and making Lorcan's heart leap, "That sounds like a great idea, bud. But, could we do that tomorrow? Mommy would really like to clean you up in the bath right now."

Cal frowned, his little lip pouting and Lorcan swept in, knowing that while he would love to play with their son, painting in the bedroom wasn't quite the best idea, "We can play with bubbles and Mr Quackers, and you can even have some cookies when you get out."

He perked up at that, "Cookies and milk?"

Lorcan nodded, unable to hide his grin, "Cookies and milk, promise. Now, why don't you let mommy undress you while I go fill the tub, is that okay?"

Cal nodded, dropping his paintbrush and moving over to Elide, lifting his hands so she could remove his shirt. She chuckled, shaking her head at them both as Lorcan pressed a kiss to her head and disappeared down the hall, telling her to shout if she needed anything. He prepared the bath, warm but not too warm, filling it with all of Cal's toys and adding in the bubbles. It still felt like yesterday when they were giving him his first bath as a newborn. He didn't know where all the time had gone.

He turned to look over his shoulder as the door creaked open, Elide stood with Cal on her hip, all ready for his bath. "There are my three favourite people," he beamed, jaw aching with the weight of his smile as Cal put his hand on his mother's bump, leaning into her affectionately.

Elide waddled over, setting Cal down on the edge of the bath so he could dip his chubby hand in, "Is the temperature okay, bud? Warm enough?"

Cal nodded, swinging his legs around and gripping Lorcan's arm as he stepped into the bath. While Lorcan remained leaning over the side, ready to lift Cal if he slipped or assist him when he was soaked and ready to be cleaned, Elide sat atop of the toilet, seat down as she lent back, hands on her tummy as she watched her boys. Cal splashed happily, toys in hand as he sat at the bottom of the tub, the soapy water coming up to the middle of his chest. Lorcan moved forward, taking the jug from the side of the bath and filling it with the warm water.

"Daddy's just going to pour this over your arms okay?" he explained, smiling at his son as Cal held his arms out, Lorcan using one hand to pour and the other to rub gently.

"Look, Dada!" he squealed, flapping his arms in the water as the paint slowly washed off, "A rainbow in the water!"

Where the paint had merged, there was indeed a questionable mix of colour in the bubbles. Lorcan just smiled, continuing to pour and using a cloth to rub the last of the paint that had completely dried against his arms, "I know, super cool, right? Let me just get the rest off, bubs, then you can play."

With his other hand, he was already putting his rubber duck in the paint infested waters. Kicking out his feet and splashing Lorcan in the process. When it came to bathing, it was very rare that he or Elide didn't get wet, so he just sighed, continuing until his arms were clean and allowing him a minute to play. "Don't forget his face," commented Elide from where she sat across the room, "and rinse his hair, just in case."

He nodded, already refilling the jug with fresh water, away from the mess that Cal was currently sitting in. They'd have to rinse him quickly in the shower afterwards. As he leant over, rinsing the cloth and maneuvering Cal so he was sat facing him rather than to the side, he began rubbing it gently over his cheeks, not wanting it to be rough and irritate the sensitive skin.

"Is that okay, buddy? The cloth isn't too rough is it?" asked Elide, trying to shuffle closer while still sitting and wanting to assist in any way she could. Lorcan knew if it weren't for her swollen stomach and aching back, she would be down here, kneeling and leaning and playing with their adorably messy toddler.

"It's okay, Mama," he replied, eyes shut as Lorcan went over the paint that had somehow gotten in his eyebrows. Lorcan couldn't help but chuckle, rinsing the cloth one more time and brushing it over his skin just to make sure everything was gone.

"Okay bud, you can open your eyes. I'm just gonna wash your hair quickly and then we can rinse you off and you can have your cookies and milk." Lorcan passed Cal's towel to Elide, her standing and getting ready as Lorcan switched on the shower, using the head to wash Cal's hair and then getting him to stand as the bathwater drained, washing down any remnants of the paint and bubbles from his body until he was stood all fresh and clean.

"Alrighty," Elide beamed, coming in and sweeping up Cal, wrapping the towel around him and pressing kisses to his cheek, "My handsome baby."

Cal giggled, pressing his head into Elide's neck and allowing her to rub his back and run her hands through his hair. She swayed on the spot, rubbing the towel gently over Cal's skin and drying him off as she waited for Lorcan. He hung the cloths on the side of the bath, letting them dry off, putting all of Cal's toys in their basket and rinsing the bath quickly with the showerhead, making sure all the paint had gone down the drain with the rest of the water. When he was ready, he turned back, slipping his arm around Elide's waist and pressing a kiss to Cal's temple, winking at his son as he turned with a smile to his father, reaching his arms out. Lorcan took Cal, resting him on his hip and wrapping the towel tightly around him, making sure he didn't get cold. Taking Elide's hand, the three—technically four—of them made their way back to Cal's bedroom, ready to dress him, clean up what was left of the paints, and collect his much-deserved cookies and milk.

* * *

if you want to be added to my tog taglist just send me a dm, comment or an ask!

@amswritings @thegoddessofyou @dayanna-hatter @hellasblessed @julemmaes @lunaroseperdomo @anne-reads @illyrian-bookworm @swankii-art-teacher @maastrash @firestarsandseneschals @se-ono-waise-ilia @tomtenadia @sobasicallyno @arwenbk3 @rowaelinismyotp @thegreyj @vanzetanze @lysandra-ghost-leopard @gracie-rosee @live-the-fangirl-life @story-scribbler