#oc: declan

[nine-of-words]

Something Borrowed (Part Ten)

M Gargoyle x M Reader

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Wordcount: 5127

Content Warnings: Discussion of a Breakup

The horrors have been numerous and persistent for me lately, so this part took its sweet time getting written. Not much else to say about this chapter, other than I’m very excited to write the next one!!

It seems that things are determined to go sideways today. 

“Sorry to drop all of this on ya so early, but I knew you’d be awake.” Your sister’s voice comes through the speaker of your device.

You are indeed awake. You haven’t been sleeping well lately, despite it feeling like what you do the most these days- no idea why that would be- so you were already up and slowly trudging through your morning routine. But now you’re distracted with the call, going through making yourself a desperately needed cup of coffee mostly by feel in your dimly lit apartment kitchen.

“It’s okay- So, how exactly did this happen?”

“She took a wee tumble down the stairs. Got up in the middle of the night to get water, fell ass over kettle.”

“Oh, spirits. But you said it wasn’t serious, right?”

“Eh. Fractured her wrist, or so the doctor says. Right, Ma?” You hear a bit of noise in the background that sounds remarkably like your mother being quietly muttering in a displeased manner. “She’ll be right as rain soon enough. But she’s going to be in the cast for a tick.”

“Do I need to book a flight?”

“Hmm. You know we love to see ya- but nah. It's really not all that dire. Think she's tired of all the fuss by now, really.” She explains, before immediately switching into compulsory older sibling teasing. “Plus won't your new fella miss you? Unless you want to bring him along to meet what he's got to look forward to joining up with.”

“Haha… Yeah, you’re right. I suppose you’ll just have to wait…” You haven’t told them he’s not exactly your fella at the moment. What would you even say?

After a bit more conversation, Emer puts your mother on, and you speak to her for a short while. It assuages your worry a little, but not nearly enough to take the edge off. Though she's adamant you don't let her little mishap scare you into making sudden travel plans, you can't help but let it add to your ratings worries.

Maybe… you should go home?

You hang up your voci and look down at the brewed coffee that’s just started to drip through the filter. In your absent minded state, you’ve managed to put the exact mug you’ve been avoiding into the machine.

But there it is, the pink and white curves of ceramic reminding you of everything you're trying to push out of your mind.

You let out a long, frustrated sigh, pausing to stare vacantly at the mug.

Maybe putting an ocean between you and here will help you forget what you could have right now instead, if you weren't cursed.

You have all day to sit on it, you suppose, and can make a decision later. But you do have a business to run in the meantime, so you return to the process of adding your usual milk and sugar. 

It doesn’t help the bitter taste at all today.

Things don’t really go much better for you the longer the day progresses. 

“This is too sweet,” The older woman across the counter says, brandishing the mostly eaten cupcake in its paper lining. “I want a refund.”

“Well, it's a cupcake, m’am. It is mostly sugar…” You don’t even have the energy to muster your usual level of pleasantness. You barely keep from grimacing as you ring up the refund, just to get this person out of your hair.

Your customers are usually not this problematic, but you’re beginning to think that no one is having a good day today. You can deal with grumpy or picky people, but usually they’re not quite so many of them in a concentrated blast. Every little interaction is finding its way under your skin, and that’s not even taking into account how hard it is to concentrate and get any meaningful progress done.

Though, this is a task you’ve been pointedly avoiding that you’ll have to start sooner or later, today.

You’ve got to finish putting together Devin and Trevor’s cake- if you want it to be solid enough to put flowers in before delivery tomorrow night, which is rapidly approaching the longer you dawdle.

As in, nearly can be measured in hours instead of days soon.

It was different when it was just… anonymous cake layers you were cutting out and leveling. That could’ve been for anyone’s cake! But the more personality that goes into it, the more the subtle, nagging grief makes it difficult to work on.

You sigh and glob a stabilizing dollop of the vanilla buttercream- Trevor's choice- onto the base with your offset spatula.

It’s not as if you’re jealous that your ex is getting married at this point. You’re far past the stage of wanting him back by now. It just… all seems so unfair. Hopeless. He was able to wound you so deeply when he left- and just when you thought you had healed and moved on, carved out some new happiness for yourself- that got taken away, too.

Why should he get to be happy when you’re on the short end of the stick again?

You center a cake layer, then slather some more buttercream, spreading it out to make a glue for the next layer to adhere onto.

You’ll just have to think about it as Devin’s cake. It’s for your friend. That’s how you’ll get through this. You’ll do a good job, for your friend. Even if she’s marrying your ex, she should still get the best cake you can make for her, like you’d do for any other client.

Another layer of cake. A layer of elven berry compote that you made fresh yesterday- also Trevor’s choice, naturally. Another layer of cake. Then, repeat it all again.

As much as you try to rationalize that to yourself as you work through applying the crumb coat, you can’t help but realize you’ve been white-knuckling the spatula handle by time you’ve finished applying the buttercream.

Eventually, you have all of the crumb coated tiers ready on cake boards, to be given another coat and assembled after they’ve firmed up for a bit.

You mercifully shut the disassembled cake in the cooler, relieved that you don’t have to look at it for another few hours. Though, you have to hand it to yourself, even when your life is falling apart, you can make a bang-up gorgeous cake.

The demands of your business don’t stop just because you’re having a bad day and have other things to do, unfortunately. You’re not sure what portal to Hell has opened nearby, but it seems like all of the most awful customers have all decided to come to your shop today to take out their anger on you.

“No, we don’t do tiered pies here. I don’t even know if you’d be able to do that without making a mes- Well, okay. Have a nice day-” You say, though the person on the other end of the line has already hung up on you.

You turn to face the customer waiting at the counter, but before you can even greet them, they interrupt you with a snapping of their fingers.

“Where’s our waiter? I put our order into the kiosk twenty minutes ago and no one has even been by to so much as pour our water!”

“Oh, well, you can eat-in here, that’s what the seating is for, but we’re not a full service-”

“Ugh, fine! Just get me my order already, then.” The customer barks and you have to bite your tongue to restrain yourself from snapping back.

By time you reach another lull in activity and get back to work on Devin’s cake, your jaw and shoulders are fully tensed.

Since it’s slow, you take out the gumpaste. You have another tray of roses to sculpt so they can dry on time to place them tomorrow, so you might as well knock it out sooner than later.

Maybe none of this would be getting to you so much, but the full weight of the wedding being tomorrow is bearing down on you. The one saving grace is that Kirby will be there to distract you- at least you won’t be alone. You’ll deliver the cake, you’ll get through the ceremony, you’ll stay for a brief yet socially acceptable amount of time at the reception, and then you’ll go home and this whole excruciating ordeal will be over.

You just have to finish this cake and get through tonight first.

Only a few more hours until close. 

You can do this.

You make it another hour, rolling thinned pieces of sugary paste into delicate petals, before the bell door rings, and the person you see walk through the door gives you pause.

It’s not Carlyle, as you’ve been hoping it was every single time you hear the shop bell jingle since the last time you saw him. But it certainly looks like him, in everything but personal styling, and of course, the shape of the quartzose horns protruding from his brow.

Today it seems he’s left his body glitter at home, however. He’s dressed in relatively casual clothing; a hoodie (midriff still intact), untied slim joggers, immaculately clean sneakers. The difference is so staggering you might not have even recognized him as the same person, compared to his last visit, if he didn’t have Carlyle’s face; which you can now see clearly underneath his loose brown curls, this time not covered by the shadow of his hood.

“Hey.”

He gives you a tilt of his chin in acknowledgement and smiles an uncannily similar, fanged smile to the one you’ve grown accustomed to seeing. It’s a stab of pain, how sorely you miss it right now, and seeing it again, but just different enough to not be it.

“Uh. Hi, Marcus?” You say in a stilted manner, not really sure how to proceed. “You are… looking less gilded today than last time.”

“Hahahah, yeah. I didn’t have work last night, dude. No hangover!”

“Hah. Right…”

“But good to see you again, man! …I was wonderin-”

“Listen, if you’re here to deliver a message or something, I really can’t do this right now.” You cut him off, begging more than anything at this point to not have another thing go wrong or a twist of the knife today. You scrub at your face with your forearm to keep your hands sanitary, the deep pit of frustration starting to bubble out of you unintentionally. “And he knows to not-”

“Hey, no man, listen! It’s nothing like that.” He pats his curls down, the same way that his brother occasionally does with his dreadlocks when he’s smoothing out a misunderstanding. “He’d be PISSED if I knew he was here, hahah. He told me never to come here on my own after last time!”

“Well, maybe you should follow his instruction on that matter.” You say dryly and continue to roll the soft substance in silent judgement. “He usually knows what he’s talking about.”

Marcus seems to take this as a bad sign, his face twisting into a look of exasperation.

“Fine! Gimme a dozen cupcakes then. Fuck, make it any flavor, dude, I don’t even care.” He starts rifling through his pants pockets, finally pulling out his wallet, and then a card that he puts on the counter. It’s got his name printed on it, rather than Carlyle’s, so you suppose he’s gotten it replaced since the last time. “You’ve gotta talk to me if I’m a customer ‘n shit, right?”

“You know I do have the right to refuse service to you…?”

“Yeah man, but I don’t think you’re gonna! You’re too nice, from what I’ve heard.” Marcus says with the sort of shit-eating grin on his face that absolutely makes you want to refuse service to him, but with a vengeance.

“Well if you’re not here on your brother’s behalf…” You sigh in your own matching exasperated look and set down your gumpaste project to start boxing a dozen cupcakes. “Why are you here, then?”

“I’m gonna be totally honest with you, dude. He didn’t send me, but it is about him. I’m like, super worried about him.”

“Oh…” You can’t help yourself, you have to ask. “Is he alright…?” 

“Hell no! He’s all fucked up, man! The other night, I left at 8pm and he was still in the same spot at 11am when I got back in. Same book, same fit, same stale cup of coffee. He had sat still in the same place reading whatever nerd shit he was reading for so long that he deadass went half solid.” 

You can’t find the words to respond to that. The guilt gnaws at you like you gnaw at your bottom lip, but in a strange way, you feel validated that he’s still as messed up about things as you are.

“Look, whatever he did, it can’t be that bad, right? It’s Lyle!! He like, never fucks up like that.” He leans over the counter, talking with his hands in another show of familiar, yet foreign-in-this-context expression. He taps his chest with the fingertips of a spread hand for emphasis. “And I would know, ‘cuz I’M the family fuck up here. So, maybe you could like, just forgive him and junk? Make up or whatever?”

“It’s not…” You take a second to steady your breath. You’ve been trying to suppress these feelings for weeks, and now they’re getting dragged up so suddenly. “It’s not something he did. It’s… outside circumstances…”

You hesitate for a brief moment before you pick out the last of the random assortment; an orange and mixed spice flavor you found yourself trying out.

“That’s it? There’s no gettin’ around it, huh?”

“No. I'm sorry. It's complicated. I just can't.” You say with weakened conviction as you tape the box up, and then hoping to persuade yourself once again, add; “It’s better this way.”

“Right-” Marcus straightens up and rocks back and forth on his feet, his sneakers squeaking slightly against the tile with the motion. “Sorry if pushing was out of line, dude.”

“Don't worry about it- honestly, I'm sort of glad you showed up.” You smile, bittersweet. “It’s good that he has someone looking out for him.”

“Yeah.” Marcus smiles a conflicted smile back, then takes his cupcakes to go. “See you ‘round, dude.”

You find yourself having a silent argument with yourself as you finish the rest of the roses.

There’s the guilt, of course. Are you a bad person if you know that this separation is hurting you both, and yet you’re continuing to enforce it? Maybe you should have just let Marcus convince you to reach out?

Seeing someone with such familiar features has only made your heart ache that much more for what you’re missing.

Perhaps it’s for the best that you don’t have any customers in the shop at the moment, because they’d be able to clearly see you sneering at empty air and grumbling to yourself.

By the time you finish the last petal on the last rose of the tray, you’re no closer to having resolved your internal disagreement.

You put the roses away, and pull out your fully set, crumb-coated cake. Now just to put the final layer of frosting on, and then you’ll be done for the night.

As you set the tray down on the counter, your voci starts ringing in your pocket. You remove your gloves and answer the call, seeing that it’s Kirby. They’ve been checking in on you a lot more often lately, like you’re a sickly pet needing constant supervision. They're not entirely wrong.

You greet them as you put them on speaker. Then you wash up, and reglove as their voice comes through on the other end.

“So! How is your day going so far?”

“Oh, you know. Typical weekend customers. Ma broke her wrist.” You say flatly, smoothing out the buttercream on the top of the lowest cake tier with a spin of the stand with well-practiced motions.

“Oh no! That’s terrible! Is she okay??”

 “She’s fine, but it’s still stressful that I can’t be there to help out.”

Once you’re finished getting a perfectly even, level surface on the lowest tier, you begin the process again on a slightly smaller scale on the next largest cake tier.

“Mmm. Yeah, it must be, being so far away.”

“And Carlyle’s brother came into the shop earlier.” You continue, now lathing more buttercream onto the sides.

“Whaaaat??? No!! Glitter Boy?! Oh my SPIRITS you’ve gotta tell me all the details right now!”

“There’s not a lot to say, really. Told me Carlyle’s not taking it well either, and now I feel like a villain.”

“You’re not a villain,” Kirby sighs. “Sometimes things are just. Y’know. Messy.”

You continue to make your way through doing the final coat on the cake tiers, each one going progressively faster as they diminish in size.

“Oh, and how could I forget- I’m making a cake for my ex’s wedding that social pressure is forcing me to attend. So you know. The usual.”

“Hahah- Ooh, bummer. Well, when you put it like that, it does sound like, toooootally miserable! You’re having a pretty horrible day, and I’m… definitely not about to make it worse, hahah!!”

“Oh no.” You hiss through gritted teeth. “Something’s wrong, then?”

They laugh nervously, a little giggle-whimper that you can’t possibly be irritated with.

You’re silent as you begin to fill a piping bag with buttercream, waiting for Kirby to divulge their information.

“I MAY have some bad news.”

“Oh. Lovely. Just grand! More bad news is exactly what I need at this current moment.” You say, dripping with sarcasm.

“I know!!! Believe me, I know! But I wanted to tell you as soon as I found out.” Kirby sighs. “I just got out of a meeting with my boss and they’re sending me out of town on a case. I have to get on a red eye in a few hours.”

“But… the wedding is tomorrow…”

“Yeah, that would be the problem! But I can’t exactly tell my boss to fuck off and still have a job, y’know??? Soooooo. We are in. damage. control. mode!”

“It’s okay.” You say, it not really being okay at all, but not wanting to lash out at your friend who’s only ever tried to help you in any given situation. You’re simply too stunned to even start to panic.

“Nope! It’s ABSOLUTELY not! But I’ll be there in like, an hour!! I’ll bring dinner and we can totally figure out a plan B, okay? Or I guess plan C or D by now- But bestie, I don’t care if I have to HIRE an escort to take you to that wedding, you’re not going alone! Especially not because of stupid work interference!!”

“Hah- A-Alright.” You laugh weakly and speak through a sharp intake of air, but manage to not sound like you’re about to burst into tears, even though you desperately want to. “See you soon.”

The call ends, but you continue working, despite the rapidly expanding pit of terror in your gut and the sting at the back of your eyes.

This news, surprisingly, does not help your ability to finish this cake.

You keep going, but not without roadblocks. Your eyes screw closed in frustration and pain. Your teeth grit. Your hand clenches around the bag, nearly squeezing the frosting out of the back end of it.

As a small mercy, closing time finally comes and you turn off the light, though you leave the door unlocked, given you’re expecting Kirby sometime in the next hour or so.

You need to move on to piping some of the finer details- But you can't even think about piping an even line right now, not with the way your hand is trembling.

Still, you persist, pushing the bag back taut and re-twisting the open end. 

“Stop. Shaking.” You hiss out loud at yourself, your body refusing to obey even your own verbal instructions.

You just need to get this cake done. Is that so much to ask?

Kirby is coming over and you’ll find a solution for the wedding. You won’t have to go to your ex's wedding alone. It will be fine.

The tremor in your hand nearly causes you to stab through the layer you’re working on with the piping tip, so you take a moment to straighten up your posture and try to loosen your locking muscles. You take a few calming breaths, then go back in and manage to finish the last few filigree details on the tier you're working on.

Your hand is already shaking again. You ignore it. You’ll get through this. You have to.

But every time you regain focus, the thought of Carlyle as a miserable and inert statue keeps creeping back unbidden into your mind.

It’s all too much. Too much. Too much.

The lights above you flicker. A buzz of energy ripples through the room.

The pressure on your chest is unbearable now. Blood rushes in your ears. 

You can’t deal with this anymore.

You can’t even think-!

POP-

In an instant, something cold and cloying splatters across the side of your face and the bridge of your nose, the front of your shirt, your clenched hands and outstretched forearms.

You bring a hand to your face in shock, blindly testing the sudden change in texture.

Your fingertips come away coated in sticky, sugary goop, and bits of shredded vanilla sponge cake.

And where the cake tiers were sitting on the counter, there’s a conspicuous absence of a cake, only the sparse large chunk of shrapnel- a bloodless crime scene, the mostly empty, frosting smeared cakeboards evoking the essence of a chalk body outline.

Well. You’ll be damned.

The cake exploded.

Hoarse, incredulous laughter escapes your throat- first in disbelief, then in bitter resignation. No other reaction really seems to suit this situation more.

Because your life is a joke. A bad joke.

Your laughs thin out, turning into choked sobs. You sink down until you’re sitting on your cold shop floor with your back against a cabinet, and bring the lower clean edge of the apron up to cry into.

Eventually, the unrestrained weeping quiets into silent tears Time has passed, as evidenced by the sky beginning to darken outside. 

“Heeeeellooooo~! I’m heee-” You hear a familiar voice call out and then equally familiar hoof falls on the tile. There’s a rapid change in their tone, making a 180° turn into hushed concern. “Oh. Well fuck, that doesn’t look good-” 

After a few moments, Kirby rounds the counter, an inquisitive look on their face.

You can’t even muster the embarrassment to be seen like this, too tired and emotionally drained and just simply done with it all.

You expect a look of pity or maybe some awkward fussing, but instead, Kirby simply gives you a knowing smile.

“What a mess!!” Kirby shakes their head, curls tumbling as they assess the damage. “You’re not hurt, are you, honey?”

You shake your head weakly, rubbing at your eye with your inner wrist.

“Good! Well then, let’s get this all cleaned up!” They chirp and reach out their hand, palm up.

After the moment it takes to recognize the gesture, you take their hand. Kirby’s grip is surprisingly strong for being such a petite faun, and they easily manage to help you to your feet.

“You don’t have to-” 

“Well I’m NOT going to let you sit here and cry covered in frosting all night.” Kirby laughs, beginning to roll up the sleeves of their work shirt. “So. Yes I do~”

“...Thank you.” You sniffle.

“Don’t mention it!!” They laugh. “You go get cleaned up and I’ll start tackling this absolute disaster zone!”

You trudge upstairs and debate on the benefits of a full shower before deciding that it’s worth it, even if ten more cakes explode. You’re uncomfortably sticky down your neck and arms. 

Maybe you can wash this day away, while you’re at it…

Before long you’re redressed and coming back downstairs- if not feeling completely refreshed, you at least now have it in you to face the (suddenly much longer) list of tasks ahead. Kirby has gotten most of the cake into a trash bag, and is wiping down the counter.

“There, you look much better! Now, come tell me what was happening when this happened, will you?”

You join them, grabbing a sanitizer rag and beginning to help wipe down the closest surface. You describe as best you can exactly what you were doing, feeling, and thinking about when the cake exploded, just as you’ve explained to them about the previous incidents that you weren’t physically present for.

“Hmm.” Kirby hums quizzically. “Well, the good news is I’ve got a potential solution for the wedding dilemma.”

“Oh?” You’d be lying if you said that the promise of a stressor being removed didn’t sound divine.

“Actually, I’ve already convinced Rosario to go with you, if you want, while I was on the way over. Did you know that she’s surprisingly easy to bribe?!” Kirby giggles. “But to be honest- I didn’t even need to bribe her!! She agreed before I offered anything in return. Apparently wedding cake and an open bar is enough reason for her to turn up, or so she said. But I think it’s because she likes you.”

“That’s… very kind of her.” She wouldn’t be the worst companion for the event- you’ve grown quite fond of her presence in your shop, prickly attitude and all.

“Yeah! She’ll easily make your ex just as uncomfortable as I was planning to, all on her own merit, hehe!! BUUUUUT, I think you know what I’m about to say-”

“Don’t…”

“You should call him!” Kirby says in the most obnoxiously sing-song sweet tone they can, and you wince hard.

“I can’t-”

“But you can~!!”

“But I don’t think I should-”

“Well, maybe you should think again, sweetie!! You absoluuuuutely should! Because if this-” Kirby motions to the partially cleaned up buttercream splatter still coating the vicinity. “Isn’t proof enough that it’s not a him problem, I don’t know what would be!!”

You drag a palm across your face, overwhelmed, and heave a sigh.

“At the end of the day it’s your choice! I can’t make you call him. But you miss him, and he misses you! I know this for a fact! And SPIRITS is he being SO insufferable about it!! And so are you!!!! And it’s just a BIT silly to keep drawing this out like this.”

“But… I don’t want him to get hurt…”

“Listen. We know there’s something attached to you- Rosario’s exorcism attempt confirmed that much. But there’s no like, actual indication that any of that is related to what’s happening with the curse. It’s just not how this kind of magic works. We’re almost certain we’re dealing with two unconnected, non-standard issues complicating each other at this point- some sort of spirit attached to you, and some sort of ley-based magical compulsion in play- but we don’t know the source of where either of those things are coming from. Yet.”

“Right.” You say, pausing your cleaning work to take in the new information.

“Though, someone has some very promising ideas about the later being some sort of messed up geas, and Rosario seems like she has a hunch on what is in the shop.”

“But… it just feels like it’s getting worse. Not that I don’t appreciate your efforts, of course…”

“I know it feels that way. But I am good at my job! And I’ve been keeping track of the numbers this whole time, y’know?? I’ve got the DATA. Do you know what I’ve noticed the most as a trend over the time I've been working your case?”

You simply shake your head to give them time to build dramatic tension before they continue.

“The cakes explode more when you’re upset!! Like, a whole, whole lot more! And quite frankly at this point, in my professional opinion, you being separated from him is making it WORSE!!”

“...You really think it’d be okay to ask him-” To go back to how it was before, to be with me again; you want to say, but end up continuing instead; “to come with me to the wedding?”

You have the feeling Kirby understands what you wanted to say, anyway, based on their pleased expression, like they’re finally getting the message through to you.

“You’re my friend!! And as your friend, I am HEREBY giving you the permission that you’re not giving yourself! I wouldn’t be suggesting this to you if I didn’t think it was safe.” Kirby squarely lays their hands on you on the shoulders, though they need to reach up slightly to do it. “If anything, having him there might keep you from getting bent out of shape at your ex and blowing up the second cake, like, at the actual wedding.”

“That would be horrible.” You rasp and find yourself genuinely smiling for the first time all day, trying to blink back the sting of more tears threatening to spill, though this time more out of a sense of appreciation than despair.

“It. Would. Be. HILARIOUS.” Kirby says with a mischievous grin, patting your shoulders with each word for emphasis. “And if it were to happen, I would hope you were recording it. Y’know, for data collection purposes, hehehe!! But it would also be, let’s say: bad for business.”

You manage to finish getting things looking clean, as if nothing bad had happened at all, Kirby has called their ride to the airport.

“Now, I have to go or I’m going to miss my flight and my boss will probably-actually-literally murder me.” 

“And I have a cake to remake.” You quietly lament. “If you want, I can get on the plane and you can make the cake…”

Kirby lets out a string of giggles, picking their carry-on bag off the seat at the counter they stashed it on..

“Hahah- No thanks!! But- Call him.” Kirby repeats as they give you a squeezing hug goodbye. “Or Rosario, if you must. But don’t make yourself go alone. And keep me updated!! All of the juicy wedding gossip, please. I’m definitely going to be bored out of my mind otherwise, hehe!!”

Then they release you from their grip to head out the door with one last wave and a jingle of the shop bell. 

You, on the other hand, let out a long, withering sigh and pull out another set of white cake layers from the cooler.

…It’s going to be a long night.

>> ✨ MASTERLIST >> ☕ KO-FI

[greenlaut]

old ocs 👍 (late night ramblings in the tags)

[robbiefischer]

Most of my poly OCs are in throuples, with Jamie/Quinn/Rory/Caro/Olivia being the exception and the most complicated.

Jamie is married and primary partner to Caro, and they have three kids together. Olivia is her girlfriend (and Olivia is only sexually/romantically involved with Caro). Quinn and Rory are married and each other's primary partners (and they end up adopting two kids), but Jamie is their boyfriend. All five of them have created a very close little family unit - all of the non-bio related adults are honorary aunts/uncles to the kids of the family and they all share in those responsibilities. They all live very close to each other, spend a lot of time together as a family and everyone who's not romantically involved with Olivia just absolutely adores her so much (especially Rory, they're besties).

There's also;

Luka, Beckett & Jasper

Gabby, Adrien & Shiloh

Samara, Adelaide & Pippa

Reece, Juniper & Flora

Joshua, Declan & Oliver

Not a polyship, but there is also my communal house of couples (Lettie & Liv, Alejandro & Matty and Kairi & Lucca) who've become each other's family.

Which OCs are polyamorous and how many partners do they have?

[obsessivevoidkitten]

The Invasion

Cat Man Alien Yandere x Gender Neutral Reader

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

Word Count: 1.2k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was some sort of cat cult. 

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

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

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

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

He addressed the others without sparing a glance at you. 

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

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

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

Twiggy turned to an androgynous looking cat person.

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

River nodded in affirmation.

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

"Twiggy, w-what's go-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[secretly-a-wizard24]

Very, VERY late upload of another oc ref

[plutoniumpuddle]

I redrew a old sketched comic, I really neeed to improve with comics. Also ignore Cass’ hair I was too lazy to dry the curls (I can draw curls better I promise)

[oddsconvert]

A glimpse into the mind and body of a bloodbag survivor!

Here is a little profile on Declan's health (physical and mental) post captivity! Keep in mind that he was kidnapped, tortured, fed from, and mind-controlled to the point of catatonia...

tw / mentions of physical and mental health conditions

(tagging some people who expressed particular interest on my previous post about this! apologies if you did not wish to be tagged!)

@another-whump-sideblog @writereleaserepeat @dragonqueenslayer6

[the-offside-rule]

Declan Rice (Arsenal) - Triumph

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

Prompt: just cute girl-dad Declan

Warnings: none tbh

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[little-paperhat]

*throws a sketch dump at you and runs back into the abyss*

[nine-of-words]

WIP Wednesday 🍰⚖️

This chapter's taking forever to finish so I thought I'd post a little snippet. Might try to do this more often if it feels right, idk.

“Well, can’t say I blame them.” You say with a laugh, before taking a long sip of your own drink.

When you set the champagne flute back down on the table, the smallest of the stone claws on one of Carlyle’s right hand playfully nudges your own.

“Hmm… It may be for the best to not indulge too much tonight.” 

“Oh? Why not? You quip with faux indignance and stroke his hand with your pinky, as if you’re locked in a very gentle, very slow bout of inverted thumb wrestling. “Isn’t that what weddings are for?” 

Carlyle leans over, chin hovering just near your shoulder. The proximity makes the hairs on your neck stand up, and gooseflesh threatens to dot your forearms from the sudden thrill. He moves his other hand, slipping between your blazer and dress shirt, resting the hook of his thumb on the dip of your waist.

He whispers in your ear over the sound of whatever woodwind heavy elven song just started up- the music is so far away with him this close.

“You may want to be lucid later.”

Giddy excitement bubbles up in your chest. 

You doubt anyone would see you, tucked in a forgotten corner of the venue like this- and it’s not as if you’re doing anything particularly lewd, just a simple show of physical affection- but the level of emotion attached and the suggestion alone makes it feel far too intimate for a public space, regardless.

You don’t need to see his face to see the smirk undoubtedly forming at your reaction. You want to pull him into a kiss by his collar and devour him, but you know the second you get too comfortable, you’ll end up getting spotted by the worst possible person. Instead, you simply let out a wistful sigh and press a quick peck to his firm cheek to tide you over.

The end of the night can’t come fast enough.

>> ✨ MASTERLIST >> 🍰 PART ONE

[killeromanoff]

I KNOW YOUR GHOST | RIVALS

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?

oo. what the hell was I doin'?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But what about her?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But instead, she was here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But tonight? Tonight, it felt empty.

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

Cheerier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She wanted to be more than this.

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

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

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

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

“Take care of yourself, Cass.”

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

But that didn’t make the choice any easier.

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

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

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

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

The radio filling the background quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She hated it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cassie paused for a moment, weighing her words carefully.

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

Baz raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued now.

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

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

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

“I already have a job, Baz.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cass? What’s wrong?”  

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

“Turn. That. Up.”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cass, think about this—”

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

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

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

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

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

The line clicked after a few rings.  

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

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

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

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

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

Baz exhaled sharply, gripping the phone tighter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cassie’s hands curled into fists at her sides.

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

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

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

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

Dan chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair.

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

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

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

Crawford straightened, his expression hardening.

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

That was all the time Cassie needed.  

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

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

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

Behind the glass, Crawford was screaming at the technicians.

“Get her off the air! Now!”

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

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

Her voice filled the airwaves, clear and commanding.

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

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

“Cut the feed!”

The lead technician hesitated, sweat beading on his brow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get her off the air!”

“That’s enough!”

“Someone call the police!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Declan inhaled sharply, breaking his stillness.

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

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

“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.”

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.

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.

[flamebunnyy]

The lulls between Scion work aren't really relaxing for poor Rook, it just means she comes back to even more paperwork on her desk at the Arcanist's guild.

[retshirou]

first m/f ship that counts as yaoi bait (i dub them “tayclan”)

i swear like 50% of this is just japes LMAO

[imogenkol]

KINCADE PACK 🐺 (original works) — “The name goes back centuries, and all Miranda cares about is making sure it lasts for many more”

[template by @tommyarashikage]

tag list (ask to be added or removed!): @adelaidedrubman @florbelles @simonxriley @voidika @kyberinfinitygems @voidbuggg @inafieldofdaisies @statichvm @socially-awkward-skeleton @aceghosts @carlosoliveiraa @risingsh0t @unholymilf @thedeadthree @cassietrn @jackiesarch @a-treides @shellibisshe @loriane-elmuerto @katsigian @captastra @simplegenius042 @theelderhazelnut @g0dspeeed @leviiackrman @strangefable @jacobseed

[oddsconvert]

How much blood do vampires drink in a sitting?

In a sitting maybeeeeee anywhere around one and a half to two pints? Enough to be substantial but not lethal. They don't feed everyday either, they give the humans time to build up their red blood cells again. Here are some of the symptoms I found from losing this volume of blood!

Cold and clammy limbs.

Pale skin.

May become confused, disorientated and flustered.

Heart racing and palpitations.

Feeling exhausted and sluggish. Weak and dizzy.

Nauseated.

Vampires don't always drink a lot. Sometimes they may only take a sip to tide them by, sometimes they may drain their blood bag dry!

[bigfan-fanfic]

OC Smash or Pass

Thanks to @kyngsnake for the tag! :D

Tagging anyone who wants to join in on the fun! And an extra thanks to @kyngsnake for the art of my boy

RULES: pretty self explanatory. include physical descriptions or pics, and propaganda. the “other” label can be used for “sexuality misalignment” (ie: oc is femme and you’re gay, vice versa or you aren’t into smashing but a specific thing you wanna do with them like perhaps hug or study them under a microscope idc).

Declan Fisher

The Basics Name: Declan Murphy Shepard-Fisher Age: 36 Gender: Cis Male Pronouns: He/him (not fussed if you use they/them) Height: 6'4" Sexuality: Gray-asexual. Self-describes simply as gay.

Pros

- Gentle and affectionate - Comfortable with physical touch up to a near-constant contact Always willing to help - Ambivert - he's good with people but he doesn't really like crowds or loud parties - Good with kids (doesn't necessarily want any of his own) - Huge. He's a big strong giant and doesn't mind being used as a chair. - Muscular in a very sturdy way. The man is solid. - switch vers, but definitely in a service way. Doesn't much care about sex one way or the other but likes to make his partner feel good. - Observant and aware - he's sensitive to how you might be feeling and he's really good at helping you through a rough day or a funk. - Firm. He doesn't start fights but he most certainly ends them. - Runs warm. This often results in shirtlessness at least, at home. -Capable. Very handy and creative. Able to do most things with minimal instruction

Cons

- Observant. You can hide nothing from this man. - Regimented - he prefers to have plans in place and a routine to stick to or else he gets restless - Is sometimes hard to read, generally always smiling even when he hurts. Even when he's genuinely mad it reads as quiet annoyance - Huge - a giant in width and height, he'll take up a lot of space unless accommodated for. - Can make breakfast, but not much of a cook otherwise. Very utilitarian style meals. - Despite being wild and almost unhinged in combat, he's pretty sedate and a homebody off the battlefield. - Neat. He's always fixing things or cleaning things up. Definitely more of a "do it now before it becomes an issue later" approach to chores. (he can be persuaded to leave it though) - Runs warm. Can get sweaty. - Sometimes has an issue with being overinvolved/overprotective. Needs to be told when you're just venting