#Cassandra's is unpredictability | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nhmkhnh · 11 days ago

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HEAVEN AND BACK.

CHARACTERS: vi ;; caitlyn kiramman ;; sevika ;; cassandra kiramman ;; jinx ;; ellie williams ;; abby anderson ;; mizu ;; claire redfield ;; jill valentine ;; ada wong ;; tifa lockhart ;; aerith gainsborough.

PAIRINGS: all x fem!reader (each for one scenario.)

PREFACE: and she just went to heaven and back.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: oopsie disappearing for days and now return with a banger (? no not really lol)

WARNING(S): lowercase, explicit content (minors & men dni)

vi.

the room is dark, save for the dim glow of a single light, casting shadows across the walls. the faint hum of music plays in the background, but it's almost drowned out by the thumping of your heart. you’ve always found vi unpredictable—wild, untamed—but tonight, there’s a different energy about her.

she stands in front of you, arms crossed, eyes locked onto yours, challenging. "you ready, sweetheart?" she asks, voice low and dripping with something dangerous, something you can’t quite place.

your throat tightens, your words caught. vi’s been teasing you all night, pushing your limits, making you second guess your every move. and now, here you are, in the middle of this game, standing closer to her than you've ever been before, with only seven minutes to go…

"don’t hold back," she mutters, a sly grin creeping up on her lips. you shiver under the weight of her gaze.

you step forward, daring to meet her, but before you can do anything, she’s got you pressed against the wall, her body flush with yours. you inhale sharply, your breath hitching as her hand drifts down to your waist, gripping you like she owns you. the heat between you two is almost suffocating.

“you think you can handle me?” vi growls, a playful but wicked edge to her voice as she pulls you closer, making you feel every inch of her.

you swallow, unable to form coherent words, too lost in the tension that’s been building for what feels like forever. her lips ghost over yours, teasing you just enough to make your knees weak, and your mind go hazy.

but it’s vi. and vi doesn’t play by anyone’s rules but her own.

with a sudden move, she’s kissing you—hard. there’s no tenderness here, no gentle exploration. it’s all demand, all possession. she owns every inch of your mouth, every sigh that escapes you.

her hands roam—one grabbing your hair, the other sliding down to your hips, pulling you into her, not giving you the space to breathe. she knows you’re a mess by now, that all your resistance is crumbling with each second. but that’s exactly what she wants.

the kiss deepens. your world is reduced to the sensation of her lips, her hands, the thundering of your heart. you can feel her smirk against your mouth, knowing exactly how far she’s pushed you.

“seven minutes, sweetheart," vi whispers as she pulls away just enough to look into your eyes. “let’s make them count.”

and you’re not sure whether you're ready for what's next, but something inside you burns brighter, knowing that under all her teasing and taunting, she’s not going to let you go without a mark.

caitlyn kiramman.

the door clicks shut behind you. the room goes still.

and caitlyn turns to face you with that signature unreadable expression—chin tilted slightly down, eyes cool and steady. she doesn’t say a word at first. just steps closer.

click. the sound of her heels on the hardwood floor is the loudest thing in the room.

your back hits the wall before you realize you're even moving. she’s taller, poised, and terrifyingly in control. one gloved hand lifts to brush a strand of hair away from your face, but her fingers linger at your jawline. her touch is gentle, but not soft—measured, precise.

"you knew i’d follow you in here," she murmurs, voice low, smooth as wine and laced with danger. "didn’t you?"

your breath catches. you don’t answer. you can’t.

her thumb presses lightly against your lower lip, holding your gaze hostage.

"i’ve been watching you all night," she continues, as if she’s telling you about the weather. "the way you act so innocent, like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing."

caitlyn leans in. you can feel her breath on your cheek, her mouth just barely brushing the shell of your ear.

"but here’s the thing, love…" she purrs. "…i don’t need you to pretend."

then—contact.

she kisses you with lethal elegance. no urgency, no mess. just cold fire and calculated heat. it’s controlled, like she’s tasting you rather than devouring—but still, you melt under her touch. you can’t help it. you gasp, and she takes full advantage, deepening the kiss just enough to ruin you.

her gloved hand trails down your throat, pressing lightly over your pulse point.

"you’re trembling," she murmurs, smiling against your mouth. "how long have you been waiting for me to touch you like this?"

you don’t even know how long it’s been. weeks? months? every damn time she looked at you like you were a secret she’d already figured out.

she presses her thigh between yours. you whimper.

"mm. you sound pretty when you beg," she says simply. then her hand wraps around your neck—not choking, just holding. just owning.

her mouth returns to yours, slow and decadent this time. like she has all the time in the world to unravel you.

“you’ll thank me for this later,” she whispers. “but for now... be good, and keep quiet.”

seven minutes have never felt so short. or so goddamn dangerous.

sevika.

it’s quiet in the closet. too quiet.

you can hear your heartbeat louder than anything else. that, and sevika’s low exhale as she lights a cigarette—like she’s got all the time in the goddamn world.

she doesn’t even look at you at first. just leans against the back wall, smoke curling around her like some devil who already knows you’ll give in.

"you nervous, sweetheart?" she finally rasps, voice rough like gravel, like sex. "you should be."

your throat goes dry. you try to keep your back straight, pretend like you’re not intimidated. but she can see right through it.

she takes one last drag, then tosses the cigarette down and crushes it with her boot. one slow step forward, then another. her metal arm gleams in the dark.

and then you feel it. her gloved fingers tilt your chin up. she’s staring down at you like prey. like she’s already decided exactly what she’s going to do.

“i’ve been thinking about this,” sevika says, voice low and lazy. "you, stuck in here with me. no cameras. no rules. just time."

your knees almost give out.

she smiles, sharp and slow. “yeah. you like that, don’t you?”

before you can answer, she yanks you closer by the waist, and you feel her—every inch of her—broad chest, solid arms, heat radiating off her like danger.

then, her lips crash into yours. there’s no patience here. it’s rough, hot, overwhelming. she kisses like she fights—dominant, no mercy. like she’s trying to win something from you.

she drags her teeth over your lower lip, then pulls back just enough to whisper against your mouth:

"you got five minutes left. be smart, bunny. sit on my thigh."

you're dizzy. you move before your brain can catch up, settling over the thick muscle of her thigh like she owns you—because right now? she does.

sevika’s hands settle on your hips, guiding the grind, slow and controlled. you're already soaked. she knows it. smirks like the smug bastard she is.

“you’re shaking,” she growls. “that’s cute.”

then she leans in close, mouth brushing your ear. “let’s see how many times i can make you come before the clock runs out.”

cassandra kiramman

the door clicks shut.

silence.

your heartbeat is in your ears—and across from you stands lady cassandra kiramman, arms crossed over her tailored velvet blouse, legs crossed like she's on a throne, not the floor of a drunken party.

she’s not smiling. she’s assessing.

“interesting game,” she murmurs, voice honeyed and low. “but i don’t care for randomness. i pick what’s mine.”

she uncrosses her legs slowly. you swallow.

“come here.”

you hesitate.

“now.”

that single word drips with authority. you obey before you can think.

she doesn’t touch you—not yet. instead, her fingers trail just along your collar, brushing a lock of hair back behind your ear. every movement is deliberate. expensive. dominant.

“you blush so easily,” she says, like it’s amusing. “i wonder if you flinch the same when i touch lower.”

your breath hitches. she hears it.

her lips curl, pleased.

“oh, sweetheart… you didn’t think i came in here to waste time, did you?”

then she leans in—slow, decadent. she doesn’t kiss you—no, cassandra claims you. her hand slides to your throat, light but commanding, as her lips press firm and slow against yours, perfectly painted lipstick smearing onto your skin like a brand.

“you’ve been teasing me for weeks,” she breathes, pulling back just a touch. “wearing those little dresses, smiling like you don’t know what you’re doing.”

her hand dips down. a gloved thumb strokes your bare thigh.

"let me be clear." her voice is velvet over steel. “you belong to me. no one else touches you. no one else even looks at you unless i allow it.”

you let out a soft sound—half moan, half plea.

she smiles now. finally.

“there it is,” she whispers. “seven minutes, my darling. just long enough to teach you how to behave.”

and then she pulls you into her lap like you’re weightless, like you were always meant to be there—right where she can control everything: your mouth, your breath, your pleasure, your body.

and you think, maybe—

maybe seven minutes will never be enough.

jinx.

click.

the closet door shuts. the world tilts sideways.

you turn around—and there she is, already lounging against the wall, twirling a knife like it’s a cigarette. jinx grins at you like you’re dessert she didn’t expect but desperately wants to taste.

“well, well, look what the bottle dragged in,” she purrs. “i must be the luckiest bitch alive.”

you try to laugh it off. “just a game.”

jinx tilts her head.

“oh, baby…” she giggles, pushing off the wall. “you’re adorable when you lie.”

before you can blink, she’s in your space—nose to nose, pupils blown wide, smile carved deep into her face like mischief incarnate.

“i’ve been waiting for this,” she whispers. “for you.”

her hand curls around your waist—tight. too tight. her lips brush yours once, like a threat. then again—feral. she kisses you like she’s starving, like she’s got seven minutes to drag your soul out through your mouth and keep it.

you gasp, and she moans into it.

"mm-mm. don’t run. you asked for this, didn’t you?" her voice is sing-song and sharp as broken glass. her thigh slides between yours, and she grinds up with a jerk that makes your breath hitch. “seven minutes. that’s enough to make you mine.”

her nails dig into your hips. her mouth trails messily along your neck, biting, sucking, marking.

"bet you thought i’d be shy," she chuckles darkly, licking up to your ear. "surprise, sugar. i’m a lot of things. shy ain’t one of ‘em."

the closet’s too hot, too small, and she’s everywhere. you’re pinned, breathless, mind spinning.

“you gonna cry for me?” she whispers, eyes glowing with madness and lust. “good girls cry when they’re ruined.”

tick, tick, tick.

and you realize—

you’re not getting out of this the same person you were going in.

ellie williams

click. the door shuts. the closet swallows the light.

it’s silent for a second. two.

then you hear it: the soft scrape of ellie leaning back against the wall, hands in her hoodie pockets, boots crossed at the ankles. she’s not looking at you. yet.

“so,” she drawls, casual as hell. “guess this is happening.”

you try to laugh, play it off, but your voice wavers. ellie catches it immediately. her head tilts, eyes finally dragging over to meet yours.

you forget how to breathe.

“you nervous?” she murmurs, stepping forward slowly, eyes half-lidded. “or just shy ‘cause we’re finally alone?”

she’s close now—so close her scent hits you. woodsmoke, weed, leather, something unmistakably ellie. she reaches out, thumb brushing your cheek.

“didn’t peg you for the bashful type.”

and then? she smiles.

that cocky, tilted smirk that always gets you.

“you wanna know how long i’ve been thinking about this?” she murmurs, voice dropping lower. “you. pinned. mouth open. just for me?”

her hand slides to your waist—slow. careful. but firm.

“and now i’ve got you in a closet,” she mutters, leaning in until your foreheads touch. “seven whole minutes. no one watching. no one to interrupt.”

her breath ghosts over your lips.

“say stop, and i’ll stop.” she whispers it like a challenge. “but if you don’t…”

her hand fists in your shirt and pulls you into her.

she kisses you like she’s been starving for months. it’s rough. desperate. full of teeth and tongue. her hands are everywhere—under your clothes, gripping, exploring like she owns you. like she’s earning her seven minutes.

“fuck, you taste good,” she pants between kisses, backing you into the wall. “what were you thinking, wearing that little outfit around me all night? you wanted this.”

you whimper.

she grins.

"yeah, you did.”

you’re flushed. breathless. dripping down your thighs and ellie hasn’t even undone a button yet.

and then she leans in again, mouth to your ear.

“next time… i’m asking for ten.”

abby anderson.

click.

you’ve never felt so small in your life. the door locks behind you, and abby’s already there—arms crossed, eyes fixed on you like you’re her next meal.

“didn’t expect to be locked in here with me, huh?” she smirks, voice rough like gravel. the tension between you two could snap if you breathed too hard.

you swallow, trying to stay cool.

“you don’t get to be shy now,” abby growls, stepping closer, her muscles flexing under the fabric of her shirt, her towering frame making you feel like a mouse. “you’ve been looking at me all night. don’t pretend you don’t know what this is about.”

before you can answer, she’s got you pinned against the wall, her body heat overwhelming. the sheer force of her presence makes your breath catch.

her hand snakes up to your neck, fingertips grazing lightly at first. then she tightens, just enough to remind you who’s in charge.

“seven minutes," she murmurs. "that’s all i need.”

you don’t have time to respond. abby’s mouth crashes onto yours, commanding, all teeth and fire. she kisses you like she wants to leave a mark on your soul—like she’s trying to carve her name into your skin with just her lips.

her body presses into yours, big and solid, like a wall you can't escape. abby takes control—one hand grabbing your wrist and pinning it above your head while the other moves to your waist, pulling you closer.

"you like that?" she growls against your mouth, her hips grinding into yours, the friction making your body tremble. "i could’ve had you begging for me the second i walked in here."

she pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, her breath heavy, her lips flushed and swollen.

“you’re mine now. don’t worry about anything else.”

abby’s mouth finds its way back to your throat, nipping and sucking with such force you can already feel the bruise forming. she’s marking you, staking her claim in the most satisfying way.

and as she continues to kiss down your neck, her hands moving faster than your thoughts can catch up, you know:

seven minutes will never be enough.

mizu.

the door closes.

you don’t hear anything.

she’s already leaning against the back wall, arms crossed, the glow of a single lamp barely brushing the edge of her blade still sheathed at her hip.

her eyes—sharp, blue, impossibly cold—track you like prey.

you fidget. she doesn’t move. doesn’t blink.

you try a joke. “seven minutes. guess we better make the most of it, huh?”

silence.

then, her voice—soft, deadly, calm.

“come here.”

you hesitate. but your body obeys. you always obey around her. something about her control—unshakable, unreadable—draws you in like a current you can’t fight.

mizu doesn’t grab you. she doesn’t have to. her hand raises—barely a touch—and she tucks a finger under your chin, tilting your face up to hers.

"you've been staring at me all night,” she murmurs. “is this what you wanted?”

you nod. barely.

“use your words.” her voice doesn’t rise. it doesn’t need to.

“i… yes,” you breathe.

a pause. then:

“good.”

her lips crush into yours—firm, precise, like a blade meeting flesh. there’s no mess, no rush, just control. she kisses like she’s claiming you. not with desperation, but with certainty.

one hand curls into your hair, the other cups your jaw, steadying you. making you feel how easily she could ruin you. and how badly you want her to.

you gasp, and she pulls back just enough to whisper, “keep making those sounds and i’ll forget this is just a game.”

you whimper.

she smiles—barely. just a twitch of her lip. it’s devastating.

she steps forward, crowding you into the corner, pressing her thigh between yours, her hand sliding down your waist.

“seven minutes,” she murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “you’ll beg me to stay longer.”

and when she kisses you again, slower this time—deeper—you finally understand what fear and desire taste like when they bleed together.

she doesn’t touch you like you’re fragile. she touches you like she already knows exactly how to break you.

and you want her to.

claire redfield

the door clicks shut behind you with a soft thud.

it’s quiet. too quiet.

you turn to face claire, and she's already standing in the corner, arms crossed, her eyes dark but calm, like she’s seen it all. she’s not like the others—there’s a restraint in her gaze, a quiet command that makes your heart race without her even moving.

“you look nervous,” she says, voice low and smooth. “don’t be.”

you swallow, but your body betrays you. your chest rises and falls a little too quickly, and claire sees it.

she takes one slow step forward, her boots making a soft sound against the floor. “seven minutes. that’s all we get.”

you try to speak, but she’s already close enough to reach out, her fingers brushing along your jawline. she’s so gentle, but there’s a strength there, an edge to her touch that makes you shiver.

her thumb traces your lower lip, and you can’t help but lean into it, drawn to the warmth of her skin.

“don’t try to hide it,” she whispers, her other hand cupping your cheek now, tilting your head up so she can look into your eyes. “i can tell how much you want this.”

she moves in slowly, her lips brushing against yours with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. she pulls away, just a fraction, and her eyes flicker to your lips again.

“you’re mine, for the next seven minutes,” she says, and you can hear the promise in her voice. a quiet command that leaves you breathless.

she kisses you again, deeper this time, her lips firm but soft, taking control without ever making you feel overwhelmed. her hands slide to your waist, gripping you like she’s making sure you stay close, stay right where she wants you.

“you’re good at pretending you’re not into this,” she mutters against your lips, “but i see it. i know what you want.”

her hands wander—slow, deliberate, like she has all the time in the world. she pulls you closer, and you feel the warmth of her body against yours. claire’s not rough, but there’s a tenderness in the way she touches you—like she’s savoring every moment, making sure you feel everything.

and as she moves against you, her lips tracing your neck, you realize—seven minutes will never be enough with her.

jill valentine

the door clicks shut. you blink in the dark.

jill’s already leaning against the wall, arms crossed, jaw tense, eyes scanning you with that unreadable, soldier-grade precision. she doesn't speak at first. she observes. watches the way your fingers twitch, the way your breath stutters.

“didn’t expect me, did you?” she says finally, voice low, husky. “you were hoping for someone soft.”

she pushes off the wall, steps closer, and you swear the room shrinks.

"bad luck," she murmurs. "you got me instead."

you try to answer, but her hand is already at your chin, tilting your face up. her thumb strokes the edge of your jaw, slow and steady, her gaze fixed on your lips like she’s calculating exactly how to destroy you.

“you’ve been dancing around me for weeks,” she says, voice low, magnetic. “wearing that perfume. making those eyes. and now here we are. alone.”

jill leans in—so close her breath brushes your cheek. she doesn’t kiss you yet. she just lets the tension build, and build, and build, until it feels like your skin is buzzing.

“you scared?” she whispers.

you shake your head.

“liar.”

and then she kisses you. firm. cold. perfect. it’s not messy—it’s methodical. jill kisses like she’s mapping your mouth, figuring out how to undo you from the inside out.

her hands are on your hips, pushing you gently—strategically—until your back hits the wall. her thigh slides between yours. you gasp. she smirks.

"yeah, i thought so," she mutters, her voice dark and satisfied. "you like control? you want to hand it over, baby?"

you nod before you even realize you’re doing it.

"good girl."

her mouth is back on yours, her hands tight on your body, moving with intention—every move made like she’s clearing a room. efficient. lethal. and absolutely fucking devastating.

she groans into the kiss like she’s been holding back for days. and now? no more restraint.

"you’ve got five minutes left," she growls. "and i’m going to make every one count."

ada wong.

seven minutes in heaven – ada wong version

click. the door locks behind you.

you barely turn before you feel her. her perfume hits first—jasmine, danger, silk. then comes the whisper of her heels. smooth. slow. predatory.

“looks like luck’s on your side tonight,” ada murmurs from the shadows. “or maybe not.”

your breath catches. you turn to face her—and she’s already close. red dress, dark eyes, lips parted like she’s debating whether to ruin you slowly… or all at once.

"you’ve been watching me all night," she purrs, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear with two perfectly gloved fingers. "cute. but sloppy."

you barely manage a reply. you don’t need to—ada’s already crowding your space, body heat like a flame against your skin. she leans in, her breath cool on your cheek.

“seven minutes. that’s how long i need to make you forget your own name.”

she kisses you—lethal and slow. her lips glide over yours like silk across a blade, sharp enough to cut but soft enough to beg for. one hand snakes around your waist, the other slipping beneath your chin to keep you still. her control is effortless.

you try to keep up. you can’t.

“shh,” she hums when you moan. “no one’s coming to save you.”

her thigh presses between yours, her voice a velvet threat in your ear.

"you’ve been wanting this. all that staring, the breathy little laughs. you wanted me to notice.”

she smirks. “i did. now deal with the consequences.”

she kisses you again, harder this time. one of her gloved hands slides down your back, possessive, anchoring you like she already owns every inch of you.

“you’re mine tonight,” she whispers. “and i don’t share.”

the timer ticks. but you don’t hear it. all you hear is the sound of her lips, your gasps, and her voice, low and addictive:

“you should’ve known better than to tempt a woman like me.”

tifa lockhart

the closet is small. too small.

you don’t even get a word out before the door clicks shut behind you—and then it’s just her. tifa.

leaning slightly against the wall, arms crossed, her long hair falling over her shoulder like liquid ink. her expression is soft… but her eyes? her eyes burn.

“i didn’t think it’d be you,” she murmurs, voice low, just a little breathy. “but i’m not complaining.”

your heart pounds. “y-yeah?”

she steps forward. just one step. it’s all it takes to make you feel cornered—in the best way.

“you always act so shy around me,” she says softly, tilting her head. “but you keep looking at me like you want something. something you’re too afraid to ask for.”

you open your mouth, but she’s already there. her fingers tilt your chin up. her other hand slides to your waist—warm, steady, possessive.

“you want me to touch you?”

your breath stutters. you nod. barely.

tifa smiles. “then say it.”

you whisper her name.

and she kisses you.

slow at first, careful. but when you sigh against her lips? she deepens it—gripping your hips tighter, backing you into the wall. she’s so much stronger than she looks when she fights. and now that strength is all around you, pinning you in place.

“i’ve wanted this too,” she says between kisses. “i’ve just been waiting for the right moment.”

her hands trail up under your shirt—teasing, gentle, but with enough pressure to make your knees weak.

"you trust me, don’t you?" she whispers, mouth brushing your ear.

you nod again, breathless. she leans closer, lips tracing down your neck.

“good,” she murmurs. “because i’m not stopping until you fall apart in my hands.”

seven minutes?

she’ll make you feel every second.

aerith gainsborough

the door shuts.

you barely get your bearings before you hear her giggle.

“looks like it’s just the two of us,” she says sweetly. too sweet. the kind of sweet that makes your spine tingle. that hides sharp teeth beneath a sugar smile.

you turn—and aerith is already way too close.

lips curved. eyes glimmering like she knows every little secret you thought you hid so well.

“you’ve been looking at me all night,” she whispers, brushing a finger down your arm. “was that on purpose… or do you just like getting caught?”

you open your mouth to reply. you don’t get the chance.

she pins you—softly, but surely—against the wall, her hands pressing gently to your waist. her smile is still in place. her voice still kind.

but her eyes?

predatory.

“seven minutes,” she says, tilting her head. “that’s not very long. but it’s enough.”

her lips meet yours, feather-light, teasing. she kisses you like she’s playing a game—one she already knows she’s going to win.

and then she deepens it.

she presses you closer, her knee sliding between yours, her hands climbing your ribs like ivy.

you gasp—and she smiles against your mouth.

“i knew you’d sound pretty,” she coos. “i’ve been wondering all day what kind of noises you’d make for me.”

you whimper. her hands tighten. her grip? unrelenting.

“you want to be mine?” she whispers, warm breath against your throat. “then be good for me, flower.”

she kisses lower—neck, collarbone, lips brushing your pulse—and your knees threaten to give out. her hands hold you up. like she planned this. like she knew you’d fall.

she leans up, nose brushing yours.

“seven minutes,” she purrs. “but i always take my time with the things i like.”

and you realize—aerith’s not soft.

she’s sugar laced with poison. and you drank every drop.

#vi x reader #caitlyn x reader #cassandra kiramman x reader #sevika x reader #jinx x reader #ellie x reader #abby x reader #mizu x reader #claire redfield x reader #jill valentine x reader #ada wong x reader #tifa x reader #aerith x reader

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sassatoru · 1 year ago

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GHOST OR BAT?

pairing. batfam + ghostmaker x ghostbat!reader

summary. reader is a dna mix of ghostmaker and batman.

warnings. ghostbat drama, Minhkhoa Khan, I’m confused, cursing, canon typical violence.

a/n. I am bored out of my mind, might become a mini series. That I just randomly add stuff to. The mask referred to is kinda like Jason’s from red hood and the outlaw just minus the eye cover.

wc. 0.8k (not proofread)

You kept to your spot beside Talia, staying alert to the people in front of you. Batman and his children, plus Ghostmaker. You remembered reading up on each of them, studying all of them.

You eyes were focused on the oldest of the Batkids, Dick Grayson. He’d be your biggest problem, the man was severely underestimated but in Talia’s eyes he’d be the most capable assassin if he wanted to.

Cassandra Cain, you knew her. You fought her, you looked different then though, and by her stance you assumed she hadn’t connected the dots but she remained watching you.

Jason Todd, you helped train him. Never with your mask off, and you never spoke. Only ever instructed to fight him till he learnt.

Tim Drake. Held in high regard among the league, with smarts to match that of Batman’s. But not much of a problem, you’d have no problem with him.

Your eyes glided over to the youngest of the bunch, Damian. You’d die before letting your blade touch him, and he’d hesitate before raising his against you. He didn’t know you truely, you didn’t even know yourself truely. But he knew you’ve protected him.

Behind your mask you glared at the tallest two in the room. But your hands kept the same elegant hold on your swords, like Talia taught you.

Batman, Bruce Wayne. The world’s greatest detective. Truthfully you’ve always wanted to fight him, see how long you’d last, see if you could take him down. But that wasn’t going to happen unless he attacked, and he wouldn’t. He was smarter than that.

You glanced at the man in white, face masked so his expression remained covered. Minhkhoa Khan, the Ghostmaker. Not much was known about him, but the League of Assassins or anyone for that matter. He’d be the most unpredictable, you think.

“Mother,” Damian addressed the woman beside you. You remained stationary as she walked towards her son, brow raised in slight alarm as you stepped closer hesitantly, watching the others.

Damian moved through the crowd of his siblings to step before his mother, they greeted before he nodded to you, acknowledging your presence.

“Dear,” Talia called to you, she’d never used your name, saying that it was your secret to reveal so she only ever called you ‘dear’.

“You may speak,” she sighed softly, a strange softness in her voice. But you ignored it and nodded in response, she turned to the crowd of vigilantes.

“I suggest your other children leave,” Talia says. “The matter I’ve come to discuss is… personal. In a sense.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes at the assassin woman before nodding, earning a groan from each of his children, who begrudgingly walked away towards the stairs that lead back to the manor.

“Damian stay,” Talia ordered, the boy halted his movements and stepped to his father’s side.

Now the room remained with five people in it. Ghostmaker, Batman, Damian, Talia and you.

“I have some rather—“

“Disturbing,” you offered, voice distorted due to your mask. Khoa raised a brow at the robotic voice, good way to keep yourself hidden.

“Yes,” she nodded. “This child,” she motioned to you. “Happens to be a mix of the two of you.” She then motioned to Bruce and Khoa. Both of whom stared at you in response.

“Disturbing, all right.” Khoa murmured to himself, watching you, analysing you. Though he couldn’t be too surprised, considering Damian Wayne.

Bruce glared at you, “you’re lying.”

“I wish,” you scoffed, glaring back at him. Your eyes shadowed by your hood, and voice distorted by the mask that only covered the lower half of your face.

—

The three of you stood in silence after Damian and Talia left the room, neither of you looking at each other.

“You’re sick,” Bruce mutters, glaring at Talia before pointing at you.

“The child is a wonder of science, if anything i did you both a favour.” Talia shrugs, Bruce raising a brow in response.

“Enlighten me.”

“Think, a child with both your skills. The perfect weapon,” Talia replies. Khoa nods slightly, thinking it through, the perfect weapon.

“So, how many kills, kid?” Khoa speaks up, causing you to shift your gaze to Talia who nods.

“I don’t count them, they’re insignificant to me.” You mutter, detached, Bruce thinks, just like Khoa.

The Ghostmaker nods in understanding, as if he were impressed with the answer. “Smart girl.”

“Why did you come here? I doubt you were doing anyone a favour by exposing your secret.” Bruce asks Talia.

“I need you to look after her, i will be gone for a while. And i don’t trust my father with her, and i don’t trust her not to try and kill him again. She’ll be here also to watch over Damian.”

“Why?” Bruce presses, and Talia doesn’t bother answering as she’s already gone

All eyes turn to you, watching you as intently as you watched each of them. Now what?

#batsis #bruce wayne x daughter!reader #enzo writes [📝]#ghostbat #minhkhoa khan #minhkhoa khan x daughter!reader #ghostbat!reader #ghostmaker x reader

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muffinsin · 28 days ago

Note

Absolutely obsessed with the bunny series 🐰 Whenever you are taking new prompts, could we possibly get a Daniela version? Love from Florida! 🌴

Me too tbh, me too! XP absolutely! In fact, here’s some very rare top Daniela for the soul👀!

Fun fact, I deleted and rewrote this 3 times because of writer’s block XP

But hey hey, guess what everyone👀!-

The inbox is open again :)!🥳

Masterlists

You feel tears build by the corner of your eyes, feel your makeup run down your cheeks when they fall at last. Makeup, pink, white, cute, something she put on you only hours prior. Now she's ruining it already, cooing about how utterly adorable you look as you choke and gag, cry and shiver, your collar almost unbearably tight with her thick cock pushed down your throat.

You shiver despite the warm air in the dimply lit bedroom, your eyes stinging with the sharp scent of perfume in the air. Looking up, you manage to make out her eyes even with how blurry your vision is, yours immediately locking onto her stunning golden ones.

She sits at the bed, looking almost like royalty- bare, radiant, beautiful, teasing, dangerous. Her legs are spread elegantly, an arm draped over her and fingers curling in your hair, just by the band holding your fluffy white bunny ears in place.

You press your eyes shut again at the intensity of her gaze, feeling your pussy throb and ass tighten around your tail plug at the sight. She gives your leash a yank suddenly, and you squeal as you're brought closer, your cheek flush against her inner thigh, your throat bulged, your nose snotty and wet from desperately attempting to breathe through it and gagging on the large, curved cock down your throat.

She giggles, as though amused by your pathetic display and lack of graze, but the hunger and intensity in her gaze is telling. She looks down at you as though you're the only thing that matters- despite your low status as her beloved little pet. Or, perhaps far more accurately, she looks down at you as though you are the only thing she wants to destroy.

"You look so pretty like this, my little love...", she sighs softly, tilting her head as she lets her gaze rake over you. You're trembling between her legs, your knees sore from being in this position for a significant time already, your nipples cool and hard from being exposed, your pussy drooling onto her carpet, your bunny tail twitching occasionally when you tighten around the absurdly large plug. Your Mommy reassured you; it's nothing, it's meant to be that big. It only means she gets to see your cute little bunny twitches when you move and tighten around it again.

You whine softly around her throat as you feel yourself massage the plug inside of you again, heavy, large, keeping you just sensitive enough to constantly have you sport that adorable, bright pink blush for her.

Ah, what an adorable little bunny you make for your Mommy!

Briefly, your eyes flash at the sound you made, wide and unsure at what she will do. While Lady Cassandra would have most likely thrusted to punish you for it or flipped you and spanked you, and Lady Bela would have at the very least grabbed you by the leash and scolded you for making a sound when you are to be quiet, Lady Daniela is...more difficult to predict.

Your head spins just thinking of the endless possibilities of what she might do to you. This particular Mommy of yours is...far, far more unpredictable than most. She's spontaneous, capable of switching from adoration to annoyance and back to sweet, loving touches within seconds.

You almost whimper again, the still stinging lashes across your back a vivid reminder of just that. You don't fully remember what you did, if anything at all- much like with Lady Cassandra, it usually takes little to nothing to earn yourself a punishment from the spontaneous, but also sadistic youngest of the Dimitrescu sisters. You feel the ache still, feel the D and the heart she had cut into you bleed. Was it because of something you did, or did she simply feel like it? You can't tell. With Daniela, there is no real line, and even if there was- you know better than to think, know your task is to be good, to be their good companion, their little pet bunny, to spread your legs and let them grab you by your tail and yank you with them, accept all the pats they give you and to please, beg for a scrap of attention when they walk by your cage.

Lucky for you, they often enough do, especially Lady Daniela.

Though, one moment she coos affection and strokes your hair, the next her grip tightens and she holds you down, cooing about how cute you squirm while she drags her nails down your spine and spits venom through a beautiful smile. You can't bring yourself to flinch away from her, however, never. You lean into every touch, squirm and whine at every bit of pain that greets you, take whatever she stuffs you with until you're dizzy and bouncing on her lap, told what a cute bunny you are with your holes stuffed and drool sticking to your lips.

You gasp, pulled back to the present as she moves back, cupping herself as she slides herself from you. As usual, she coos as you gag and dare choke, shiver and tremble until her tip slips from your lips and her wet cock slaps against your cheek mindlessly.

"Awhhh, my cute bunny! Open up!", she squeals, laughing when you obey without question and part your lips again, sticking out your tongue as you do so. You know what she likes by now, know to always obey should you want to keep receiving sweet kisses and affectionate touches from her.

You feel her drag her cock back against your lips, feel it tease your tongue as it rests upon it. Precum drools from her already, the sweet, salty taste a treat in your mouth. It isn't overly often they transform their flies to change their anatomy like this. Still, you can't help but stare and tighten uselessly around your plug when they do, knowing first your mouth, then other holes will be tended to- given they have the time.

Lucky for you, this seems to be the case this time.

She smiles widely at you, patting your bunny ears and hair as though a real pet for her. By how she treats you, you doubt she still knows the difference, not that it matters. You're not a prisoner, not anymore. You're hers. Theirs. Their bunny. Their property. Their slut.

"Good girl...", she praises, her words soft and almost loving despite the gleam in her eyes promising something...feral, almost. She leans down a little and yanks up your leash for you to lean up, uncaring of how it has your breath hitch and how the thick collar will undoubtedly bruise you below. You don't care. Mommy is the one treating your wounds most of the time anyway, when she's done, when you lay limp on her bed and she cuddles you to her, cooing about how sensitive you are when she tends to the many scratches and bruises stretching along your skin.

"You were made for this, weren't you? Made for me..", she coos, dreamily almost. her thighs flex, heels digging into the carpet below as she draws herself upright again. She towers above you, elegant, beautiful, her hand sliding from your face to the back of your head and slim fingers knotting into your hair.

She tugs, and you gasp, feeling your breath hitch again.

"You're mine", she hisses, voice honey sweet and venom laced at the same time. There's something dangerously possessive inside, something you have learned to know gnaws deep within her. Jealousy, perhaps. Possessiveness, for sure.

"Say you're mine, my little bunny. Only mine"

You shiver, your eyes wide. You know not to speak, know a little bunny is not to do so. Cassandra- and Daniela- both have jokingly expressed the idea of cutting your tongue out should you do so without their permission. Now, obeying her, would easily mean disobeying that and, perhaps even more so- disobeying the fact you are to be shared by all of them, something that oh so conveniently seems to slip Lady Daniela's mind every few days.

You don't dare speak, don't dare disobey. Instead, you quickly lean forwards and boldly suck her back in your mouth, humming around her when she moans and tugs your head forwards in return.

And just like that the demand is gone, her beautiful, dangerous eyes slipping shut as she tilts her head back and allows you to serve her. she moans, low, indulgent, her hips shifting slightly. Another yank to your leash has you back against her thigh, thick tears building at the corner of your eyes and running down your cheeks as you struggle with the sudden sensation of her cock slamming down your tight throat.

"You take me so well, my little bunny...", she purrs, voice like silk. "My cute, naughty little rabbit", she giggles, sighing and moaning as you twirl your tongue around her.

She's rocking her hips slightly now, her hiked up dress rubbing against her hips. She giggles as you moan around her, as though aware of just how sensitive you are. Maybe, she is, maybe she does know how your ass pulses hotly around the strap and your clit aches, begging for attention.

You wouldn't be surprised.

Your mommies seem to know everything, always.

You glance up at her, your eyes teary from the pressure, and she laughs again, as though fond. Like she's watching her little pet do a new trick and perform it just for her. Letting the leash drop, she reaches out to pat your cheek, giggling as she feels how full your mouth is. You feel her scratch your jaw gently, as one might do with a mere pet rather than a human, and all the same you lean into it and suck harder, your bunny ears and tail twitching with every move.

"Look at you...", she coos, her voice dropping. She thrives on the look in your eyes, the utter devotion as you look up at her even with your makeup smudged and tears running down your soft cheeks.

She loves how you whimper and moan around her cock when her hand slides down, her sharp nails tracing your collar and her palm setting over it, then pressing into it. You gag, your breath caught. Your throat feels entirely to tight now and you almost feel every little vein stretching along her cock now rub against the inside of your throat, your tongue, and your lips. If she's aware of it, she doesn't show, and doesn't pull back.

She pushes a little harder, closing gently, just enough to hold you still and remind you of your place. You feel her nails scratch faint lines into the collar, whereas others scratch against your bare skin when the collar ends.

"My cute bunny...", she sighs again, smiling gently. It's often like this, her looking at you with hearts in her stunning, breathtaking eyes all while she holds you tight by the throat. She smiles adoringly as she thrusts her hips again, feeling and seeing the bulge in your throat move.

She continues for a moment or so, sighing dreamily as you gag and cry, but look up at her as though she is the sole reason for your existence. Then, with another possessive comment, you feel her yank you back by the hair and kiss you like a strike- sharp, fast, deep, overwhelming. Her sharp, fang-like teeth just barely graze your lips, but it's enough for you to jump and for a small cut to be made, which she eagerly sucks from your bottom lip. You're made to lean up again, your knees bucking and legs aching as you stand a little.

It isn't often you're allowed to stand, isn't often you're allowed to walk on your feet when your Mommies usually make you crawl behind them, leashed, gagged, blushing and tightening around your cute tail as you trail behind them like a good pet. When you are granted to stand, it's usually in times like these, when you're moved, but it's still often an almost foreign feeling to you, now. Again, you're sure your Mommy is aware of it.

You jump as she grabs your leash and tugs you with her again, blush a little as you hear her giggle when your legs, unsurprisingly, give out at the first step and you fall onto her lap. She moves you easily, her strength outmatching yours easily, her speed leaving you feeling almost dizzy.

Before you know it, you feel the soft bed beneath you, and just briefly you sink into it, your tail almost twitching with what Daniela is sure must be adorable happiness. It isn't often you're allowed on the bed, is only when they have use of you no the bed, and while Daniela's cage for you certainly comes with many fluffy pillows and blankets, you can't help but yearn for the soft mattress so out of reach when locked behind bars.

Alas, you know, pets don't normally go on the bed, and know better than to whine for it.

You close your eyes momentarily, swirling your tongue in your mouth slightly in search of more of her taste as she moves about the room, certain to bring you either something to make you cry out from pain, or to make your eyes roll back and drool run from your lips.

There's never a way of telling with Mommy. Some days, she looks perfectly happy and giggles a lot, but pulls you over her knee and spanks you until you cry and cry, squirming, tightening around the tail plug she has spanked even deeper into you. On other days she's seething, her grip bruising, her teeth sharp in your neck, but she holds you so lovingly, like her favorite little pet.

You're about to crawl up to the pillows, eager to feel their softness against your face, but don't make it that far before your Mommy grabs you again. You feel her fingers curl around your ankle first, pulling you back sharply, then feel her first tangle in your hair and yank you back until you're forced to kneel at the edge of the mattress, your back arched wide, your bare body perfectly on display.

She's behind you now, warm, close, her breath tickling your ear as she speaks, her voice dripping with amusement, adoration, and cruelty.

"You did so good, bunny!", she praises, voice thick with sweetness, words dripping with syrupy-like honey. "I think you deserve a reward, princess"

You aren't given a moment to think about her words, nor to prepare. Already, your hair is tugged again and your head is made to tilt back as far as you can, your parted lips on display. Then, you gasp as you feel something orange and pointed force its way into your mouth. It isn't overly large, but a single glance down has your cheeks heat up and your blush spread all the way down your now hot throat, past your collar, then settle at your cleavage. She slides the gag between your lips, humming happily the whole time. It tastes almost sweet, you think, though it might just be your body and senses becoming utterly used to the toy by now.

That gag, of course, you know even before she locks it at the back of your head with a grin.

She taps it playfully, giggling to herself at how positively adorable you look. You can only whimper, light humiliation and adoration coursing through you as her finger taps against the green end of the gag- the gag, shaped like a carrot fit for a bunny such as yourself.

"There we go...", she purrs, admiring her work as you breathe heavily through your nose, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "So cute I could just eat you alive!", she praises, giggling again.

"Aren't you the cutest little bunny! Who? You! Who is my cute little bunny slut?", she coos, patting your cheeks and giving your ears a small flick with her finger. You can only blink at her, your face bright pink and hot, your tongue trapped beneath the carrot gag stretching into your mouth. She's beaming at you, tapping the gag again as if to confirm it sits nice and tight. Of course, it does. It always does.

She grins happily at you, lightly slapping your cheeks with her palms before cupping them properly. "My cute little bunny needs a proper snack! One that reminds her just what she is", she coos, reasons. It only makes you feel even more flustered, your eyes pressing shut- much to her amusement- your pussy drooling and aching uselessly and ass tightening helplessly around your tail plug. She giggles, cooing again as though adoring your helpless, flustered state.

"It's just for you, don't you love it?", she giggles. This time, you nod your head, your eyes opening up wide again and immediately finding hers. You roll your hips lightly, trying to beg for her touch, anything, after she left you with your pussy drooling onto her things for what you're sure must be an hour by now. Again though, Mommy only giggles at this, as though particularly amused by your needy state.

Granted, it isn't anything new, isn't something she's particularly surprised by, nor is it the worst it has ever been. No, that title ought to fit the day she fed you a bar of chocolate full of aphrodisiacs, giggling and laughing when you humped her uselessly, crying, begging for touch while your pussy drooled slick arousal and you took it all, every toy, every stretch, all until you passed out on top of her, your pussy most likely still used by her for a decent amount of time before she eventually moved you back into your cage. You whimper around the carrot at the mere memory of it, shivers running down your spine as you tighten around the plug again.

And then her hands are on you, holding onto your hips a little too tight, her grip sure enough to bruise. Her chest is up against your back, her hands sliding from cradling your face.

"You make me feel things...", she confesses quietly, her words a mere seductive whisper. "Like love...and rage. And this nasty little ache right here....", she whispers, taking your hand and pressing it to her lower stomach. You feel her cock twitch against you, feel the wetness smear against you from her tip, and it makes your own stomach cramp and pussy ache, desperate. "I feel it whenever you whimper for me...", she whispers. "I feel it when I hear your cute heart go pitter patter for me. When you get nervous..."

She laughs, then, soft and dreamy. She pushes you forward with both hands next, pressing your face into the sheets, gag and all, leaving your body perfectly at her mercy.

Alas, mercy has never been Daniela's strong suit.

You moan into your gag, the sound muffled as she grabs at your thigh and forces it apart from the other, your legs spread wide, your hips grabbed and yanked up to get you back on your hands and cut up, bruised knees. You feel her lean above you again, feel her grip your hip tight to keep you in place, her fingers digging in and bruising you. You whimper, but don't dare- and can't- move away.

Lady Cassandra is sadistic, always eager to bring you pain and pleasure alike, just rarely rewarding you without pain following.

Your Mommy, she's different. She often enough doesn't intend to hurt you, unlike her sisters. Instead, much like now, she giggles and coos, kisses and nips at your shoulder as she lines herself up, her grip so hard you feel the bruises form below her slender fingers. Out of control, yes. But you love it still. You crave it, still. You obey, still.

You yearn for every touch she grants you, still.

You first feel her tip slide against your exposed pussy lips, another giggle of hers sounding through the room as she feels some of your tail's fluffy fur tickle her. You squeal into your gag when she grabs it, forcing you to lift your ass a little more just to keep it in, uselessly tight around it, your pussy now on full display for her as you lift yourself as much as you can, mewling and moaning softly when she, at last, releases the tail plug again and slaps your soft ass cheek to finish the action off.

When she finishes lining herself up, she's gentle, humming almost as a lover might as she slides first her tip inside, then ruts slowly to help ease the rest in. You're soaked, and her cock shines with your drool. Still, you gasp and squirm when she steadily fucks herself into you, stretching your walls to fit around her.

Really, out of all your owners, Daniela is the one to stretch you the most, often opting for multiple toys to try out on you at the same time, all while cooing, cupping your face gently and claiming you just look so cute when your eyes roll back or go cross and you look so completely dumbed down, barely capable of picking up anything but the toys she thrusts deep in, and out, and in, and out of you.

Now, you can only moan against your gag as she begins thrusting properly, deep, but fast thrusts that make both of you shiver. She watches the dried blood along your back hungrily, the shiny red D still cut into you catching her eye and making her thrust just a little harder as possessiveness strikes her.

"You love this!", she coos. Not a question, no, but a statement. Daniela just rarely asks questions, and when she does, it's even more rare she expects an answer from you. When she does, you know there usually is a single one she wants to hear from you, a single one she deems correct.

She leans forward her grip on your hips tightening a little more and making you cry out in pain briefly before she coos and loosens up again, as though reminded of the fact her poor, little bunny can't possibly withstand her true strength. What a pity, she often whines. What a pity, too, that Lady Bela and Lady Cassandra seem to be strictly against your Mommy infecting you with the parasite, too.

You gasp at another thrust into you, your body heating up beneath her touches. Her hips snap back and forth fast, her cock coming out wetter and creamier each time. She's moaning softly, the sound utterly angelic to you.

"You're all mine, little bunny!", she breathes out hotly, thrusting sharply when you attempt to answer through useless, incoherent moans and groans. Instead, it all comes out muffled and desperate, your face hot against the cool pillows. She giggles, patting your bruised and cut back gently as she thrusts.

"Oh, my poor little bunny, you can't even beg properly. Don't worry...", she coos, her voice full of lust and amusement. "...I know you love being mine, your cute body says enough, bunny. Look at how hard you're gripping me! I'm your favorite, right?", she purrs, her voice sugary sweet.

Ah, and you do tighten around her, your pussy full to the brim when she thrusts deep inside, your body rocked back and forth on the large bed. You hold onto the mattress tightly, your knuckles white and fingers curling against the fabric, but it does little to help you, your body surrendering to your Mommy easily. You don't fight it, give up control all too eagerly for her.

Control, which Daniela oh so loves to abuse.

You moan hotly as you feel yourself get closer, feel her drip deep into you and fuck her precum inside. You feel her tongue drag along your back, hiss and tremble as you feel her bite at your wounds until fresh blood spills from them. She moans as she licks it up, her tongue hot and wet, dragging against your buttery soft skin deliberately, content to catch every drop of crimson blood.

She moans hotly, her head spinning. You know by now, her sharper, faster thrusts and her once again tightening grip means she's close, and when she does cum, you scream at the feeling of her teeth digging into your shoulder.

Warm, thick cum fills you, hot and creamy. She giggles against you again, blood dripping from her thick, dark painted lips and onto your back. You feel the sting of her bite still, feel her teeth drag out of your skin when she pulls away and feel the hot blood that drools from the wound and drips down your shoulder and back.

Perhaps, if this was Lady Bela, she would clean you up.

Perhaps, if this was Lady Cassandra, she would lick it all up, not daring to waste a drop of your, as she calls it, precious blood.

Lady Daniela is different. She cares little about how she leaves you, cares not for making a mess, cares not about wasting blood. If she gets hungry again, she will simply draw more from you.

She flips you over, all strength and ease, straddling you again in and instant. She's fast, she always is, and dangerous. But by the Gods, she's beautiful, her auburn-ginger curls spilling around her flushed face as she leans in, biting at your gagged lips, nudging the plastic gag like she's taunting and teasing you for having it in your mouth at all.

She's panting, her cock drooling wetness still inside of you after her orgasm. You roll your hips desperately, whimper against the gag and lean against her and into every touch as good as you can, pleading, hoping, that perhaps she may just grant you the orgasm you have been yearning for for the past hour already. She only giggles again, tapping the gag playfully.

"Greedy, greedy little bunny. Do you want to cum too, my little slut?", she taunts, tapping your nose next. Your pussy clenches at her words, massaging her pulsing cock and making her groan softly. When her eyes set on you again, you clearly see the hunger and possessiveness within them, the dangerous jealousy and lust pooling deep within beautiful pools of gold.

Again, she leans down, her chest large and heavy against yours. You squirm, moaning softly as her dress rubs up against your bare nipples.

"You're my little toy, right, bunny?", she coos, though with how she begins thrusting back into you, she knows she can't get an answer from you. "My little bunny... no one else gets you, no one else touches you, pet", she coos dreamily. You feel her hands everywhere, moving eagerly, too fast to predict. She's rough in one moment, bruising your breast as she gropes you, then soothing in the next, drawing little moans and mewls from you as her thumb rolls over your nipple and her index and middle finger trap it between them. "If anyone even looked at you, I'll tear them to pieces. Wouldn't that be romantic, bunny?", she coos, pressing a lingering kiss to your jaw.

You nod, your eyes closed, your chest heaving and pussy squelching around her. You're barely aware of what she says, though it makes little difference- she always gets her way, after all. It is only sometimes she enjoys it when you nod and whine along. You've learned long ago that your place is by her feet, quiet, but mindful, needy, but never enough to disturb her when she doesn't grant you a thing.

A pet, her pet, and a well behaved one at that.

She grins, her hand rising to brush the hair from your face. You lean into her touches hungrily, blushing as she caresses you sweetly with blood under her dark painted fingernails.

"You look so pretty when you're so full", she coos, thrusting sharply and forcing a gasp from you as though to put empathy and draw attention to just how full you are. She giggles at you, tapping your nose and the gag as though you're nothing but an adorable, little pet- ah, but you are, really.

"Don't worry, bunny", she coos, kissing your cheek softly. You feel your orgasm rising within you already, clutch her shoulders and whimper helplessly, your head spinning, your pussy and ass clenching around the plug and her cock. She giggles again, humming gently. "Don't fuss, little bunny. I'll put you back together when I'm done"

But even as she says it in this sweet, honeyed voice, even as she kisses your forehead like a lover might, her fingers dig into your breasts with bruising force and her hips roll against yours with feral hunger that's anything but gentle.

You know, it's because Mommy loves you.

She just doesn't know how to love without leaving marks.

She rolls her hips again, her cock thrusting deep into your womb, her precum drooling and smearing against your insides. When you cum, shaking, flustered, holding onto her so desperately, she only coos, thrusting harder despite how tight you are, groaning and whimpering softly at the feeling of your pussy practically milking her for an orgasm she soon gives you in return.

You feel her try to bite at your throat as she shakes after her orgasm, thrusting slowly, but never stopping. Thick, girly cum drools inside of you and drips out whenever she pulls back enough for some to leak out at the sides of her cock. By now, you know you're pumped full of her, a bunny bred by the big, bad fox that so easily caught it between its sharp, bloodied teeth.

Ah, but you cling to this fox with all your might, shaking, moaning around your gag, looking up at her with such devotion it only turns her on even more and makes her slam into you rougher and faster.

Getting fed up with your collar being in the way, you gasp when she bites into it and rips it from you sharply, snarling in frustration until it finally moves from you, revealing bruised, red skin she thinks looks positively adorable.

Your breath hitches as her sharp, fang-like teeth graze your throat next. She doesn't bite, not yet, but savors this. She savors the loud heartbeat she easily picks up, the feel of your pulse beneath her lips, your little hitched breaths she steals from you when she thrusts sharply and you can only cling to her helplessly.

"Good bunny, you should be all mine", she whines softly, kissing along your throat as she thrusts. You watch her with wide eyes, tilting your head back to give her more room- much to her satisfaction.

Feeling her kiss your throat affectionately, feeling almost clingy perhaps, you're once again reminded of just how unpredictable she is. And her words... you clench around her cock, even as you're dizzyingly aware of the danger you're in. Daniela is dangerous at the best of times. But when she is jealous of having to share you with her sisters? She's outright deadly.

You feel her hot body move against you, feel her cradle your face and kiss at your throat gently. She rolls her hips deep into you, your stomach bulging each time she does so, her wet cock twitching and pulsing within you.

"You're mine", she whispers hotly, licking a slow stripe up your neck. "I see the marks they leave, though...like you're theirs in the way you're mine", she whispers. You shiver below her, gasping, twitching like a real bunny in her painful grasp, yet moaning and mewling with every thrust into you, every thrust that has you see stars and blush helplessly at the sound of your wet pussy taking her inside.

You think, this might be the end. Stuffed full, throat torn?

Will you die that way?

It seems, not.

She giggles lowly, kissing right above your beating pulse. You know, she's drinking in your fear, keeping you just aware enough to be terrified and aroused alike. After all, your Mommy does claim so very often; a terrified little bunny is a good bunny.

"I thought I had to tear your throat out, make sure they can't have you", she whispers, giggling again as your heart beats faster and pussy tightens around her, daring to pull another orgasm from you. You feel her thrust faster, her hand sliding down to your hip to hold you in place when each slam of her hips against yours push you up and down on the bed.

"But then I remembered... I don't have to kill you to prove a point..."

She holds you tighter, and you gasp. She moans at the sound, giggling breathily, heady and lost, like the very idea of you trembling is her drug of choice.

"I just have to fill you up", she hums, "until there's nothing...", she taps your nose, pressing another kiss to your throat. "nothing, nothing, not a single drop of space left in you that isn't me"

You squeal against the gag as her fingers curl possessively around your lip and she lifts you, your legs wrapping around her out of instinct. She thrusts harder and deeper with the new angle, the fox at last grabbing and breeding her bunny to her liking. You moan and gasp, your body trembling in her grasp.

That, when your fear is so very irresistible, is when she strikes.

Your scream comes out muffled when you feel her teeth messily dig into your exposed throat, an orgasm torn from both of you at the intensity of it. You shake, squirm and cry in pain and pleasure alike, her hips thrusting relentlessly even as she shoots ropes of cum into you, your pussy filled more and more by the second.

She licks across the wounds, digs deep and groans hotly as blood floods her mouth. You're shaking, shivering in her arms, trapped between the mattress and her body. You can't run, wouldn't run. But knowing you couldn't has you tighten around her again, knowing the predator on top of you would easily not only catch up to you within seconds, but also merely snarl, yank you down on her, thrust her hips and ruin you until your womb leaks her cum makes you see stars, still.

You cry out as she bites down again, hard, much harder than her sisters do- uncontrolled, jealous, possessive. She marks you, owns you, scars your throat to forever make you wear her mark. You swear you see stars.

She won't kill you, you pray. She hasn't this far, she has always tended to your wounds, always ensured you live before patting you, kissing you, and putting you back in your cage.

She pulls back for a moment, just enough to look down at you, her lips wet and dripping your blood, her eyes golden and glassy with uncontained lust. Your neck is red and raw, throbbing with pain where she bit you, and now you feel her hand slide down, past your breast in a slow, teasing matter.

You gasp when it stops just above your womb, possessive, trembling with restraint you know she doesn't have.

"That's mine, my cute bunny", she whispers, voice hoarse, breath hot. Blood drools from her bottom lip and drops to your gag; you doubt she even notices it. Her thumb brushes over the spot gently, loving almost, before she slams her hips back against you again, slow and deep, and you choke on a cry against the gag as your back arches from the force and your legs tighten around her body.

Your thighs tremble already, shaking from the relentless pace she's set and the damned plug making you far, far more sensitive than you would normally be. Every thrust has her balls slap against your tail, making you gasp and clench around her, and every thrust deep into you has her curved cock slide up right against your G-Spot. She drinks you in like wine, giggling to your whimpers and moaning at your clenching, dripping pussy around her.

She loves seeing you like this, helpless, too overstimulated and needy to do a thing. You can't focus on the pain at your throat anymore, can only moan into your gag and bite down on the carrot-shaped part reaching into your mouth, moaning, whining, crying helplessly as she uses you like the favorite toy you are to her.

Ah, and she is relentless. She rocks herself against you, her cock so deep inside you feel it rock against the plug from the other side with every thrust and shift. She's panting, gone, lost in the haze of her own need. You whine as you get close again, your overstimulated body receiving no rest, no break, nothing but the pleasure she offers, and takes for herself.

You feel...full, your ass tightening around the plug with every thrust of her hips, your ass and pussy full because of her. You can't beg, can't squirm with her hold on you and your head light from the blood running from your neck.

She bites again, right above your heart this time, though far more gentle than before, as though actively making sure she doesn't tear your skin any more than she must. Your chest is falling and rising rapidly, your heart beating wildly. Every twitch of her cock inside of you matches you moan, every thrust has your toes curl and has you see stars.

Ordinarily, you would whine and beg to cum, knowing she forgets about your needs at times, usually prioritizing herself, much like her sisters.

Tonight, you know you won't have to, know you will cum within only a few moments, forced over the edge, your weak body tightening, then staying limp on the bed again. Your mind is hazy, drool sticking to the gag as you're pounded into the mattress. She doesn't move from you, doesn't let go of you, but the vibrations against your chest when she moans and sucks at the blood have you shake and clench even tighter around her.

Your eyes are glazed, hands weakly holding onto her as you cum again and send her over the edge, too. She laughs, mad, beautiful, your everything. You don't even notice her cum filling you up again, don't notice how she thrusts her hips slowly, groaning as she fucks her cum deeper into you.

Again, she doesn't draw away after, her body resting on top of yours, her fingers playfully brushing the hair from your face and readjusting the messy bunny ears on top of your head. She tsks, though doesn't comment on it, likely aware it was her rough thrusts and rocking of your body that nearly knocked them from you.

Now, you shiver when she rises, her cock still nestled inside of you, full, warm, bulged slightly. Her hair falls around her like a curtain, framing her flushed face as she takes you in. Her dress is torn at places, bloodied at others. You whimper, automatically try to press your legs together only to bump into her hips instead.

No, no hiding away from her.

Her golden eyes are blown wide with desire, her chest heaving as she catches her breath. Exhausted, but not spent. You can only whimper, reminded of the countless days she had you strung up in the air, used for hours to no end, her stamina far outmatching yours. How you would feel her toy with you until you'd pass out, only to awaken to her mouth on your clit and her fingers already stuffing a larger tail plug into you.

Her toy, forever.

You love it, of course. Love being hers. Being theirs.

Their bunny.

Now, her bunny.

Her fingers trail down again, slick with arousal and blood, before pressing firmly against your clit. You twitch, squirming beneath her and moaning pathetically into the gag, your eyes snapping open and widening for just long enough for you to catch a glimpse of her adoring smile turning to a wicked grin.

"Awwwh, bunny", she coos, tapping her lip as though in thought. She smiles then, her eyes scanning over your bare body and lingering on the two bites standing out across your chest and throat. "Don't stop playing yet, pet! We can still have so much fun!", she coos.

Fun, could mean anything with Daniela.

You jump as she rubs your clit in slow, smooth circles with her index fingertip, her other hand coming down to pat your slightly bulged stomach gently. She hums again, giggling when a thought strikes her.

"Do you think it's permanent, little bunny? Your soft pussy bred? You'd look so cute carrying my babies!", she coos, her cock twitching inside of you as she thinks. She has heard, after all, pregnant pussy is better. Oh, and how she would die to find out.

You can't think, can just breathe heavily through your nose with her finger rubbing steadily at your clit. You pulse below her, ache and twitch whenever she rubs a little too hard. Again, you're sure she does it on purpose sometimes, if only to feel you jump and clench so adorably around her.

She moans, soft and aching, her head tilted back as she slowly moves her hips back and forth. She has no intention of taking you as rough anymore, not now that she has what she has wanted: her cum, deep inside of you, and her scent all over you.

She leans in again, her flies buzzing quietly around her. You shiver, feeling them buzz along your sensitive skin. If she minds your squirming and your bucking hips, she doesn't show it.

Instead, Daniela shoots you a seductive, sweet smile, lips brushing against your chest lightly, but never quite placing a kiss there.

Then, her eyes meet yours again, and you groan into the gag softly as she steps closer, her cock fully back inside of you as she speaks;

"You're not going anywhere, my sweet bunny. Not until I know it's stuck"

Her rolls her hips, just once, and it's enough for you to see stars again.

This time, you get no more warning than the words just whispered to you, your body hers, your mind even more so. Ah, and she loves it.

She lunges.

#cassandra dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu #bela dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu x reader

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camilledlc · 9 months ago

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Can we talk about the fact that Deadpool is supposed to be one of the strongest character in the entire Marvel Universe?

Cause yes, for those who may not know, Wade is canonically one of the strongest character in the Marvel Universe. And why is that? Well, it is due to two things : being incredibly good at fighting, and always regenerating.

The first one seems obvious as to why that would make him extremely strong. He knows all about fighting techniques, has military experience and training, has been an accomplished mercenary for years, etc. He knows how fight. Besides, he knows multiple combat techniques and can easily switch between them, making him even more threatening.

And while the second point may seem obvious as to why it's an advantage, it is far more valuable to him than you can expect. The first advantage is obviously that he can't die. And can't be seriously injured. So he's basically unbeatable. Yeah, that's kind of a big advantage.

But it also includes other physical advantages. For example, it grants him a strength that is far superior to other people's strength. It's the same for stamina, balance, flexibility, dexterity, body control, speed, etc. That man knows how to fight, can't die, can't get severely and irreversibly injured, and he's enhanced?

And that's not all, there's more! Because of his regenerating factors, he can't be possessed of mind-controlled. Since his cells are constantly changing by dying and being renewed, his soul and mind are too inconsistent to be controlled. You can still attack him psychically, but it is extremely difficult to read his mind--even for a trained mind-reader--because of how messy and moving it is. Since it's so messy, it often confuses the mind-reader more than it helps them. Getting the right information out of his brain is near-impossible. A version of Charles Xavier even died upon entering his mind, if I'm not mistaken (I can be wrong about that, let me know if so!).

And because he's literally the best, there is still another advantage! Since his brain is so messy and constantly moving, changing, he is quite unpredictable. His opponents have an extremely hard time figuring him out, not helping by the fact that he acts dumber than he actually is. Trying to fight someone who is this good at fighting and always finds the move you didn't expect to come is quite difficult. And because he isn't just unpredictable to others but also to himself, there's no way of knowing for sure what he'll do next. If an enemy think they have figured out how he fights and what will be his strategy, he's gonna completely change it on a whim, and he himself won't see it coming!

So yeah, definitely one of the most skilled character in the entire Marvel Universe, and seeing him in an Avengers movie would be so fun.

(Also, this is very specific to Deadpool and Wolverine, but can we talk about how Cassandra Nova could somehow easily enter his brain, find the right memory and change it? So, either she is way better than what we thought, or Wade was doing particularly bad during this movie, maybe due to him just being out a slump/still feeling depressed and so his mind his less sharp than usual. What do you think?)

#wade wilson #deadpool #deadpool and wolverine #cassandra nova #character study #poolverine #deadclaws

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carelessflower · 13 days ago

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magnus tarot card and their meanings

I - THE WARLOCK

Based on: I - The Magician

Upright: willpower, desire, creation, manifestation

Reversed: trickery, illusions, out of touch

Relevancy: Magnus is one of, if not the most prominent character in the Shadowhunter Chronicles, appearing and being the main helper consistently throught out different series and generations of shadowhunter. The card also represent both sides of magic - rooted from his demonic origin

VI - LOVE

Based on: VI - The Lovers

Upright: partnerships, duality, union

Reversed: loss of balance, one-sidedness, disharmony

Relevancy: A lot of overlapping details with Alec's card. It's interesting how for them, it is unclear where the angel wing is from, as from a certain angel, it looks like Magnus is shielding Alec with his wing or it just curl up around Alec in contentment. For a chaotic character who secretly crave peace and serenity, this card seem appropriate

XXI - THE WORLD

Based on: XXI - The World

Upright: fulfillment, harmony, completion

Reversed: incompletion, no closure

Relevancy: Maybe to symbolize how Magnus is seeking for fulfillment in life. Also he can be seen as a figure of harmony for shadowhunter who's seeking his help

III - LUDUS - FOUR OF RUNES

Based on: Three of Cups

Upright: friendship, community, happiness

Reversed: overindulgence, gossip, isolation

Relevancy: Magnus's hedonistic side. Ludus is playful love, full of lust with no promise of commitment or responsibility, it certainly rings through to the Magnus of this era

IV - FEARLESS - FOUR OF RUNES

Based on: Four of Cups

Upright: apathy, contemplation, disconnectedness

Reversed: sudden awareness, choosing happiness, acceptance

Relevancy: In contrast to the previous card, this one may symbolize Magnus courage's in choosing Alec, something promise peace but also unpredictable and full of challenges. A fun observation, out of all five of Magnus's tarot cards so far, Alec is featured in nearly half of them (2/5)

Theory Time

A new Tarot Card for Magnus can be Death (end of cycle, beginnings, change, metamorphosis vs fear of change, holding on, stagnation, decay) or an Eldest Curses The Wheel of Fortune (change, cycles, inevitable fate vs no control, clinging to control, bad luck card) with Tessa

Any theory for Magnus's card?

tag list: @magnus-the-maqnificent @literallytypogod @hoezier-than-thou @sociallyineptbibliophile @queenlilith43

@khaleesiofalicante @wandererbyheartt @raziyekroos @onetimetwotimesthreetimess @alexandergideonslightwood

@noah-herondale-lightwood @elettralightwood @dustandducks @deliciousdetectivestranger @delightfullyterrible

@letsgofortacos

@kita-no @thelightofthebane @secrettryst @goldendreams3 @cityofdownwardspirals

@stupidfuckindinosaur

@i-have-not-slept @rinadragomir @potato-jem @kasper-tag

@banesapothecary @culiehua @seolihexagon @n3v3r-l3ft

art credit: cassandra jean

tarot card meaning credit: labyrinthos

#magnus bane #tsc #tmi #shadowhunters #the mortal instruments #the shadowhunter chronicles #city of glass #city of heavenly fire #meta #shadowhunter tarot card #pt2 for magnus as promise to bestie

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fryingpan1234567 · 8 months ago

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so what if the Bats were Spiders instead?

in a different universe, Bruce Wayne grew up with arachnophobia instead of chiroptophobia. he found secret experiments in a lab beneath their family estate, and it didn’t take him long to pick up the family business.

neurotoxin experiments. spiders.

in a different universe, Bruce Wayne became Spider-Man.

in a different universe, Dick Grayson didn’t need to be bitten by a spider to pick up the Spider-Man mantle. he grew up knowing how to do all the acrobatics and combat anyways— all B had to do was give him web shooters and a suit. but there couldn’t be two Spider-Man’s. so he became Nightwing. but with a blue spider on his chest instead of a bird!

Nightwing’s webs come from his escrima sticks. they’re packing some serious voltage, so sometimes in a pinch he’ll use them instead of his police-issued taser. his favorite part about the whole spider thing is that he can fully just… throw himself off of buildings. and not die. he’s an adrenaline junkie, what can he say?

in a different universe, Jason Todd did everything the same. tried to steal the wheels off the vehicle of the most famous vigilante in Gotham. B picked him up and let him choose the spider and gave him the power to do good.

Robin “giving him magic” didn’t stop the Green Goblin from caving in his skull. although spiders you thought you’d killed do have a way of disappearing.

and returning. in a different universe, the Red Hood took the black widow as his mascot and nobody could do anything in Gotham City without him knowing about it. he single-handedly put down all the arms dealers in the city.

in a different universe, Tim Drake made his own spider. he’d been a fan of Thomas and Bruce Wayne’s work for his whole life, or at least since he learned how to read— and he figured he could get Spider-Man’s attention if he was able to replicate the project as young as he did.

oh, he got Spidey’s attention all right. befriending and adopting an alien symbiote will do that. player 4 has joined the game.

in a different universe, Venom is co-piloted by Tim, who really does like aliens. B thinks it’s a tiny bit weird, but while Tim is tiny his alien companion is very much not. it’s extra armor.

Tim works at the Daily Bugle. nobody knows how exactly he gets the quality kind of photos he does of Gotham’s Spider-family situation, but who’s complaining? he’s just really good at his job.

in a different universe, Cassandra Cain was bitten by a spider before she even met Bruce Wayne. her mother had trained her for combat for her whole life. she couldn’t prepare her for superpowers.

B was happy to help. in a different universe, rather than Cass becoming Blackbat, she took on the alias Black Widow. watch your back for her, though. she’s got the same deadly instinct in every universe.

in a different universe, Stephanie Brown became the first Spider-Woman. of course, she wasn’t the only one, but there’s something about being the original, isn’t there?

she knows she’s funny. she thinks it’s part of the job; it feels right. she’s the closest to the average canon Spider-Man. she could’ve been recruited to the Society at any point in time. and there’s something about that too.

in a different universe, Damian Wayne was born with superpowers. he’d inherited Bruce’s from birth. Talia was quick to hand him off once she realized her baby could crawl on walls and ceilings. the Spider Cave was getting a bit crowded, but what’s one more dangerous, unpredictable, biologically enhanced child? bring it on.

aside from Hood, Tarantula is the only Spider willing to kill a man on the field. yeah, as in. bird-eating tarantula. Robin. get it?

of course, in a different universe, he still had his katana. wouldn’t be Damian Wayne without it. his favorite thing is to swing down from a skyscraper with his webs and run through bad guys like kebabs. B says it’s immoral, but who can be mad about stabbing Doc Ock’s goons?

in another universe, Duke Thomas is the most famous member of the family. he’s the other closest to canon Spider-Man. he takes the day jobs, he talks to the press, he’s the least-hated at the Daily Bugle.

his webs glow. that makes night ops harder. so he sticks to the sunlight. people started calling him the Spider-Signal. which doesn’t make a lot of sense? but Duke is the kinda guy to just kinda shrug it off, because he’s not gonna take on the entire city’s press on his own.

Miguel O’Hara stayed the bleeding hell away from this universe. this group of bats spiders were too unpredictable to have in the Spider Society at all. there were no missions there, but constant surveillance. (until. you know. Miles Morales rocked up with a proposition to take down a tyrannical system with horrible judgement and a corrupted leader. and then Miguel couldn’t ignore the Wayne family anymore.)

how I love the multiverse. endless possibilities, amirite?

(please ask me to write more for this au. drabbles. more characters. PLEASE)

#dc #dc spiderverse au #batfam #bruce wayne #batman #dick grayson #nightwing #jason todd #red hood #tim drake #red robin #cassandra cain #blackbat #stephanie brown #spoiler #damian wayne #robin #duke thomas #signal

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urf4vsc0rpio · 6 months ago

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what would you rate the dimi sisters on freak scale

like 1-10 how freaky

-dani luvr ^-^

Dimitrescu Sisters Freak Scale

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Nsfw, mentions of Dacryphilia, degrading, toys, biting, blood consumption, oral

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: that's kinda...𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂

𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: Might not be accurate, idk 😭😭 I probably forgot a few things I wanna add, idk and I feel like I went off topic a few times..

Bela Dimitrescu

Freak Scale: 6.5/10

- Okay let's be real here, I feel like she'd be lowkey busy asf yk? Older sister stuff

- Possessive, def

- Definitely pathetically whiny when she bottoms

- But when she does have time to get 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂? Damn. Sending thoughts and prayers along w an ambulance

- Usually composed but it completely crumbles when she gets to let loose

- Has a shit ton of stress I bet

- Would it be bad if I said Bela has a mommy or mistress kink...?

- SERVICE TOP BELA. IDC WHAT YALL SAY. I STAND W THIS UNTIL THE DAY THAT I DIE.

- She likes to tease u occasionally but she's hella subtle w it (Still works tho)

- She loves taking her time, I can confirm bcs I'm her wife

- I feel like she enjoys light bondage, not w ropes but like fancy ass ribbon

- If you would let her, she'd definitely take her stress out on you..just sayin

- Fuckass biter. Definitely likes to mark up your inner thighs (This is totally from a fanart of her that I saw)

- #1 Edging and blindfold lover. Could be on u, could be on her. She just loves it

- legit LOVES. LOOVVESSS painfully slow strip shows. She wants to watch you suffer and squirm in your spot.

- Praising def

- Aftercare w her is the BEST. (I can also confirm this, I'm her wife)

Cassandra Dimitrescu

Freaky Scale: 11/10

- Just look at her.

- Massive prey predator kink

- Crazily possessive it scares me

- "Where are you going, little one?" She asks teasingly while you would run for your life as she hunts you down

- Expect to be manhandled A LOT.

- This mf is 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂

- Would it also be bad if I said she has a daddy kink...? Listen, I can explain. (No I can't)

- Bondage. Lots and lots of bondage along w gagging/blindfolds

- How would she gag u, u ask? Could be using ur panties, her fingers, ball gags, hell maybe even a strap

- Also a massive biter, more chompy than Dani and Bela. She knows her fangs r sharp and she's gonna abuse that fact

- Cassie w a happy trail...bevshwgvdbsve

- Bites all over ur body, marking you up as hers

- Dacryphilia screams Cassie, she loves watching you cry from pleasure (maybe even overstimulation)

- "You can take more, you're my good little whore aren't you?" She says while pushing you past overstimulation, relishing in how beautiful you looked crying for her

- Be bratty w her, I dare you. That woman definitely enjoys brat taming

- Spanking + strap ons = Cassandra

- MASSIVE top, she can be on the bottom yet still top you

- Have I told you guys that she rlly enjoys manhandling??

- Topping her is like crazy rare, idk what you did if you managed to convince her in letting you top

- Also a fan of edging, she just loves hearing you beg

- CHOKING. OMFG HER AND CHOKING. NEVER SEPARATED.

- This woman I swear...would definitely strap you to the bed with a vibrator on its max or lowest setting to either overstimulate you (Max setting) or to torture you (lowest setting)

- She loves testing how much u can handle

- Rough sex 🤝 Cassandra

- Would definitely pull u away from whatever ur doing for a quicky

Daniela Dimitrescu

Freaky Scale: 10/10

- Switch. I believe in switch Daniela supremacy and I will DIE on this hill

- I feel like she occasionally likes being bratty when you're not paying attention to her

- My goodness this woman is obsessed w your blood, you can't prove me wrong

- If u think abt it, she wouldn't be afraid to show off her obsessive devotion towards u

- Unpredictable if u ask me, one moment she can be all playful and clingy then suddenly you'd find yourself either pinned to the bed or on top of her

- Experimental. Oh you mentioned a kink u wanna try? Sign her tf up!

- Also a biter, atp everyone is a biter (They can't help it, you just taste so good man)

- She has sharp fangs and she knows it. She enjoys how u shudder and whimper whenever her fangs graze ur skin

- Overstimulation, either her receiving or you, she'd still enjoy it

- Edging for her, idk I have a feeling she likes being edged

- Eating out 🤝 Daniela

- Once again, I will also die on this hill. Daniela is ADDICTED to ur taste like a smoker being addicted to vaping. "eh I can quit whenever" is like Daniela saying "Hey! I wouldn't mind fucking u without eating u out!"

- Every single sesh would always involve Dani going down on you.

- Definitely enjoys having her hair tugged, it just means that she's doing a good job

- OH THIS WOMAN LOVESSS BEING PRAISED.

- Have I mentioned how much she enjoys eating u out? Well she does

- Also a fan of light bondage

- "You taste so good..I can't get enough" She mumbled against your cunt, looking all pussy drunk with her nails digging into your thighs almost painfully

- This woman is possessive and u can't prove me wrong

- Cats 🤝 Daniela = Rubbing up against their owners

- Definitely enjoys being pounded into the bed w a strap, grips the sheets so hard she probably tore it once

- Scissoring + Vibrator combo

- Loves begging and LOVES hearing u beg

- Blindfolds on her, she def thinks it's so fun when she doesn't know what ur gonna do to her

- Would definitely talk about how you're all hers and how much she loves you while she fucks you senseless

- Can be rough whenever she wants to but would also go gentle if u ask her to

#re8 village #daniela dimitrescu #bela dimitrescu #oneshot #re8 daniela dimitrescu #re8 bela dimitrescu #cassandra dimitrescu #resident evil village #fem reader #re8 cassandra dimitrescu

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elfbotanist · 7 months ago

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working on my version of veilguard, so far it goes like:

act 1:

exactly the same. inquisitor lavellan hired people who were unpredictable to track down Solas. And they did, untill that plan backfired. Well, shit. Solas is trapped. Evunaris are blighting the world with their two blighted dragons.

Solas continues to advice rook and rook informs the inquisitor. We need the wardens. But the first warden hates the inquisitor as much as he hates rook. Inquisitor is a wise woman, she knows she can talk down first warden so she does exactly that (you can do that as rook in game so why not as inquisitor? I seriously don't know why this game won't work if inquisitor was the protagonist but anyways it is what it is. Let's continue)

act 2:

after weisshaupt's fall, thousands of wardens dead, inquisitor realises this is not going to work. A group of seven misfits cannot win a war against immortal gods. They had an army, a network of spies and alliances with two nations when they were fighting corypheus... they need that strength once again. So time for inquisition 2.0 (kinda makes sense why different provinces/organisations will be willing to make an alliance with a former hero with a name than a random kid). So rook has some ground work to do while the inquisitor sets up the new inquisition at the lighthouse, which is much easier because they got dreadwolf's eluvian. The lighthouse was the heart of Solas' rebellion and now it's functioning as that once again. Lighthouse servers its purpose. Every adviser is there, inquisitor herself now acts like an adviser and rook gets the job done.

But you cannot win a war against immortal "gods" without having an immortal "god" on your own team, right? You need everyone on your side, even the people you can't trust fully. Inquisitor understands this and some members of the inquisition, that is Cassandra, is more than willing to get Solas out of that prison and have a "talk" about varric. And Cole needs someone who can understand him "i do not understand...the demon behind the crow's eyes is a friend or a foe?". So the inquisitor makes a deal with the dreadwolf. Freedom in exchange of his alliance.

They track down the dragons. With the help of our new dragon hunter, remaining wardens, what's left of inquisition army, the crows/shadow dragons and the dreadwolf himself. Rook manages to kill the dragons and wound Ghilan'nain with minimum loss of life.

In Arlathan, Rook et al infiltrates venatori's ritual. At lighthouse Solas senses that Elgar'nan has trapped Rook and their companions. He informs the inquisitor that he can help...Inquisitor suprised from his eagerness to help rook of all people (whose daily agenda is to annoy Solas to death) is hesitant. Solas says he wants to save the elves just like inquisitor wants to save her people.

"There is no other motive behind my plea other than saving innocents from being sacrificed for Elgar'nan's sadistic whims, like I did during my rebellion...Trust me vhenan. I know his mind"

So rather than Rook just telling Lavellan that "Oh Solas is good. You should totally try to redeem him". I'd rather have Adviser Inquisitor Lavellan and Adviser Solas slowly grow close to each other once again, like they did back in skyhold. A perfect parallel.

We all know he can't help but rizz her again with his fade talk

"Allow me to show you something, Inquisitor"

"You and your sweet fade talk"

"No fade tongue this time"

They relive all dai solavellan scenes... Even the crestwood scene. (These parallel moments with her are important because we know she almost changed his mind. That's why he ran away. Avoided her like plague for last 10 years because she has that power. To change his mind. And reliving dai moments with her is going to be the catalyst when we have to stop him in the end and redeem him)

It's here, in the garden, she mentions the letter he had sent. He finally... FINALLY tells her everything. His past, the titans, the veil, the evunaris, the dagger, the blight... his people... him being a former spirit of wisdom... Everything. Lavellan connects the dots and asks if this is why he was so hurt when his friend, a spirit of wisdom was corrupted, because it was personal, because it was his trauma. All new, faded for her.

"Forced to do something against its purpose, fighting... Is that what happened to you vhenan?"

"... Yes"

"But you were always Wisdom to us, to me. My Solas. My wisdom. Everyday at haven and skyhold...I saw the real you. I saw Wisdom. The self you're always mourning. I loved all of you. I still do."

"Your empathy is a blessing. Your spirit pure and unmarred."

"I am only human, Solas. And so are you"

"That I am. A broken man."

"Not to me my love."

act 3:

Eclipse takes place. Solas and Rook kill Ghilan'nain but Neve/Bellara is lost. With the strength of the new inquisition and its allies, it is much easier to get in Minrathous. Rook and companions along with Inquisitor and Solas fight the blight. Solas tells Rook and Inquisitor the blight can sense him, some intelligence is controlling the blight tendril. They need to get to Archon's Palace and kill Elgar'nan with the dagger, while he fight the archdemon.

"What? On your own?"

"Don't be afraid, vhenan. All these years... My feelings for you, they never changed. Ar lath ma"

There's pain in his eyes, like that night in Crestwood. She's not sure what he means.

"Solas..."

" Now go with rook. When next we meet, let us be standing over Elgar'nan's body!"

"Woooow... Your husband is a... dog?"

"That's a wolf rook and he's not my husband"

"He is huge though"

"And fluffy..."

"Inquisitor, you can dream about petting your wolf husband after we're done here."

"He's not my-"

"LET'S GOOOO!"

If Solas is Wisdom, then he is also Pride. In Emmrich words "He is however, a former spirit. Solas cannot help but listen to appeals to his nature... his yearning for reflection." And his duty to save his people. So one last betrayal from the dreadwolf. Blighted Neve/Bellara informs that killing Elgar'nan will destroy the veil.

"Of course he lied! I knew something was wrong... his eyes. He's a terrible liar"

"Inquisitor what are we supposed to do?"

"We stick to the plan, Rook. I'll deal with Solas"

*outside dreadwolf cries in pain*

"Solas..."

"Inquisitor, Solas will do his part. We must press on forward.

"Yes Cassandra, but I need you and Cole with me."

"I understand. Always with you inquisitor."

Inquisitor, Casandra and Cole fight the blight and darkspawns, helping rook and companions get to Elgar'nan.

But Solas can't win alone. Blighted Neve/Bellara uses her power to free Solas and he kills the archdemon, making Elgar'nan mortal. Rook and companions kills him and the veil starts disintegrating.

"I am sorry for this final betrayal. But when you'll see the old world restored..."

Rook persuades Solas. He relents but it's not enough.

"I cannot. To stop now would dishonour those I have wronged to come this far"

"Even if those you've wronged asked you to stop?"

"Vhenan..."

"You think you've gone too far to come back. But you're wrong! I am here, walking the dinan'shiral with you!"

"I lied. I betrayed you."

"I forgive you. All you need to do is stop!"

"Ir abelas vhenan. But I cannot."

(I had to add my boy)

*Cole*

"They sleep, masked in a mirror, hiding, hurting, and to wake them I must burn down the sky again. Break the old chains. But it's not enough. Never enough. This world is too real."

"Cole?"

*Cassandra*

"You need to stop"

"But Varric...."

"Not your fault completely. Honour the death of your friend. All those years ago. When I asked what do you believe in, and you said you believed in People. We are people. Have faith in us, Solas"

*Cole*

"I long for my home, my people, my world. But here is also home. Here is home. She is home. Vhenan, my heart. Ar lath, ma vhenan. Wherever you are, there is my heart. Wherever you are, I am home. She is home and my heart and a cold fortress in the mountains that shines so brightly because she shines, she has made it home and they were together, the Inquisition, my family.... You are not alone Solas"

*Lavellan*

"Banal nadas. Ar lath ma vhenan"

Solas breaks and binds himself to the veil. Vows to keep it intact, protect innocents and help with the blight.

He's ashamed. So ashamed but he needs her to know his sincerity. Needs her to know that he can be that man she fell in love with. Her Solas, as she has said that night in the garden. So he looks at her finally, in her eyes and says. "I will go now and seek atonement." It's a promise, of a better duty, a better path, for her.

"But you do not have to go alone"

"Ar ghilas vir banal"

"Tel banal ara'ma vir shiral ma'lasa. bellanaris"

"Bellanaris"

And now we turn to my beautiful city

Black skies changed into blue

And my love is so wise and so pretty

I no longer dream of her

cause she is real

she is here

she is mine

And I am whole

#dragon age #dragon age veilguard #solas #solavellan #solas x female lavellan #dav spoilers #veilguard spoilers #datv spoilers #elfbotanist writing

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sig-num · 6 months ago

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seeing eugene and rapunzel interact in tangled before ever after is so interesting bc like. i think it showcases really well how good the writers are at fleshing out their character’s different perspectives of life, and why they perceive things in that way. especially because it’s shown rather than told, like how we see rapunzel at first overjoyed at eugene’s proposal only to be set off by a specific trigger sentence / implication

eugene’s someone who’s never had stability before in his life. growing up in an orphanage and shaped by the abandonment he felt in his early years, and done wrong by the opportunities not offered to him, he’s lived his life on the road and on the unpredictable path of crime. aside from lance (and even with him it seems rocky) most of his relationships are marked by transaction, not care. so finding someone that sees past what he needed to be to survive, finding someone that gives him that stability? it makes sense that he wants to cling onto that. he outwardly talks abt it in the movie too!! his willingness to be vulnerable and open around rapunzel is so heartwarming, bc from his background i could only imagine how much he probably struggle(s/d) with getting to that point. AHH!!

but even with that aside, he’s also just… seen the world. having moved from place to place so often, he’s seen so much and experienced even more. he says this line that’s like, “i’ve been all over the world, and chances are, it’s not getting any better than this”. from his perspective it’s true, but to rapunzel and where she’s currently at in her healing journey? PROBABLY THE WORST THING TO SAY HAHA

and then we have rapunzel, someone who’s NEVER seen the world. for the first eighteen years of her life, her most formative years, she was locked away inside of a tower, stuck in a single room. and now that she’s free, there’s only even more holding her down: her father’s (albeit well-intentioned) helicoptering and her royal responsibilities. she has everything she thinks that she wants, and while told that she’s free, what happens around her proves (to her) that she isn’t. we watch as she struggles to adjust to an entirely new world, all the while trying to understand this discontentment she’s feeling and WHY — especially when almost everyone around her is telling her that she should be happy.

rapunzel, at her core, is free-spirited. she does things her way and lives to experience, aiming to make where she was a little brighter when she leaves it. there’s a restlessness she has from being locked away, and in order for her to be happy she needs to express that. the world is entirely new to her, and this foils eugene’s lived experience of having seen so much. while eugene has grown almost “tired” of the world, rapunzel is deeply enchanted by it — and this enchantment reignites a passion inside of eugene, which they end up exploring and touching upon in the series

while i watched the show first before the movie accidentally XD i can safely that that the movie does a really good job at setting up the series. it shows clear character dynamics and sets up conflict within those dynamics to be explored and then resolved, and while this post is focused on rapunzel and eugene, i could talk for equally as long abt the other character’s like king frederic and cassandra. GOOD MOVIE!!!! AHHH!!!!!!

#tangled the series #tangled the movie #tts #rapunzels tangled adventure #rapunzel tts #eugene tts #eugene fitzherbert #rapunzel #ramble post!!!!#i have so many thoughts all of the time

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killeromanoff · 7 months ago

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I KNOW YOUR GHOST | ch. 3

summary: Cassie navigates a haze of alcohol and emotions as she confronts the weight of her past and future decisions.

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

warnings: Mild language, Themes of Corruption, Power dynamics, Age-Gap (Cassie is 25 yo), Moral conflict, Slow-burn tension, Alcohol Use, Realism in Media Industry, Self-doubting

w.c: 15.7k

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

o3. Never break the chain

The warmth of Bar Sinister wrapped around Declan the moment he stepped inside, a soft hum of voices and clinking glasses providing the backdrop. The place had a worn-in charm, like an old leather armchair—comfortably familiar yet quietly sophisticated. The light fixtures cast a muted, golden glow, pooling in corners and leaving enough shadows to feel discreet. It was the kind of place where people came to talk, not to be seen.

Declan’s gaze swept the room, scanning for Rupert.

His friend was nowhere to be found, undoubtedly caught up in whatever social entanglement he met in his way. Typical of him. Declan let out a quiet sigh, adjusting his cufflinks—a subconscious habit more than anything.

Then his gaze landed on Bas, comfortably sprawled at a counter near the far corner. The scene was familiar enough: Bas gesturing animatedly, the low light reflecting off the condensation of a half-empty glass at his side. His grin was wide, his loose posture exuding the kind of effortless charm Declan had come to associate with him.

Typical Bas.

At first, Declan had hoped to find Rupert with Bas, since both were joined at the hip.

Where Bas was, usually, Rupert was as well.

However, this time, next to Bas sat a woman, her back to Declan. Again, typical Bas.

At first glance, she didn’t seem remarkable. Dark brown hair, the soft curls catching the light to reveal subtle auburn undertones—spilling over her shoulders, posture relaxed, head tilted backwards as she laughed at something Bas had said to her.

Declan nearly dismissed it as just another encounter for Bas, who had a way of surrounding himself with women who were drawn to his easy humor and magnetic energy. But as the journalist stepped closer, something about the way the woman moved—a slight tilt of her head, a gesture of her hand—nagged at him.

And then her voice reached his ears, carrying over the soft background sound of the bar.

“You know,” she remarked, casually, “you’d make a terrible lawyer. Your evidence is a horse, and your defense strategy is sarcasm.”

Declan halted in his tracks.

That voice.

Recognition struck him like a sudden shock, and everything fell into place. It wasn’t just any woman sitting with Bas—it was Cassie.

Cassie Jones.

The realization sent a strange mix of emotions through him, each one colliding before he could fully process them. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected when he walked in, but it certainly wasn’t this.

Cassie, in this bar, with Bas—her back to him, her shoulders shaking with laughter—felt as unexpected as it was unnerving.

Declan’s gaze tunneled, focusing on her with newfound intent.

Her chestnut locks cascaded around her face in gentle waves, reflecting the soft golden light from above. Even from behind, she exuded a vibrant energy that drew the eye irresistibly. She leaned in gradually, resting her elbow on the table, her fingers loosely holding her glass as if it anchored her to the moment.

The sharp lines of her black blazer stood out against the cozy ambiance of the bar, yet it felt entirely appropriate. It complemented her persona—elegant and poised, yet with a hint of unpredictability that suggested she could burst into laughter at any moment.

He took a breath, but it didn’t quite steady him.

Bas let out a snort, struggling to suppress a laugh. The sound was unrestrained and familiar, waltzing through the bar with an undercurrent of satisfaction. He was clearly enjoying himself, reveling in the shared amusement between them.

This was Bas at his most infuriating—delightfully irreverent, effortlessly magnetic, and undeniably present. He had a knack for disarming people, creating an intimacy that felt both natural and easy.

It was a skill that Declan admired in theory, but witnessing it unfold with a young woman like Cassie left him unsettled in ways he preferred not to explore.

“A lawyer?” Bas said with another incredulous laugh, his voice loud enough to turn heads, “Please. Too much paperwork. I’d rather keep slinging drinks, making people laugh, and playing polo.”

“Ah, the noble profession of bartending again,” Cassie attempted to suppress another fit of giggles, her tone laced with playful sarcasm, “Defender of soy sauce incidents and peddler of questionable anecdotes.”

“Questionable?” Bas echoed, feigning shock as he clutched his chest, “That story was the highlight of my week.”

Cassie’s laughter rang out again—this time softer, almost reflective—and Declan felt its warmth wash over him before he could rein it in.

For a moment, Declan allowed himself to remain in that space, his eyes locked on her. There was something about the way she leaned in, her fingers lightly grazing the rim of her glass as she absorbed Bas’s reply, that felt... Out of place.

Not because she didn’t belong—if anything, she seamlessly blended into the bar's warm, lived-in ambiance—but because he hadn’t anticipated how effortlessly she could adapt to this relaxed environment.

Across from her, Bas lounged with an infuriating charm that seemed to flow from him like a second language. Declan felt a sharp pang grip him—something instinctual and unsettling. It wasn’t exactly anger; he wasn’t angry at Bas.

How could he be? Bas was simply being himself: witty, disarming, and entirely at ease in captivating an audience.

It was just… Complicated.

Declan’s chest tightened as he watched. There was no real justification for the feeling, just the disquieting realization that seeing Cassie and Bas together—sharing effortless laughter and moving in sync—had stirred something deep within him.

“Oh,” he said with a smooth tone, his voice slicing through the warm stillness of the bar as he paused beside the counter, “I thought Rupert would be here already.”

The words flowed easily, yet he couldn't shake the tightening sensation in his chest as he truly focused on her.

Cassie hadn’t even fully turned to acknowledge him, but he could sense her attention, which was more than he anticipated.

Bas leaned back in his chair, clearly entertained by the unfolding scene.

“Rupert’s at Mrs. Spencer’s gala,” he answered, his tone breezy, “Something about giving someone a ride.”

Declan’s thoughts wandered for a moment. Rupert at the gala.

Mrs. Spencer’s gala was the epitome of a high-society affair—too… Perfect for Rupert. The only thing that would pique his interest was the chance to engage in flirtations with anyone present.

That thought was interrupted briefly as Declan recalled his earlier conversation with Taggie about the ride to the Spencer’s residence. She had insisted she already had a ride, that she didn’t want to disturb him and his plans.

He had assumed—perhaps naively—that Mr. Spencer himself would have come to collect her. What kind of man would allow a woman like her to navigate the night alone, especially during such an extravagant gala?

Declan’s brow furrowed, though his expression remained relaxed as he turned his attention back to the conversation. He allowed a thoughtful hum to leave his lips, careful not to let his thoughts show on his face.

“Taggie’s doing their buffet, isn’t she?” His voice was quieter now, as though speaking more to himself than to them.

The casual question floated into the air between them, but Declan’s mind was elsewhere—focused on Cassie. Because why would he be thinking about her when he has Rupert to worry about?

Perhaps the one glass of whiskey he had treated himself when the show finished wasn’t hitting so well.

She was here with Bas, laughing and chatting with an ease that felt foreign to him. This vibrant side of her was a revelation, making the earlier awkwardness of their interactions fade into the background.

Bas nodded to Declan’s inquiry, which reminded him of his earlier question, a hint of satisfaction creeping into Baddingham's expression. Declan couldn't shake the sensation that he was missing out on something significant.

For the moment, he resolved to set this concern aside, leaving it for a future version of himself to figure out.

Cassie hadn’t turned completely yet, but Declan could feel the air shift the moment he entered the scene. Something was different, but he couldn’t quite place it. Perhaps it was the intensity of his thoughts, or maybe it was the realization that he hadn’t anticipated how much he would want her attention at this moment.

Whatever it was, the energy between them felt charged in a way that hadn't existed before.

“Hi, Cassie,” he said, her name rolling off his tongue with an ease that belied the intent behind it, “I imagine you saw my show tonight.”

Only then, she did finally turn, the motion was cautious, almost reluctant, like she was testing each muscle before committing to the full action. For a moment, he saw her uncertainty—unspoken but undeniable—and then her eyes met his, and everything else in the room seemed to still.

Her dark eyes caught the muted glow of the bar’s lighting, making them seem deeper, more guarded than they had earlier in the day. Her expression was unreadable at first, her lips slightly parted as though she was preparing to say something but couldn’t quite find the words.

Declan felt something stir in his chest—a pull, faint but insistent, that made him want to take a step closer. He resisted the urge, instead letting his gaze linger, unhurried, as if taking in every detail of her.

Her blazer was sharper up close, well-fitted but rumpled, suggesting she’d thrown it on in a hurry. The fade flush in her cheeks, still warm from the bar’s heat made her seem almost vulnerable. Almost.

Because if there was something that Cassie Jones wasn’t, that was that: vulnerable. She could show vulnerability, but she wasn’t one to let it define her.

He smiled, just enough to break the edge of the silence between them. It wasn’t a smirk—he knew better than to wield arrogance here—but it was self-assured.

And there it was, that subtle shift in her gaze, the telltale sign of someone trying too hard to appear unaffected. It was temporary, but he caught it, and it sent a flicker of satisfaction through him.

She held his gaze longer than he’d expected, her expression settling into something closer to defiance than uncertainty. Declan found himself appreciating the fire there, the way she refused to back down despite the tension thickening between them.

“Yes, it was… Thorough,” she replied, dismissing the tension that had lingered in her silence until she spoke.

Declan raised an eyebrow, and although he held back his reaction, he felt the sting of her understatement. Thorough? He might have laughed if he weren't slightly offended.

“Thorough,” Declan echoed, his brow lifting as if feigning offense, “I’ll take that as your version of a compliment.”

She shrugged, “Don’t get used to it.”

Bas’s laughter cut through the moment, a snort of genuine amusement as his gaze darted between the two of them. Grinning, he turned back toward the bar and began assembling Declan’s usual drink with the ease of someone who knew the routine by heart.

“Don’t listen to her,” Bas said, handing the glass to Declan with a flourish, “You should have seen her face when you said her name on television.”

Declan raised an eyebrow, intrigued, just as Cassie snapped her head toward Bas, her eyes wide in protest.

“Shut up, will you?” she shot at him, narrowing her gaze as she pointed a finger in warning.

Bas, ever the provocateur, pouted dramatically, though his grin threatened to spill over at any second.

“Sorry, American,” he said with exaggerated politeness, “I just take orders from true British.”

Declan stood silently for a beat, his drink untouched in his hand. Watching them interact, the playful rhythm of their words, the easy way they occupied the space around each other—it struck him in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

“Don’t you dare,” Cassie shot back, leaning closer, her voice sharp with faux outrage, “I was born in London, Bas. We’ve been over this!”

When he had first entered the bar and his gaze landed on them—Cassie laughing, Bas leaning closer with that mischievous grin… Something about their ease, the natural rhythm of their interaction, had snagged in his mind for just a moment.

But now, as he watched Cassie half-climb over the counter in mock outrage, her sharp retort cutting through Bas’s exaggerated pouting, whatever thought he had felt absurd.

They weren’t flirting. It was too careless, too playful—siblings bickering over nothing at all… And anyway, of course, they weren’t. If anything, they were squabbling like siblings over a childhood rivalry, their teasing lighthearted but relentless.

Still, the thought lingered in the back of his mind, refusing to fully dissipate. And even if they were?

Declan’s fingers brushed the edge of his glass, grounding himself as he let the moment play out. Whatever had crossed his mind before, it was irrelevant now. It didn’t matter. And even if it did—well, that wasn’t something he intended to examine further.

“Good to know you’ve sorted out your identity crisis,” he spoke up, trying to soothe the tension off of his shoulders.

Cassie turned her attention to him, her eyes narrowing, though the amusement still lingered in her expression. Bas, meanwhile, sat back in his chair, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Don’t mind Declan,” Bas said to Cassie, raising his glass in an exaggerated toast, “He’s just grumpy because he missed the part where you glared at the television like it owed you money.”

Cassie groaned, dragging a hand down her face, “Bas, I swear to God—”

Bas chuckled to himself, clearly enjoying the scene, but Declan’s attention was still focused on Cassie. Despite the playful banter, something about the way she held herself, the sharpness in her eyes, intrigued him. Her guard was still up, but it felt different now. More like she was sparring with them for sport, her quick wit and retorts keeping everything at arm's length.

Declan let the silence hang for a moment, watching her as she settled back into her seat, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. It wasn’t an easy thing to hold her attention—he knew that much.

He cleared his throat, his voice softer this time, though still with the weight of the question.

“So, what did you think of the show?”

Don’t say thorough again, he almost whispered to himself.

Cassie hesitated, her fingers drumming lightly against the counter, her eyes shifting to her drink before finally meeting his gaze.

“You gave me my story back,” she said quietly, her eyes darting away to the content in her glass. Yet, Declan got a glimpse of the corners of her lips lifting, “My allegations. My accusations. You didn’t just… You credited me.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of Declan’s mouth, though he kept it restrained. He hadn’t expected to feel this... satisfied. There was something about hearing her say it that felt more than just a professional acknowledgment. It felt personal.

The past thirty minutes—Cameron’s scolding for not telling her about the section of the interview that had been planned—seemed far less important at that moment. It was all worth it.

The satisfaction from seeing her smile, from catching the brief flicker of recognition in her eyes when she’d looked at him again? That made the whole thing feel meaningful. Real.

“It was your work, Cassie,” he said simply, “It deserved to be heard the way you intended it. Besides,” he added with a smile, “I told you, I like your work. It’s sharp. Honest. You deserve the credit.”

Cassie blinked, her gaze flickering away again, and for a brief moment, Declan wondered if he had said too much. Her fingers tightened around her glass, and then the quiet stretched out between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly, but it was different—he could feel the space between them heavier than it had been moments before.

Declan watched her, trying to read the change in her, the way she seemed to retreat inward. Her face was still, but there was a tension in her posture, a thought she hadn’t voiced yet but that she was wrestling with all the same.

Bas, ever the disruptor, broke the quiet with a grin and raised his glass in a mock toast.

“Which is exactly why you should join Venturer,” he said with ease, as though it were the most obvious conclusion in the world.

Cassie widened her eyes at Bas, pausing just a moment longer than expected. For a brief second, Declan caught the glint of an unspoken question in her gaze, a hesitation she hadn’t voiced but that was plain to see. And plain it was, it wasn’t difficult to see what was storming her mind again.

Bas leaned in, his voice shifting to a more persuasive tone as he continued, “You’ve got a lot to offer, Cassie. This isn’t about diving in headfirst. It’s about giving you a platform. Venturer is where you could take the next step.”

Declan kept his focus on her as he added, “It’s not about the show or the spotlight. It’s about the stories you’ve been telling—the stories that deserve to be heard. We’re just offering the chance to help amplify them.”

Cassie’s eyes moved from one of them to the other, but she didn’t immediately respond. Declan noticed how her brows furrowed, her focus distant as she turned over their words. She wasn’t sure, not yet, but she was listening.

After a beat, she exhaled, her gaze lifting again, this time fixated on a spot behind Bas, as if she was looking for an answer elsewhere.

“What exactly would you want me to do there?” she asked quietly, as though she had already begun to weigh her options in her mind, “At Venturer?”

Declan didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward just enough to meet her eyes directly.

“I want you as my co-host,” The words slipped out before he had fully considered them.

Had he ever discussed this with anyone? He tried to remember—perhaps Freddie and Rupert, months ago, when the idea of a co-host had first come up.

They had all agreed that it would only make sense if they found someone who could match the dynamic of the show, but no one felt right. They’d searched for weeks, but no name had emerged, not one that made Declan feel this level of certainty.

He remembered Freddie saying something about making calls, but the woman he had thought of already had a job in radio—an obstacle at the time. Who would have guessed that the right person, the one he’d been unknowingly searching for, was sitting right in front of him?

The woman working at a radio, huh?

Declan’s mind shifted as he considered the situation now.

Cameron, of course, would have to sign off on this. They couldn’t move forward without her approval, and there was always the politics to manage.

Still, the thought of Cassie in that role felt more fitting than he had anticipated. Maybe it wasn’t just about the show. Maybe it was about giving her a platform, the one she deserved.

He’d handle Cameron later. He’d manage that as it came.

Declan focused back on Cassie, waiting for her response.

When she finally spoke, it was with a quiet certainty.

“I can’t be a co-host,” she said, shaking her head in a way that seemed to emphasize her decision. Her eyes briefly skimmed over his face, reading his reaction, but she didn’t hold her look too long—just enough to gauge him before continuing, “Not in a show that’s already built on your name. Your brand. That’s not where I fit.”

Declan understood, he had suspected as much, but hearing her articulate it only solidified what he had already sensed. It wasn’t about her not wanting to be a part of the show; it was about not losing herself in something that wasn’t truly hers. He admired that.

Bas, noticing the shift in the conversation, raised an eyebrow but kept quiet, waiting for Declan to respond.

Declan let the silence stretch for a moment, letting Cassie’s words sit between them. He could see the wheels turning behind her eyes, her thoughts still moving beneath the surface. And when she spoke again, her voice was calmer, more considered.

“Let’s say I accept,” she said, the decision still heavy on the tip of her tongue, though she was clearly still pondering, “What I’m offering—” she gave a small pause, underscoring the seriousness of her consideration, “Is to be part of the show, but in a way that makes sense for me. Maybe a segment. A smaller part, where I can bring in the stories I’ve been chasing. The cases I’m working with. That’s where I can make the biggest difference.”

Declan absorbed her words carefully, his expression thoughtful. The idea of a segment, a piece of the show that felt more organic to her… Made sense. It wasn’t about pushing her into something that wasn’t right—it was about finding the right space for her to thrive.

His mind raced for a moment, considering how this could fit.

“A segment. We can do that,” he nodded, a slight smile playing in his lips, “Your stories. Your voice. That’s what this is about.”

Cassie’s fingers resumed their quiet drumming on the glass, her gaze lowering for a moment as she mulled over the next words. Declan observed her closely, watching the way her fingers moved—rhythmic, methodical. It wasn’t a nervous gesture, but something deliberate, as though she was laying the foundation for her next move.

The final pieces of the puzzle were clearly clicking into place in her mind, and Declan could almost hear the thoughts running through her head.

When Cassie spoke again, her voice was more casual, the tension easing from her shoulders. But even in this more relaxed tone, there was an undeniable practicality that struck him.

“And when I’m not on screen,” she said, her eyes meeting him briefly, “I want to be part of the production side. Camera work. Editing. Anything that gives me hands-on experience. I’ve got bills to pay and if I’m going to do this, I want to understand every angle.”

Declan blinked, his lips pressed in a thin line as his mind processed her words quickly. There was no hesitation now, no reluctance in her tone. She knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to ask for it.

Cassie wasn’t interested in just being a figurehead, a talking head for a show. She wanted to be in the trenches, learning the ropes, understanding the mechanics of the industry. The way she expressed it—so grounded, so aware of the realities—made something in Declan click.

Bas grinned, clearly impressed.

“Practical and resourceful,” His tone was light, but Declan could sense the respect in his words, “You always surprise me, Jones.”

Cassie shot Bas a small, pointed look, but it wasn’t one of amusement. The smile that had briefly touched her lips faded quickly, replaced by that same determined expression.

“If I’m doing this, I’m not just here to be a pretty face. I want to learn.”

She wasn’t the type to hide behind vague promises or false humility. She was real, grounded. She wanted to be more than a figure in front of a camera, and that was exactly why she was the right fit for what they were trying to build.

Declan studied her, taking in the quiet confidence she exuded. Her eyes weren’t just steady—they were attentive, measuring everything around her, and there was an underlying fire in them that he couldn’t ignore. She wasn’t one to settle for the obvious answers. Her posture, too, was a study in balance—leaning forward just enough to show interest, but never fully giving herself away.

It was an energy that kept him guessing, but in the best way possible.

And for someone like Declan, with his own history in this world of media and public image, he knew exactly the kind of woman she was.

Someone who didn’t rely on the glitz of the industry, but on something real. Something genuine. That was what set her apart. That’s what would make her the perfect fit for the kind of thing they were building here.

He didn’t have the words for it. He simply watched her, knowing that this was the kind of woman who always had an edge—a razor-sharp focus on the things that mattered.

There’s the fighter, he thought, and that thought brought a small, involuntary smile to his lips.

“So?” he said, his voice still calm, a subtle nudge, but with no urgency, “What’s next?”

Because, of course, a young woman like her would have a third condition.

Cassie’s eyes softened, just the smallest trace of vulnerability appearing before she masked it again, her lips pressing into a thin line. Declan saw it, but he didn’t press.

This wasn’t a moment to rush. She was measuring her response, and that was fine with him.

“Third condition,” there was no hesitation this time, but Declan noticed the way she settled into the words, almost as though she had prepared for this moment, “I want to talk to my uncle before anything final happens.”

Declan didn’t miss the subtle emphasis she put on ‘talk’—she wasn’t asking for permission, but she was looking for a conversation. And that made sense. Cassie’s relationship with her uncle was important, and he understood the need to clear things with him first.

For a second, he wouldn’t lie, he forgot she was Freddie’s niece. Yes, they had some similarities in appearances: brownish hair and brown eyes. But, despite that? Two different people entirely.

Bas glanced at Declan, and Declan gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

“Of course. No one’s rushing you,” Bas said, his voice filled with that easy, knowing tone.

Declan allowed himself a smile, a little quieter now.

That mattered more than he wanted to admit, it made every minute listening to Cameron’s lecture worthier than ever.

“I wish Rupert were here,” Declan chuckled as he thought about his friend, leaning back a little, “It would be nice to get his approval on this. At least then we’d know you’re already part of the team. Since, obviously, Freddie would agree.”

Cassie raised an eyebrow, a touch of amusement breaking through her previously serious expression.

“You think he’d just approve it like that? Rupert?”

Declan’s grin was small but genuine. There was something apologetic in the way he held her gaze, as if admitting that… Yes, I am that confident.

“If anyone could, it’d be him. But we can wait. Just know, when you’re ready, you’ve got a place here.”

“Wait a second,” Bas said suddenly, rising from his seat and turning to rummage behind the counter.

“I didn’t even say yes,” Cassie said with a frown, watching her friend shuffle behind the bar, his movements purposeful.

After a moment, Bas emerged with a bottle, his grin wide.

“That’s the only time I’ve seen you really consider it,” he said, pulling out two glasses from behind the bar, “You know, Declan? Me and Freddie have been trying to get her to even think about this since she moved in.”

“Really?” Declan asked, his voice tinged with a mischievous as he leaned forward, never taking his eyes off Cassie.

She shot him a look, brows raised, as though silently asking if he was being serious.

He was.

And there was something about hearing Bas’s words, seeing Cassie’s expression shift just a little, that made Declan feel a sense of quiet victory.

It wasn’t just about the idea of her joining the show anymore—it was about seeing her consider it, seeing her mind working through the possibilities. To think that the things she had been working on, her stories, could have more power, more reach... He couldn’t deny the warmth that spread through him at the thought.

To him, her name deserved to carry weight—more weight than any of the fears she still held about the public eye. Cassie’s work deserved to be heard on a broader scale, and the possibility of that, of seeing her stories unfold the way they were meant to, made his heart settle into something easier.

Bas placed the bottle on the counter with a thud, his grin widening as he poured a generous measure into three glasses. The amber liquid caught the dim light of the bar, casting golden reflections that danced on the polished surface. Cassie watched the liquid swirl, her thoughts tangling like the intricate play of light and shadow before her.

“Here’s to bad ideas,” Bas declared, raising his glass high.

Cassie smirked, shaking her head as she reluctantly took her glass. Declan, seated across from her, mirrored Bas’s motion, though his movement was slower. His eyes strayed to her, a quiet idea strangling his thoughts.

“To bad ideas,” Declan whispered, raising his own glass.

“To bad ideas,” Cassie echoed, clinking her glass against theirs. The first sip was smooth, warm, leaving a faint burn as it settled, but the growing warmth in her chest wasn’t just from the whiskey.

The conversation drifted, light and meandering, as the three of them settled into an easy rhythm. Declan’s usual formality seemed to loosen with each drink, his laugh becoming more frequent, more unrestrained. Bas, ever the raconteur, regaled them with one ridiculous story after another, his words punctuated by grand gestures that had both Cassie and Declan chuckling into their glasses.

“You should’ve seen the look on Freddie’s face when that happened,” Bas said, his grin infectious, “He was stuck between being horrified and thoroughly impressed.”

Cassie shook her head, her laughter spilling out despite herself, “Freddie’s tolerance for you must be superhuman.”

Bas placed a hand over his chest, feigning offense.

“I’ll have you know, he secretly adores me. I’m the chaos he never knew he needed.”

“I’d love to see how he’d frame that argument,” Declan chuckled, his voice tinged with genuine amusement.

As the laughter died down, Bas leaned back, swirling the whiskey in his glass thoughtfully. A sly thought passed though his mind as he glanced at Declan.

“Speaking of Freddie,” he began, deceptively casual, “he’s at Mrs. Spencer’s gala tonight. Valerie was invited too.”

Declan’s posture stiffened imperceptibly, though his smile remained intact.

“Is that so?” he said evenly, taking another sip from his glass, “Makes sense. It’s exactly the kind of event she’d enjoy.”

Bas raised an eyebrow, his grin widening knowingly.

“And Taggie’s catering for them, isn’t she? Wonder if she’s getting a ride home from Mr. Spencer himself back to your house.”

The offhand comment hit its mark precisely, Bas ever the player.

Declan’s grip on his glass tightened, and though he let out a soft laugh, it was edged with something uneasy.

The thought was absurd, of course. Mr. Spencer was kind-hearted and unassuming—a man who wouldn’t hesitate to ensure Taggie’s evening went smoothly. Still, Bas’s remark nudged at an earlier suspicion that had already fogged Declan’s mind.

Rupert at the gala, “being someone’s ride” as Bas had mentioned—what had that even meant?

Declan cleared his throat, brushing the errant thought aside.

“I was actually thinking of swinging by,” he said, the words slipping out before he could reconsider, “If only to give her a ride home. Save her from any... Unnecessary chivalry.”

Both Cassie and Bas turned to him in unison, their expressions mirrors of surprise, though Bas’s quickly shifted into a smirk.

“Unnecessary?” Cassie’s voice was teasing lilt as she tilted her head, “Sounds like you’re volunteering yourself to rescue some damsel. Isn’t Taggie your daughter?”

Declan sighed, a tired smile tugging at his lips, “Let’s just say I prefer to ensure she gets home safe.”

Bas chuckled, pouring another round.

“Well, I’m staying put,” he said, topping off Declan’s glass before sliding it back toward him, “The bar won’t run itself. But you,” he added, nodding toward Cassie, “should definitely go. Give him some company.”

Cassie blinked, clearly caught off guard, “Me? Why me?”

Declan raised an eyebrow at Bas, mirroring Cassie’s confusion. The whiskey in his glass swirled as he considered whether two a little too drunk individuals driving to a gala was even remotely a good idea.

His logical side screamed no, but the alcohol softened that resolve.

“Are you with your car?” Declan asked Cassie directly.

She shook her head, almost sheepishly.

“No. Baz dragged me out earlier,” she said, pointing at the olive-skinned man who looked far too smug for his own good, “He’s been playing chauffeur lately. Friend of the year, clearly.”

“Only when Rupert’s not around,” Bas quipped with a grin, the comment laced with purposeful provocation.

Cassie rolled her eyes, though a small smile tugged at her lips.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Bas. You’re just lucky I don’t charge you for putting up with your nonsense.”

The banter between them flowed easily, their sharp words softened by the undercurrent of camaraderie. Declan watched the exchange, bemused. There was something refreshing in their dynamic, the way Cassie’s sharp wit met Bas’s playful arrogance in a clash that was more rhythm than conflict.

As the banter went, for some reason Declan couldn’t quite understand, now they were arguing about horse riding.

British people and their fascination with horses…

“Sorry if I don’t have time for playdates with Jester and the other aristocratic ponies in the evenings,” Cassie shot back, her tone mock-serious.

“Unemployed for now,” he commented nonchalantly to his and Cassie’s banter, “Guess you’ve got all the time in the world for riding lessons for a while.”

“Piss off, you daft git,” Cassie shot back, it was hard to discern if it was faux anger or not.

Bas doubled over with laughter, nearly spilling his drink.

“Oh, now that’s rich!” he exclaimed, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, “Full-on British, eh? Should I even ask who corrupted you so thoroughly?”

Cassie raised an eyebrow, the glint in her eyes pure mischief, “Do you really want to know? Because yesterday, your fath—”

Before their banter could spiral further, Bas pivoted smoothly, clinking his glass against Declan’s, “So-ooo, what’s the verdict, O’Hara? Gala or no gala?”

“Coward,” she said, faking a cough, her words aimed squarely at Bas.

Bas threw his hands up dramatically, leaning back in his chair.

“I’m a bartender, love, not a chauffeur. I know where my responsibilities end.”

“Oh yes,” she muttered, swirling the remnants of her drink, “I am talking about that convenience, not the previous one.”

Declan hesitated, brushing his mustache as he thought about it, his eyes slowly and lazily moving to Cassie. The bar’s golden glow caught in her hair, illuminating the soft waves that framed her face.

She was different here—lighter, freer. It was a side of her he hadn’t quite seen yet, and for reasons he couldn’t name, he found himself drawn to it. There was something magnetic about the way she wielded her wit, sharp yet never cruel, like a blade meant for dueling, not wounding.

There was something about her presence that made the idea of the whole ride less daunting.

Or perhaps it was just his mind, in a tipsy and peculiar way, trying to justify the desire to see Cassie in a different light, in a more uplifting atmosphere.

“I will pass by,” he mumbled, “And if you’re tagging along,” he added, meeting Cassie’s eyes, “you might as well meet your uncle there.”

Cassie arched an eyebrow, clearly skeptical.

“Meet my uncle? At a gala full of pretentious twats in overpriced suits? Sounds delightful.”

Bas snorted into his drink, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

“If Freddie’s there, you can have your talk with him.”

Cassie groaned, dragging her hand down her face in exaggerated frustration. It wasn’t that she agreed with Bas—far from it. She simply didn’t have the energy to argue anymore. Her day had been draining enough without adding another verbal sparring match to the list.

“Fine,” she relented, “But don’t expect me to mingle. I’ll be your shadow, nothing more.”

Declan, who had been quietly observing the back-and-forth, allowed a small smile to break through, “Deal.”

Bas, sensing his moment, leaned forward with his glass raised high. His grin widened into something bordering on wicked mischief.

“To Cassie Jones, stepping into the lion’s den. Godspeed.”

Was he referring to going to a gala she wouldn’t even get into or Venturer? By Cassie’s face, she didn’t know which was worse.

“To the Bloody Harrier!” Declan added, lifting his glass in agreement, the nickname slipping out almost too easily.

Cassie rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the smirk tugging at her lips.

“More like dragging me into it,” she muttered as she clinked her glass against theirs.

The whiskey burned slightly less this time, the warmth spreading through her chest in a way that felt oddly comforting.

Despite her outward reluctance, resolve burned quietly beneath the surface. She had made up her mind long before they’d goaded her into it.

She tilted her glass back, finishing the last sip before setting it down with a thud. It wasn’t hesitation that had her drinking more than she should tonight; it was certainty—an attempt to drown out the anxiety that always came with choices like this.

Declan had noticed it all from the first sip. He could see the gears turning in her mind, the quiet battle she waged with herself, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he downed the rest of his drink, the burn grounding him as he rose from his seat.

“Well then,” he said, grabbing his coat and motioning toward the door, “shall we?”

Bas, still lounging comfortably in his chair, raised his glass in a mock salute.

“Try not to scare the posh ones too much if you find one of them, Harrier,” he teased, “They’re not used to someone who actually speaks their mind.”

Cassie smirked, tossing her scarf over her shoulder as she headed for the door.

“I am going there to talk with my uncle, not for the gala,” she shot over her shoulder, her tone light besides the playfulness in it, “And tell your father to not wait up.”

She also ignored the obscene gesture that Bas threw at her as she and Declan made their way out of the bar, the journalist laughing by her side.

As the bar door swung shut behind them, the crisp night air enveloped them, carrying with it the faint scent of rain and the earthy tang of distant foliage. Cassie shivered, the combination of the cool breeze and the lingering warmth of whiskey creating a pleasant contradiction in her chest. She pulled her scarf tighter around her neck, her eyes briefly meeting Declan’s.

The night felt quieter than it should have, the distant traffic barely audible over the weight of shared laughter still hanging in the air. Declan adjusted his coat, his fingers brushing the lapels as his mind caught up to the absurdity of his idea.

Why had he thought this was a good plan? Bringing Cassie along to the gala on a whim felt reckless, even by his occasionally impulsive standards. His chest rose with a deep breath, an attempt to ground himself, but his gaze drifted toward Cassie.

Her cheeks were tinged pink, likely from both the whiskey and the chill, and her steps had that subtle looseness that hinted at her being just tipsy enough to consider something like this entertaining. Her hair, illuminated under the glow of the streetlight, framed her face in soft, tousled waves. She didn’t seem like someone who’d jump at the chance to crash a society event sober, but tonight?

Tonight, she wasn’t sober.

Declan’s lips turned up despite himself. There was something about her presence that felt grounding and yet entirely unpredictable—a combination that, oddly, made his chest relax.

He couldn’t explain it, not fully. Maybe it was the way her wit cut through his occasional self-seriousness, or perhaps it was vulnerability she didn’t bother to mask. Whatever it was, it brought a strange sense of ease to his otherwise tightly-wound existence, like an unexpected breeze cutting through a stifling room.

Still, the logical part of his brain—a singular sober cell stubbornly clinging to coherence—questioned every piece of this plan.

And yet, another part of him. Whether it was the whiskey or the strange clarity that came with her company—countered with an unapologetic, why not?

A shiver passed through Cassie, pulling him from his thoughts. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, but the chill of the night seemed persistent. Without a second thought, Declan slipped his navy coat from his shoulders—the same one he’d worn during the broadcast—and draped it over hers.

Her brows lifted immediately, surprise painted across her face. She turned to face him and opened her mouth, perhaps to reject the gesture, but before the words could form, her eyes found his and then… The moment settled around them like the hush before a storm.

Their eyes met, lingering longer than either had anticipated, as if a know was being tied between the gazes.

Her eyes held his, searching, curious, and for a fraction of a second, the air between them seemed to thrum with something unnamed. Declan felt his pulse quicken—not in the way it did during a heated debate or an impassioned broadcast, but with a subtle, disarming intensity he hadn’t anticipated.

And then Cassie looked away.

Darting her eyes downward, adjusting the coat on her shoulders as though to busy herself. The spell was broken, leaving Declan standing there.

Suddenly and inexplicably aware of his own actions.

What had possessed him to do that? It was nothing—just a small kindness in the face of the cold. Yet, he couldn’t shake the strange feeling that tugged at the corners of his thoughts.

He refused to entertain the notion further. It was foolishness, plain and simple.

Cassie was Freddie’s niece, a talented journalist, someone he deeply admired professionally. There was no room for anything else, no matter how fleeting or innocent the thought.

Anything? Who had said anything? No one, of course. There wasn’t even a sign of conversation—just the rustle of the wind and the muffled hum of distant traffic.

There was nothing happening here.

No lingering tension, no unspoken understanding, no room for any of those... Passing thoughts that had crossed his mind. And certainly no reason for him to be standing there, feeling like the stillness between them was suddenly louder than it should be.

Declan cleared his throat, brushing the moment aside with the kind of practiced ease that only years of navigating sharp interviews and high-stakes debates could provide. His hand gestured toward the street ahead, the movement casual.

“Let’s go then, huh?”

Cassie didn’t respond immediately. She adjusted the coat one more time before offering him a faint, lopsided smile—one that didn’t betray whatever she might have been thinking.

“Lead the way, Declan.”

That glint in her eyes—it wasn’t mischief exactly, but it wasn’t far from it either. Whatever it was, it left him more unsettled than he cared to admit.

It wasn’t unease, not entirely. It was curiosity.

Wasn't it?

The sound of the car engine filled the quiet moments between their words, a steady undercurrent that matched the rhythm of the tires rolling over the asphalt. Declan’s hands rested on the steering wheel with a practiced ease, though his mind was anything but still. Beside him, Cassie reclined lazily, her head tilted toward the window, the streetlights casting fleeting patterns on her face.

It was the kind of quiet he might have found calming on any other night, but tonight, it felt alive with tension—unspoken words and half-formed thoughts swirling between them.

He almost didn’t notice it at first, the faint murmur of her voice rising above the hum of the car. It wasn’t until she started mumbling along to Blondie’s War Child that he realized she was singing—or, at least, trying to.

The corner of his mouth twitched upward, and for a fleeting moment, he let himself watch her out of the corner of his eye. She was too drunk to be coherent but not drunk enough to lose her rhythm entirely. It was... Endearing, in a way he hadn’t expected.

By the time London Calling by The Clash began to play, she had stopped singing and settled into an amused silence, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of his coat.

“You don’t do this often, do you?” she said suddenly, her voice breaking through the quiet.

“What?” Declan glanced at her, catching the flicker of her eyes in the dim light.

“Driving drunk journalists around Rutshire,” she said, a sly smirk playing on her lips.

He chuckled low, shaking his head, “Can’t say it’s part of my usual routine.”

“Didn’t think so,” she replied, her tone softening. Her fingers stopped their idle tracing, coming to rest on her lap, “You’re too... I don’t know. Controlled? Like you’ve got a vice grip on everything—your work, your life...”

Declan raised an eyebrow, half amused, half wary, “Is that so?”

Was she the same young woman he had encountered roughly... Let’s see, nearly 13 hours ago? Now he grasped how individuals typically felt when he scrutinized them. Bloody journalists, eh?

She shrugged and redirected her attention to the window.

“It’s not a bad thing,” she said after a pause, “It’s just... Heavy. On television, at least, it’s how you look but now… You look more human.

Declan’s lips parted as though to respond, but the words caught somewhere between his thoughts and his tongue. He couldn’t tell if it was the whiskey clouding his mind or the way her words seemed to cut through the fog and hit something raw.

“I don’t think it’s as easy as you make it sound,” his voice quieter now.

“That sounds unusual,” Cassie commented, lifting a brow, “Today, you’ve been the one making everything sound easy.”

A soft laugh escaped him, surprising even himself.

“Touché,” he said, shaking his head, bemused by her candor, “I suppose I walked right into that one.”

Cassie didn’t immediately reply, her gaze trailing out the window as the landscape blurred by. There was something contemplative in her expression, a quiet gravity that hadn’t been there before.

The radio continued to play softly in the background—a low thread that filled the gaps between their words. For once, Declan welcomed its presence, it gave him something to focus on other than the knot in his chest or the way her words seemed to echo louder than the music.

“You’re different than I expected,” she remarked once more, shattering the quiet. This time, her voice was gentler, tinged with uncertainty. "On television, you appear... So grand, almost unreachable. But here... You’re simply a father going to a gala, anxious to take his daughter home because he cares for her."

Declan’s grip on the steering wheel faltered, his knuckles shifting pale against the leather.

“I suppose that’s the danger of screens,” he murmured, glancing briefly at her, “They magnify what you want people to see and blur the rest.”

The words hung between them, heavier than he intended.

He regretted saying that. Not only because usually it was a thought he kept for himself but also for reminding that it was that the thing that Cassie had said that terrified her. He expected her to recoil, to retreat into her own thoughts as he had unintentionally circled back to her fears of being seen.

Instead, Cassie tilted her head, studying him for a moment before turning back to the window.

“Or maybe you’re just better at hiding than most.”

Okay, that was a surprise.

Declan didn’t respond, though her words echoed in his mind.

Hiding. It wasn’t entirely untrue, was it? How much of his life had been spent crafting a version of himself that fit the narrative, that could carry the weight of expectations without buckling?

Despite him always wanting to be his true self in the screens, it was impossible to not create another self for the audience, to the guests. Someone more humble, more in control of the situation, more certain.

But here, in this car, with her, the mask felt thinner somehow, as if her presence had a way of peeling back the layers he had built.

Cassie shifted in her seat, drawing the coat closer around her shoulders.

“Does this ever get you tired?” Cassie asked, her voice sounding casual, but there was a thread of sincerity beneath it that caught Declan’s attention. “It looks... Draining.”

Declan glanced at her, the question catching him mid-thought. He knew why she was asking, and could hear the echoes of her own struggles in the question.

Her drunkenness hadn’t dulled her insight—it had sharpened it, like a lens focusing on things she might not have addressed sober. And deep down, Declan understood why.

Almost everyone in their world knew about the tragic death of Matthew Jones, the celebrated journalist and Cassie’s father. Freddie had shared details in private over the months, filling in the gaps about the fallout that followed, the relentless media circus, and how it shaped his life at the time—as Matthew’s brother.

Declan imagined it had reshaped Cassie’s as well. It was not for nothing that she was asking.

“All the time,” he admitted quietly, surprising himself with the honesty in his voice.

Cassie nodded slowly, her gaze dropping to her hands resting in her lap. There was no triumph in her expression, no sense of having “won” something from him. Instead, her silence carried a kind of understanding that was oddly comforting. It wasn’t pity—it was recognition.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The steady hum of the engine filled the space, accompanied by the faint, familiar strains of the radio.

“You don’t have to answer,” she murmured, her voice gentler now and out of the sudden once again, “But when you’re not on screen, not on show—who are you?”

Declan didn’t react right away, his hands adjusting on the wheel as if grounding himself in the present. Her question persisted in his mind, not just in the car but in the corners of his mind, where the answers felt messy and uncertain.

“I think that’s the problem,” he wondered, his voice laced with self-awareness, “I’m not sure I know anymore.”

His own honesty surprised him… Again.

The road ahead was nearly empty, the soft glow of the gala’s lights appearing faintly on the horizon. Still, the journey felt oddly suspended in time, as though this moment in the car existed in a space separate from the reality waiting for them.

Declan exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible over the low hum of the engine.

Cassie’s question echoed in his mind, repeating again and again, threading itself through his thoughts.

For years, he had been the face of authority, the man people turned to for clarity in chaos. On screen, he was sharp and controlled, always ready with the perfect retort or the incisive question. But off-screen? The man behind the polished veneer?

He wasn’t sure he’d known that man in years.

The divorce papers from Maud had stripped away more than just their marriage—they had exposed the hollowness in parts of his life he thought were solid. He’d once imagined a future filled with quiet evenings, the warmth of family anchoring him.

He’d pictured Taggie, Caitlin, and Patrick coming home to a full house, their laughter bouncing off walls unburdened by the ghosts of his failures. But those dreams had dissolved into something messier and far lonelier.

Even the moments he had hoped to share with Maud—their plans for simpler times, away from the cameras and schedules once they were old enough to have grandchildren—had slipped through his fingers like sand, leaving behind only the ache of what could have been.

And then there was Taggie herself. Slipping through his grasp in ways he couldn’t fully define, like trying to hold on to water. He had always prided himself on their closeness, on the way she used to confide in him as a child. But now, there were signs he couldn’t ignore. The easy rapport she seemed to have with Rupert—was she confiding in him more than her own father?

Did she see him, her father, as the man he tried to be on TV or the one who fell short in real life?

Declan glanced at Cassie again. She wasn’t like anyone else in his orbit. She wasn’t asking him to perform or expecting him to have all the answers.

Her frankness, her willingness to sit in the discomfort of not knowing, felt... Disarming. Specifically when she was drunk.

He could only imagine that all these questions she had once made in her mind while they talked in the afternoon or after.

“You’re a strange one, Cassie,” he said, the faintest trace of a smile pulling at his lips.

She opened one eye, regarding him with mock suspicion, “Strange good or strange bad?”

“Just... Strange,” he replied, not knowing himself the right answer.

“I’ll take it,” Cassie snorted softly, closing her eyes again as if content to let the moment drift, “Guess I, myself, walked right into that one. Sorry if I said something stupid, I’m not exactly thinking straight.”

Declan chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he turned his eyes back to the road.

“You’ve got an interesting way of apologizing, I’ll give you that.”

Cassie let out a quiet breath, a soft, unexpected chuckle escaping her as she absorbed something Declan had said. It was different from her usual sharp humor—lighter, more relaxed, as though the weight of her thoughts had loosened just a little as her head lolled against the seat.

“It’s a gift,” she mumbled, though her voice had lost some of its earlier edge, softening into something more reflective, drowned in the dizziness, “Maybe I’ll regret this tomorrow. Maybe not.”

“Regret what exactly?” Declan asked, glancing her way again.

She exhaled deeply, the sound filling the car as she stared out the window, almost as though the passing lights could help her figure out the answer.

“Saying things like... Like that.” She gestured vaguely, her words slurring, “Asking questions. About you. About screens. About all this... Stuff that probably isn’t my business.”

The car slowed as they approached a turn, the glow of the gala lights becoming visible in the distance.

“You ask because you care,” he managed the words out, trying to soothe the moment, “Not because you’re trying to pry. There’s a difference, there is no need for an apology, truly.”

Cassie opened her eyes at that, turning her head to look at him properly, “That’s very diplomatic of you, Declan. How very on-brand.”

Declan’s laugh came easily this time, less guarded than before, “I’ve been accused of worse.”

The car fell silent again, though it wasn’t uncomfortable. Cassie leaned her head back, only a moment later laughing at the joke. For what it seemed, it took her sometime to realize what he meant.

“You know,” she commented, “My dad... He never talked about this stuff. About what it meant to be public. To have people look at you like you’re more than you are. Or less.”

Declan’s grip on the wheel shifted, his attention still on the road. He didn’t interrupt her, sensing there was more.

“I think he thought if he didn’t talk about it, he could shield me from it. Like if he just kept me out of the spotlight, none of it would touch me. But it did. It always does.”

Her voice trailed off, and for a moment, the only sound was the faint sound of the engine and the muted music from the radio.

Declan took a deep breath, considering his words carefully, “It’s not easy, being seen like that. Or knowing people will judge you for things they don’t even understand.”

Cassie nodded, her gaze distant.

“Yeah,” she agreed, her eyes darting away to the window once more, “And sometimes, you don’t even know if you’re judging yourself the same way they do.”

The gala loomed ahead now, its grandeur casting long shadows on the darkened road. Declan slowed the car as they approached, his attention divided between the glowing entrance and the woman beside him.

“You’re not your father, Cassie,” he stated, each word delivered with the beat of his heart, “But that’s not a bad thing. He made his impact, left his mark. You get to decide what yours will be.”

Cassie turned to him, her lips parting as though to respond, but she hesitated. His words sank in slowly, their intent more comforting than overwhelming.

Declan glanced at her once more before parking.

“The world doesn’t need another Matthew Jones. But it could use a Cassie Jones.”

Cassie felt a shift inside her, a moment of stillness before her heart seemed to give a sudden, unexpected jolt. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t doubt. It was a warmth, something that felt almost unfamiliar but not unwelcome, growing quietly where the uncertainty once was.

How strange, she thought, that in less than a day, a man she had only known through screens could make her feel this way.

She decided it was a strange good, then.

The drive toward the gala hadn’t felt nearly long enough. For Cassie, the time between Declan’s car stopping and walking outside Bar Sinister was a blur. Yet, amidst the haze of alcohol and the disjointed events of the night, her mind circled back to one thing: Venturer.

Her clarity wasn’t rooted in confidence—it was more fragile, almost tenuous. But it clung to her nonetheless.

The calls she’d made earlier that day lingered in her thoughts, the voices of strangers who had trusted her with their pain. They had placed their faith in her, even when she wasn’t sure she deserved it. She had promised them she would do something, find some way to make their stories mean something.

And then there was Declan. She still didn’t fully understand it—the way he had used her allegations, not to diminish her, but to magnify the voices she had tried to represent. It hadn’t even been a day since they’d met, and yet, he had gone out of his way to give her story weight…

Why? Really, she couldn’t understand, why?

That question looped in her mind, unanswered and bewildering. He didn’t owe her anything, and yet, he’d offered her not just a platform but a hand to steady herself.

She didn’t know if she would ever be able to unravel his motivations. But in a way, it didn’t matter. It made her feel something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in a long time: hope. For herself, for the people she had promised to help, and for the possibility that maybe, just maybe, she could step into a space she had always believed was too big for her.

Well, she still believed it was. But, for the first time, she wanted to believe she was wrong.

Cassie’s gaze drifted toward the glowing lights of the Spencer estate through the window. She still questioned whether she belonged in front of a camera, whether she could wield a platform like Venturer without losing herself in the process. However, everyone else seemed to believe in her—Declan, Freddie, even Bas in his teasing way.

And maybe, she wanted to believe as well.

Because if Declan O’Hara could wield her story like a weapon for justice, then surely, she could wield her own voice for the same cause… Couldn't she?

It wasn’t about being sure of herself or about proving anything to the media that had twisted her father’s legacy into something unrecognizable. It was about those voices on the other end of the line, about the people she’d promised to help. Turning away now would mean breaking that promise—not just to them, but to herself.

And for the first time, as she stepped off the car, the thought didn’t terrify her.

Cassie’s boots crunched softly on the gravel as the cool night air greeted her, crisp and grounding. The Spencer estate rose before her like a beacon, its illuminated windows spilling gold across manicured hedges and cobblestone paths. The gentle clinking of glasses and faint bursts of laughter drifted toward her, mixing with the faint, far-off hum of an orchestra.

She tugged Declan’s coat closer around her shoulders, its tailored fabric heavier than she’d expected. The faint trace of his cologne lingered, grounding her in an evening that already felt half-dream, half-dare. The coat didn’t quite fit the elegance of the gala, but that incongruity comforted her—an unspoken reminder of where she’d come from and where she was heading.

Declan rounded the car, his gaze sweeping toward the far end of the lot.

“Freddie’s over there,” he said, nodding toward a parked car, its driver’s-side door slightly ajar as a familiar silhouette leaned casually against it.

Cassie followed Declan’s gesture, her gaze easily finding Freddie among the guests. It wasn’t as much about spotting him as it was about feeling his presence, something familiar amidst the unfamiliarity of the evening. He stood a little apart, his posture relaxed but somehow still precise, as though he could never fully shed the tension in his shoulders, even in moments of ease.

The scene around him blurred, the glow of the gala's lights playing off the edges of his silhouette, but Cassie’s focus didn’t waver. She knew him too well to miss the way he held himself, the ever-present quiet that seemed to follow him, even in the crowd.

She gave a small, barely perceptible nod, tugging Declan’s coat tighter around her shoulders. The coat was warm, but it felt almost foreign against the coldness of the night air, as though it didn’t quite belong to her at this moment.

“Alright. I’ll... Talk to him,” her words trailing off as she turned toward Freddie.

Declan’s eyes softened as he observed her. The stoic composure she had become accustomed to seeing in him seemed to loosen for just a fraction of a second, his expression betraying a hint of something unreadable. But instead of pressing, he simply nodded.

"Take your time," he said quietly, his tone low but not without its own kind of reassurance, “I’ll go look for Taggie inside.”

Cassie hesitated for a moment, standing on the uneven gravel as Declan’s footsteps faded toward the glowing entrance of the gala. She turned her focus back to Freddie, who leaned casually against the side of his car. The sharp lines of his profile caught the light, casting shadows that made him look simultaneously familiar and distant.

She wasn’t entirely sure why she felt the need to speak to him, or couldn’t quite remember why the sober version of her wanted to. Maybe it was because like Declan, Freddie believed in her, even when she struggled to believe in herself. Or perhaps it was because he was one of the few people who truly understood her father—not just the media icon, but the man behind the legacy.

The alcohol in her system blurred her thoughts, turning them into fragments that didn’t quite connect. What had she meant to say? That she was ready to join Venturer? Or was she seeking reassurance, confirmation that she wasn’t about to make a colossal mistake? Or... Was it something else? A deeper need to see herself as others saw her—not as Matthew Jones’s daughter, or a reckless journalist who doesn’t know what she is doing, but as someone with her own voice, her own agency and could figure things out.

As she approached, her steps crunching against the gravel, Freddie’s head lifted. He spotted her instantly, his expression shifting from mild distraction to curiosity.

“Cass,” he greeted, his voice steady as ever, though his brows knitted, “Didn’t expect to see you here. Or... Like this.” His gaze flicked over the oversized coat draped over her shoulders.

Cassie smirked, tugging the coat closer, “Declan O’Hara has an interesting sense of chivalry.”

Freddie’s lips twitched into a smile that didn't quite get into his eyes. For a second, a suspicious look washed over his face before shifting back to curiosity, his attention lingered on her face.

“You’ve had a drink or two.” It was really that obvious? “Yesterday, you got arrested, tonight you are drunk… What do you plan to do tomorrow night?”

“Perhaps rob a bank,” she jested, finger over her chin, tapping as if she was truly thinking about it further, “Give them a true reason to arrest me, you know?”

Freddie arched a brow but didn’t press, gesturing toward the passenger side of his car, “You’re definitely too drunk. Come on, let’s sit.”

The moment they settled inside the car, Cassie found herself staring at her hands, tracing invisible patterns on her lap. The words she’d rehearsed in her mind earlier—if she had even rehearsed them—seemed to scatter.

Worse considering how drunk she was. Because let’s confess, she was too drunk. Thanks to Bas and Declan.

“Uncle, I...” She paused, frowning as she tried to organize her thoughts, “I think I’m going to do it.”

“Do what?” he asked gently, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

“Venturer,” she said, the word tumbling out in a single breath, “I’m going to take the offer.”

Freddie studied her for a long moment, his expression changing subtly. There was no dramatic change, no obvious emotion to pinpoint. Instead, there was something quieter—an intensity in the way his brow furrowed, his lips pressed together, and his eyes softened even more as though weighing every word she’d just said.

He wasn’t just listening. He was reading her, the way he always did, peeling back the layers of her drunken bravado and finding what lay beneath.

His silence drew her to continue, filling the space with her own uncertain voice.

“It’s not just about... Getting out there or proving anything,” she said, her words slower now, measured in a way that contrasted with her slightly slurred tone, “It’s about the people I promised to help. The ones I will meet someday in the future. And the ones who believed I could do something. And maybe... Maybe they’re right. Maybe I can.”

Her gaze lifted to meet his, searching for something she couldn’t quite name. If she was to be sincere, anything really.

“I don’t want to be my father’s shadow,” she whispered, her voice cracking, “But I also don’t want to ruin what he stood for. The media’s already done enough of that. I want to make him proud. I have to.”

Freddie’s expression softened, and he placed a hand on her shoulder, grounding. As always,

“You already are, Cass,” he whispered back to her, a smile adorning his lips, “Even if you don’t see it yet.”

“You think so?” she questioned him, hesitant.

“I know so,” he replied firmly, now serious, “And you don’t have to do it alone. There are people who want to help—Bas, for one. Lizzie, too. She could give you advice if you’d let her.”

Cassie hesitated, her drunken haze making it harder to parse his words, but their meaning still sank in.

“Lizzie,” she repeated softly, her thoughts meandering back to the woman’s gentle presence and subtle strength, “She seems so... Sure of herself, isn't she?” she slurred it, laughing before continuing, “I don’t know if I’m anything like that.”

“You don’t have to be Lizzie, neither like your father,” Freddie said gently, his voice threading through her rambling, “And you don’t have to figure it all out tonight. But Lizzie’s been through her share of fights, as your father. I know he’d understand what you’re facing.”

Cassie’s gaze drifted downward, her fingers absentmindedly brushing over the worn fabric of Declan’s coat draped around her shoulders. It felt heavy—she couldn’t stop herself from noticing that, but not oppressively so… More like an anchor keeping her grounded as her thoughts tumbled over themselves in a blur.

“My father...” she started, then stopped, her voice catching in her throat. The words felt fragile, like glass she was afraid to shatter. She took a breath, her hand stilling against the edge of the coat as if searching for steadiness.

“I don’t know if I can stop trying to protect him,” she admitted, her voice quieter now, her words almost drowned in the quiet of the car. “I’ve spent so much time trying to keep what he built from being ruined. I want to... I don’t want to be what they’ve turned him into.”

Freddie stayed quiet, his gaze focused on her, urging her to continue.

“It’s like I’m always trying to put back together something I can never touch,” the frustration bleeding into her tone, “I can’t fix what they did to him. I can’t stop people from seeing him the way they painted him. But every time I try, it just... it slips through my fingers.”

Freddie’s silence lingered for a moment, almost too long, before he spoke again, his voice calm but carrying an unspoken weight.

“You’re not responsible for what happened to him, Cass. You’re carrying something that wasn’t meant for you. His legacy... It’s not about what you protect, or how many people you shield from the things they did to him. It’s what you choose to do with the pieces of him that remain—what you make of them.”

Cassie’s breath hitched, but she didn’t break down. She just nodded quietly, trying to digest his words as they tumbled around in her mind.

“It feels like everything I’ve been doing... It’s to keep him whole. But I’m just patching things up. I’m not even sure what’s left anymore to protect.”

“You don’t have to carry that burden,” Freddie replied, his gaze focused on Spencer's residence, “You don’t have to carry his mistakes or his image, trust me, I’ve been in your place, I know what I’m talking about. What matters is what you choose to do next—what you make of your own life. You’re not him, neither of us are. You don’t need to be.”

Cassie inhaled deeply, but it didn’t seem to fill her lungs. She’d heard the words before—the advice, the reassurances. It should have been enough, right? But tonight, it felt heavier, like the walls were closing in. Her mind was drawing darker pictures now, the fear bleeding into thoughts she couldn’t push aside.

Now she remembered why she didn’t usually drink.

“I’m so scared of losing him,” she finally said, her words tumbling out in a rush. The tightness that had gripped her for so long released in a rush, “Losing his name... Making it all feel like it was for nothing.”

“You’re not losing him,” he replied, his tone firm but not harsh, “He’s in you, Cassie. Not in some image the media wants to cling to. Not in the mistakes that the media blew out of proportion. He’s in the parts of you that are real—the way you see people, how you care about them. That’s what matters. That’s what counts.”

Cassie swallowed hard, but the words didn’t bring the relief she expected. She shifted in her seat, suddenly feeling the weight of the conversation and the alcohol heavier than before. Her fingers brushed over the coat again, the sensation grounding her, but her thoughts were spiraling, tugging her deeper.

Everything seemed so much worse with the drunken fog covering his mind.

“I don’t even know how to start letting go,” she whispered, her voice cracking as her gaze dropped to her lap, the coat, anything but his eyes, “I’ve spent so long keeping his name intact. His image... So careful, so guarded. And every time I try... Every time I feel like I can breathe without him, it just slips right through my fingers.”

Freddie stayed silent for a moment, letting her words hang in the air, weighted and unresolved. When he spoke again, his voice was steady.

“You don’t have to know right now,” he tried to reassure her, “It’ll come, when it’s time. And you don’t have to do it alone. I’m here.”

She couldn’t answer him right away, her mind still lost in the complexity of her own emotions. His words felt like a promise, but even in her intoxicated state, she knew they weren’t that simple.

But then, something cracked in her thoughts, a flash of clarity amid the haze.

“If I go to Venturer,” she wondered, almost to herself, “When I take the offer… What if I do what he did? What if I make the same things?” Her voice was quiet now, trembling as the thought she had been avoiding suddenly surfaced, “What if they start comparing me to him once they discover he was my father? Because they will. What if I can’t measure up? What if... I ruin everything more than they already have?”

Freddie’s silence was louder than his words could have been. The understanding between them was almost too much for her to bear. She glanced at him, waiting for an answer, but Freddie’s gaze was a quiet sea of thought.

After a pause, he spoke, the simplicity of his words hitting her harder than she expected.

“You’re not him, Cass. You’ll never be him. You don’t need to prove anything to anyone, especially not to the media or to anyone who’s already decided who you are.”

“But they’ll always remember him,” Cassie replied, the truth seeping out as a mixture of resignation and frustration, “And I’ll always be compared to him.”

She didn’t even know why she was saying it—maybe because tonight, it all felt too close to the surface. Maybe because she didn’t have the energy to keep pretending she didn’t care.

The alcohol had taken all her energy away.

Her uncle looked at her with a softness that made her want to run but somehow kept her grounded.

“People will try, Cass,” he said after a moment, “But they won’t see what you can do. They will try to make up something that is not real, but it won’t ever work. Because it would be impossible to imagine you being anything but sincere, raw, honest.”

Cassie absorbed that for a long moment, the air heavy with the vulnerability she hadn’t intended to show. The unease in her chest hadn’t disappeared, but it didn’t feel as suffocating. Still, something gnawed at her—a quiet, unrelenting fear.

Freddie looked at her more closely now, his words quieter, almost a whisper.

“You’ve always been afraid of making the same things he did, Cassie. But that fear, it’s not just about you. It’s about his shadow. And you don’t have to keep hiding from it.”

Cassie turned her gaze away, her thoughts spinning again. It wasn’t just about being seen by a grand audience and discovering she was nothing she tried to be. Neither about being seen as her father’s daughter. It was about avoiding the comparisons—avoiding becoming the next failure in a long line of missteps.

But that wasn’t the whole picture, was it?

If she took that offer—really took it—she wasn’t just signing up for a fight for herself. She was signing up for the possibility of failure, of becoming something that wasn’t perfect. Of being judged. Of losing herself in the process.

But then again… If she didn’t, what would she be?

Her father's legacy would hang like a weight around her neck, too heavy to carry and too fragile to protect.

Earlier that they, she had thought of using it as an advantage instead of considering Venturer. But now? The more she thought about that, the more she hated herself for having been so desperate at that hour.

It would have been a terrible idea.

Cassie’s thoughts churned, a tangled mess of doubts, desires, and the lingering weight of everything she couldn’t quite name. The fear of falling into the same patterns, of becoming just another misstep in the line of her father’s legacy, clawed at her. But the more she tried to run from it, the more it seemed to haunt her.

And yet, she knew that if she didn’t take the chance, if she didn’t step into the space that had been carved out for her, it would all be for nothing. She couldn’t let that happen. Not now, not after everything she’d promised.

Her heart was heavy with the weight of the choice before her, but for the first time, there was a faint sense of relief in the uncertainty. It wasn’t a clear-cut path, not a guarantee of success, but it was hers. It had to be.

Her voice was barely a whisper, the thought escaping her before she could stop it.

“Maybe I need to stop running from it.”

Freddie’s smile was small, but it was there, soft and understanding.

“You’ll be fine, Cass. I know you will.”

Cassie turned her gaze toward him, uncertain but strangely comforted by his presence, “How can you be so sure?”

Freddie’s expression shifted, becoming more distant, as if reaching back to a time and place she couldn’t fully understand. He leaned back, his hands resting on the steering wheel, gathering his thoughts before speaking again.

“When I lost him,” he began, “I was so deep in that well that I couldn’t see my way out. I couldn’t face the world. I didn’t want to. I just wanted to lay down and let time take me too.”

Cassie stayed quiet, her eyes fixed on him, waiting for him to continue.

“But,” he continued, his voice gaining strength as the memories took shape, “As time passed, as I got the help I needed and found my way back, it was when I stopped running from the world—when I stopped running from his image—that things started to make sense. I stopped fighting it and just... Understood. And one day, you’ll understand too. It won’t happen all at once. But it’ll come.”

Cassie stared out of the car window, the lights of the gala blurring in her vision. The coat around her shoulders felt heavy—not from its weight, but from the reminders it carried, of Declan and of the space she was now stepping into.

She had always thought radio would be a way to stay hidden. A way to keep her father’s name from haunting her every move. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized it had only been another form of running. Now, with Venturer on the table, she knew she couldn’t keep avoiding it forever. It wasn’t about her father’s legacy; it was about her. It was time to stop letting the past dictate her future.

Turning to Freddie, the words slipped out before she could stop them.

“I thought getting into radio was my way of staying out of this, you know? But now… If once I’m there, in front of a camera, I know I’ll be forced to face it.”

Freddie’s eyes didn’t leave her face, “You probably won’t remember most of the conversation tomorrow, but I’ll say it, you need to live it without doubting every action.”

Cassie let out a slow breath, her gaze dropping to the coat in her lap. She wasn’t sure she was ready for this, but the weight of the decision didn’t feel quite as heavy as it had before. Maybe she wasn’t meant to be someone else’s idea of who she should be. Maybe it was time to step into something real.

“Maybe you’re right,” she said quietly, “I’ll for sure forget most of the conversation.”

Freddie’s laugh came as a soft, rumbling sound, breaking through the quiet like a beacon. He shook his head slightly, his usual sardonic edge replaced with something gentler.

“You’ll think about it,” he said, his tone confident yet unpressing.

Cassie nodded slowly, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of Declan’s coat draped across her lap. The heaviness of the conversation settled, but it didn’t smother—it was lighter now, the kind of weight she felt she could hold without being crushed.

Freddie glanced toward the glow of the house, “We can talk more tomorrow. I’ll bring Lizzie with me. We’ll help you nurse your inevitable hangover and sort through the rest.”

Cassie let out a small laugh, her lips quirking into a half-smile.

“That sounds like a thrilling way to spend your day.”

“It’ll be worth it,” he said simply, his words carrying a steadiness that made her feel a little less adrift.

Cassie leaned back against the seat, the night air brushing against her cheeks as she glanced toward him.

“Speaking of Lizzie... Where is she? Is she here?”

Freddie nodded, his gaze shifting toward the entrance.

“She’s wrapping up. I promised her a ride back.”

Cassie’s brow furrowed slightly, curiosity cutting through the haze of her thoughts, “And Valerie? Is she here too?”

Freddie’s expression didn’t falter, but there was the briefest pause before he replied.

“She left earlier. Said she wasn’t feeling great—probably went home.”

Cassie blinked, her intoxicated mind seizing on the detail, “Without you?”

“She doesn’t need me to hold her hand every time she leaves,” Freddie shrugged, his tone casual.

The words stirred in Cassie’s mind, unremarkable on the surface but carrying a weight she couldn’t ignore… Until a thought crossed her mind, followed by a million more.

She tilted her head, her gaze sharpening despite the whiskey softening her edges.

“You should just end it, Uncle,” she said in the next second, the words tumbling out without the usual filter she kept in place, “Be with Lizzie, you clearly enjoy each other’s company. Valerie’s already halfway out the door, and Lizzie—”

“Cassie,” Freddie interrupted, a note of surprise threading through his voice as his eyes widened slightly, his hands lifting in a quick gesture as if to calm her down or stop the thought mid-air.

His widened eyes met Cassie’s, but the surprise on his face softened quickly, replaced by a quiet exasperation. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a short laugh—a deflection, maybe, or an attempt to shake off the weight of her words.

“Good God, Cassie. You’ve always been too blunt for your own good,” he muttered, his lips curving in a half-smile, a sad one.

Cassie blinked at him, the alcohol buzzing through her veins making her unusually bold. She wasn’t entirely sure why she’d said it—no, scratch that, she was sure. It had been brewing in her mind for weeks, months even.

Still, now that the words were out there, the implications seemed heavier, clearer.

“You know I’m right,” she said, her voice quieter this time but no less insistent.

Freddie didn’t answer immediately. He shifted his weight in the driver’s seat, his fingers drumming briefly against the steering wheel before dropping into his lap. His eyes flickered toward the faint glow of the residence beyond the windshield, the hum of distant music filtering through the cool night air.

“Lizzie’s...” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully, “She’s a friend, Cass. And Valerie—”

“Doesn’t care,” Cassie interrupted, her voice sharper now.

Freddie looked at her again, his brows drawing together. His gaze wasn’t angry, though—more contemplative, like he was weighing her words against something unspoken.

“Maybe not,” he admitted after a moment, his voice measured, “But it’s complicated. Life is complicated, and not everything is as simple as it looks from the outside.”

Cassie opened her mouth to argue, but before she could, the sound of crunching gravel outside the car caught both their attention.

Freddie’s hand moved instinctively to the door handle, but he paused, his head turning toward the approaching figures illuminated by the headlights.

Declan O’Hara stepped into view first, his sharp features carved into focus by the pale light. Behind him, Rupert strolled with an air of practiced ease, Taggie walking just a little too close at his side. Her hand brushed his arm—a fleeting gesture, but enough to catch Cassie’s notice.

The Wolfhound’s gaze swept the scene, his sharp eyes moving with deliberate calm over Freddie’s car, Cassie in the passenger seat, and the trio behind him. For a moment, his expression was carefully neutral, but there was a flicker—an almost imperceptible tension in the set of his jaw, the faint narrowing of his eyes.

Curiosity, perhaps, or something closer to suspicion. Cassie, in her drunken haze, couldn’t quite decide which.

Rupert’s grin widened as he approached, his voice breaking the silence with a deliberate cheeriness.

“Well, well, what do we have here? A cozy little pow-wow?”

Freddie’s jaw tightened subtly, though he matched Rupert’s energy with a casual smile.

“Waiting on Lizzie,” he said, his tone easy, “What about you lot?”

Declan’s gaze lingered on Cassie for a moment before he responded.

“Giving Taggie a ride. Figured she’d need one since...” He trailed off, his eyes darting briefly to Rupert before continuing smoothly, “Mr. Spencer brought her here.”

Rupert’s grin didn’t falter, but there was a sharpness in his gaze as he replied, “Taggie has plenty of options for getting home.”

Taggie interjected quickly, her voice light and steady. “Dad was kind enough to offer, that’s all.”

The tension crackled between them, subtle but undeniable. Cassie’s attention shifted from one face to the next, her drunk mind trying to piece together what wasn’t being said.

Cassie’s gaze darted between them, her mind sluggish but still catching the undercurrent of something unspoken. The faint pressure in Declan’s voice, the way Rupert’s easy grin didn’t reach his eyes, and Taggie’s too-smooth interjection all seemed to hum with an almost imperceptible strain. Like a string pulled just tight enough to vibrate but not yet snap.

It was the kind of tension that didn’t need loud arguments to make itself known—it lived in the pauses, the glances, the spaces between words.

Taggie turned her attention to Cassie, her smile warm, trying to soothe the moment.

“You must be Cassie, right?” she said smoothly, her voice carrying the lightness of someone who had perfected small talk, “I’m Taggie. I’m a big fan of yours—I listened to your show every night.”

“Thanks,” Cassie replied, her lips curving into a small smile, “I really enjoyed working there but, you know, sometimes we must recognize that we deserve better.”

Taggie’s polite nod came quickly, her smile not quite meeting her eyes. The soft glow of the car headlights bounced off the curves of her features, and Cassie could feel Taggie’s thoughts wandering away from their exchange.

Declan’s expression remained inscrutable, but Cassie didn’t miss the way his gaze flicked briefly to Taggie, then Rupert. The angle of his stance shifted slightly, subtle yet calculated, as though bracing for something.

“So, you must be the famous Cassie Jones, Freddie’s niece!” Rupert said, breaking the silence with a grin that leaned toward the theatrical, “Quite the reunion out here. I’m Rupert—”

“I know who you are,” Cassie interrupted, raising her hands, “Minister of Sport. I’m more surprised you know who I am.” Her voice had a touch of amusement, though her brow arched as she spoke, the tiniest edge of challenge lacing her words.

Rupert chuckled, his hands spreading out in mock innocence.

“Well, your uncle telling us nothing about you didn’t make it easier,” he said, his tone light but not entirely devoid of calculation, “But you must imagine it, stirring with people like Crawford tends to bring attention.”

Cassie held back a laugh. Despite being drunk, she knew better than saying it was her who asked her uncle not to mention her.

She knew once she said that, the night would never end.

Cassie fought the urge to laugh, biting the inside of her cheek. Even in her drunken haze, she knew better than to let it slip that it was her idea to keep her uncle quiet about her. Admitting that would guarantee a night full of relentless questioning—and she was already past her limit.

Declan’s voice cut in smoothly, his tone casual but laced with a playful edge.

“Freddie, you keeping this one out of trouble?” His gesture toward Cassie was easy, but his gaze flicked briefly between Rupert and Taggie, his stance just a little too composed.

Freddie’s smile was polite but taut, his tone balancing on the edge of friendliness. “I will try.”

Cassie, emboldened by the alcohol humming through her veins, turned to Freddie with a grin.

“I can assure you,” she said, her voice lilting with mock seriousness, “I’ll sleep the second we hit the road.”

Taggie laughed lightly, the sound warm but carefully measured.

“You’re even funnier in person,” she said, her eyes flitting toward Declan for just a moment before returning to Cassie, “You’d be a great addition to Venturer.”

Cassie’s gaze shifted to Declan, her expression softening despite herself. “I’ve heard that before,” she said, her voice quieter, more reflective.

For a moment, their eyes locked. It was subtle—barely a pause—but the space between them seemed to shift. Declan’s mouth curved into the faintest smile, though there was something restrained in his expression, as if he were holding back a thought.

Freddie, sitting silently in the periphery, seemed to notice the moment, his gaze narrowing just slightly before returning to neutral.

“We should be on our way,” Declan said finally, his voice smooth but carrying a note of finality.

Rupert, however, seemed in no hurry to leave. He rocked back on his heels, hands shoved into his pockets as his gaze drifted lazily around the lot.

“No rush, is there? It’s a nice night.”

Declan’s brow twitched, a barely perceptible shift that Cassie might have missed if she weren’t already hyper-aware of his presence. His voice remained measured, calm.

“It’s late, and I’d like to get Taggie home before it gets any later.”

The words landed with a certain punch, though Cassie’s tipsy mind grappled with why. There was something about the phrasing—precise, intentional—that caught her attention.

She glanced between Declan and Taggie again, noting how Rupert’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. Weird.

Freddie cleared his throat, cutting through the subtle tension.

“We’re heading out too,” Freddie said, his voice carrying a casual lilt, though his hand moved almost instinctively toward the coat draped across Cassie’s shoulders. His gaze flicked briefly toward the house before settling back on Declan, “We’ll just wait for Lizzie; I’m giving her a ride.”

Cassie glanced down, her fingers curling absently into the soft folds of the coat. It still carried a faint warmth, a strange mix of comfort and weight she couldn’t quite place.

“Oh, right. I should give this back.” Her voice wavered slightly, a mix of tiredness and awkwardness, as she lifted the coat and held it toward Declan.

For a moment, Declan didn’t move. His gaze found hers, steady and searching, and the faintest flicker of something—hesitation? Thoughtfulness?—crossed his expression.

“Keep it,” he said at last, his lips curving faintly. The smile was almost shy as it widened, “You can return it another time.”

Cassie hesitated, caught between the instinct to protest and the sudden quiet that seemed to settle between them. Her fingers faltered mid-motion.

Before she could decide, Freddie’s hand intercepted the coat mid-motion.

“It’s fine,” Freddie said, his voice calm but firm, a hint of finality in the undertone, “It’s warmer in the car.”

The air shifted, the unspoken tension stretching thin one more time as Freddie and Declan’s gazes met. Declan’s stance didn’t tremble, but his expression tightened—briefly, imperceptibly—before smoothing into neutrality.

“Of course,” Declan replied, his tone polite but noticeably cooler.

Cassie rose from her seat, the motion drawing her closer to Declan. Her eyes lifted to meet his, and for a moment, their gazes held. It wasn’t a charged look, not exactly—it was quieter, a lingering acknowledgment of something.

Something that Cassie’s drunk mind didn’t even acknowledge truly. If her drunk version was to be sincere, she only appreciated looking into his dark eyes, she felt lighter every time she found them tonight.

Declan reached out, taking the coat gently from her hands. His fingers brushed the fabric, a fleeting touch that felt heavier than it should have.

After tonight, Cassie silently swore that she would never drink again.

“Thank you,” she murmured, though her voice was almost lost in the space between them.

He inclined his head, the trace of a smile returning to his face.

“Goodnight, Cassie. Freddie.” He faced the man, bowing his head briefly.

Cassie watched, still lingering by the car, as Rupert climbed into his vehicle, the door slamming shut with a soft thud. Declan moved fluidly beside him, offering Taggie a brief but courteous smile before opening the door for her. The brief interaction was almost too smooth, too polished to feel completely natural. Cassie couldn’t help but notice the way Declan’s posture remained perfectly composed, how his movements were precise.

As she slid into the backseat of Freddie's car, Cassie leaned her head against the cool window, her thoughts still racing. The events of the night clung to her, fragmented pieces of conversation and moments flickering in her mind like disjointed images. The cool glass against her skin was grounding, but the unease still lingered.

Declan’s smile, the way he had looked at her earlier… Sincerely, the whole day sit sat in the pit of her stomach

Her eyes followed Rupert’s car as it pulled away from the lot, the taillights fading into the distance before disappearing entirely. She then watched as Declan’s car followed suit, the two of them driving off into the night with an almost eerie synchronicity.

Freddie’s sigh filled the quiet space between her and Freddie, pulling her back from the haze of her thoughts. She hadn’t realized how much of the night she had been holding her breath. Freddie, however, seemed unfazed, his eyes focused on something else.

Cassie hadn’t seen him glance at Declan, but as the car’s headlights illuminated the road ahead, she caught the subtle change in Freddie’s demeanor. His gaze flickered toward the rear view mirror before quickly turning back to the residence, waiting for Lizzie.

The moment was brief, but something in the way he carried himself shifted—a slight tension, a quiet little figure that she wouldn’t grasp even if she had noticed the whole sudden reaction.

“You alright, Uncle?” Cassie turned to face him, knitting her brows.

Freddie nodded slowly, but his answer wasn’t as certain as he wanted it to be.

“Yeah,” he replied, her voice a little hoarse, “Just... Thinking.”

Cassie hummed, turning her attention back to the window as her mind drifted once more, still tangled with the events of the day.

What a day, really.

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