#Freddie Slack

[monkeyssalad-blog]

1945 Freddie Slack’s Boogie Woogie album by totallymystified

[chloesimaginationthings]

Michael Afton’s awkward family reunion in FNAF 3,,

[thesobsister]

Ella Mae Morse with Freddie Slack & His Orchestra, “Cow Cow Boogie”

And here’s the original version of it, or, I should say, the first hit version, as featured in 1943’s Reveille with Beverly. I learned today that it had originally been written for Ella Fitzgerald to sing in an Abbott and Costello flick, Ride ‘Em Cowboy, but had been cut from the final film. She had a subsequent recording of it with The Ink Spots, but I prefer the Ella Mae version.

Dorothy Dandridge, “Cow Cow Boogie”

And that’s how you do “Black spin on cowboy culture.”

[arkarti]

Part 12 of the Car Saga:

[cerealforkart]

What a treat to have two low-rolling Rangers in one family. I think Morgan should take her grandson camping (they’re gonna roll a combined 9 survival check and get attacked by bears)

[justalilgoofball]

How about 5C (from the first expression sheet) for Roxanne Wolf (fnaf)?

“Everybody loves you...”

“Everybody wants to be you...”

Whooo this was fun!! Feel free to send more requests in!

[kloofspeaks]

Five Nights at Freddy's | A Cinematography study

I'm Loofy, I currently have hopes to go into a Cinematography Major which I figured I could share those dreams and aspects into a small blog post about the move Five Nights at Freddy's (2023).

Word count for those interested: 3178

Taglist: @strawhbrrries, @omoriiiomrrr, @meteorstardust, @burgundymeadows, @viothewolx

Study under the cut

-Introduction to the Film

The purpose of this study was driven by the fact that I've been a fan of the Five Nights at Freddy's series since 2014, I was introduced by my older sister who is still into the series and books after all these years. We've watched every gameplay, read every book and theorized everything together till she moved in 2022.

On top of that I really wanted the first ever study I posted online to be something that everyone is interested in; including myself. I wanted fans (much like myself) to find some sort of connection to this whole study with different opinions, cinema views/uses of studies that people used when filming the piece and a simple background on a movie that went on to break several records on it's release date. Let's get started, shall we?

Emma Tammi was the director of the Five Nights at Freddy's film. She has done six movies with herself directing (that's including this film in her roaster.) This is not the only horror movie she's done. She's gone onto win multiple rewards and I'm going to have to at least give her some credit for wanting to really highlight a lot of the motifs (I will point these out in a later point.) and the important steps of the FNAF lore as a whole.

She mainly was driven aside with Scott Cawthon; the creator of the game's. Wanting this film to be driven more to the actual FNAF culture and the people that had grown into the fan they are today by following a messy lore story and the start of a game that was a last ditch effort.

Five Night's at Freddy's is an American Supernatural Horror film. It's conventions are to allow the watcher to be frightened and on the edge of their seat. It's to focus on telling a story while also being scary and a tragedy.

-Visual Study (Spoiler warning, Images are used)

The lighting that is used in more of a natural lighting, they use the sun and mood lighting to add more effect to the actor that is in the shot, this causes the movie to use a lot of backlighting, natural lighting, mood lighting and soft film lighting. Soft film lighting is mostly used throughout the whole film since it wants to allow the camera lense to almost wrap around the shadows that are being made by said lighting.

Most of those effects are prominent in the scenes where Abby is laying on the floor watching TV while Mike is sitting by the kitchen table questioning if he should contact the number on the card he was given to be able to keep Abby.

The color pallet that is used in the mood lighting is reds, yellows, blues and purples. They will use it either as backlight mood lighting or definition lighting for a character's shadow or face.

Here are some examples:

(Mood Lighting Examples)

(Soft Film Light Examples)

The main cinematography techniques used are: Long shots, Medium long shots, over the shoulder, Dutch angle shot and bird's eye shot. These are camera techniques that we use in most films today and in the past to tell a story from every point of view and get everything in a single picture. Let me pull some angles and shots from the film.

Long-shots are usually the ones done from afar much like the ones you see from the outside views of the pizzeria or of Abby and Mike to give definition to the surrounding area while still having the subject being on the characters.

Here are some examples:

Medium long shots are shorter versions of a long shot and are more closer to the subject that it's focused on, much like the shots used in the scenes of William and Mike's conversation about the job position and the conversations Mike has with Vanessa.

Here are some examples:

The Dutch angle shot isn't one you miss in most Horror movies- It's one that is MAINLY used in horror films to date. The best way to explain it is the way the camera is tilted towards the delivering character. I was only able to really pick this shot up a couple times in my four rewatches of the film which was when Afton showed up in his Springbonnie outfit therefore I don't have any examples I can share at this point and time.

Close-ups, you guessed it! It's close ups of the actors/subjects face. We see plenty of these of Mike and Abby but they're not extremely close up. They're more just distanced close-up's but are close enough to define the emotion, skin texture, glimmer, lighting on and of the actor.

Here are some examples:

Bird's eye shot is all in the name, it's a shot that's normally filmed with a flying drone and is up in the air and shot much like a bird is following or sitting up in the sky. This is used when Mike exit's the conversation with William and when he is driving towards the pizzeria.

Here are some examples:

Point of View shots are one's that use the actor's "eyes" as the shot, it can be seen from the very first scene with Foxy to William getting his cup of black coffee while speaking with Mike.

Here are some examples:

Framing is always a key when shooting a shot for cinematography, learning where to have your characters stand and how the composition of each shot laid out before filming. There's shots that go from one to six in only three seconds of footage. The film uses a lot of an editing technique called quick/fast-cutting which is where there is an angle that is touched on for a brief 3-5 seconds before switching to a different angle of the same conversation.

Much like how Matpat explained in his behind the scenes video where they spent several hours just filming one scene, it was because of this quick-cutting and having to piece together every shot to make it look like a fluid and forward conversation which allows for clean shots, visual storytelling and eye-catching camera movements.

Visual storytelling is used to tell more to the story than what is physically being explained, there is so much in this film that I'm willing to break down the most common ones.

William Afton's purple bow ties are a dead giveaway and clear visual storytelling towards the fact he ends up being Springbonnie and the murderer of Mike's younger brother when he was twelve.

The plane that Garrett plays with in the first dream and is dragged into a photo with Vanessa and her father which is later spotted by Mike when she reveals that she knew about Garrett's death and explains much more behind her story and why she knew so much about the pizzeria.

The almost halo like scene where Vanessa is standing during the confession scene with Mike. The light behind her makes her seem like she's an angel that is there to help Mike through his problems and also directs towards her downfall which is her getting hospitalized.

Abby and the drawings on the wall in one of the composition medium long shots, it's shown during the scene of the first guard which led to his murder. The drawing is immediately brought up as a 'mental issue' by Abby's aunt and Mike says often that if he dropped dead she would've still been drawing before she even noticed and it's brought up again and again throughout the story as it seems to be one of Abby's character traits as she's able to use drawing to connect with the main four later in the film and one of her drawings is used to kill Afton in the end of the film. (He always comes back.)

The impact the visual narrative had was that it was able to present the movie well and allowed the foreshadowing to be delivered PROPERLY even when from a regular viewers eyes it seemed choppy and messy, which is how the film is supposed to be. It's supposed to be for strictly FNAF fans.

The visual motifs that are commonly used in this film would be drawing and the use of a child's mind being able to use drawing, creativity and lighting to explain past trauma. It's one of the few motifs I figured was worth at least mentioning before we moved onto the next part of this study, which brings me to....

-Sound and Music

The soundtrack revolving around this film is very 8-bit sounding in the first half of the movie to be able to tie in to the relation with the 8-bit parts in the game which match with more an atari style of gameplay in the middle of nights, secrets within the game and main plot story telling.

Which is the role of the music in this film, it's driven with the use of violin and piano. It's being used for storytelling and strictly story telling. The main songs I want to point out in this one is the bright and rich piano that is used to enter Mike when he wakes up and jumps out of bed to get started with his date to the drastic change of subtle guitar/bass in his dream sequences.

It's used to express emotion with the storytelling, giving us certain noises and sounds that can trigger something familiar in the brain. The calm before the storm is what I want to call it in this study, it's the joyfulness that Mike has before Garrett is taken to the music going grim and almost threatening when he realizes that he is going and is being taken away from him while keeping that 8-bit sound almost like the music itself is glitching.

The voice acting is very different in this film compared to other horror films that focus on voices much like Scream and the tone changes that are needed to make a character come off a certain way.

Matthew Lillard and Elizabeth lail both have very awkward sounding voices/lines in the entire film, almost like they're supposed to come off suspicious. Steve Raglan has more of an unsteady voice that makes him come off uneasy and intimidating.

Vanessa is played strictly as someone who has more to bring to the table but is hiding it poorly, she speaks about how she knows so much about the past guards, why they quit and when, who and where about the pizzeria which causes Mike to become suspicious of her and drill questions into her when he gets the chance to.

Mike has shaky, not very confident in himself voice lines and his voice is mostly uneasy in all of the movie. He seems almost like he's not there or is distant from the conversation when it is held (and I don't know if this is just Josh Hutcherson acting or what Emma Tammi told Josh to do on set, but he looks so tired throughout the whole film and I wanted to specifically mention this in that study so people don't think I'm taking that the wrong way.)

Abby is the opposite, she is very bubbly and approachable which almost makes it unbelievable that Mike is the one that is raising her during the story of the film because of how drastically different they are.

Along with the voice acting there is ambient sounds that the film uses that I would like to touch on as well:

Foxy's iconic hum and the jumpscare noise from the first game is an ambient noise mainly used to connect the viewer (which hopefully is a fan) to the film that is displayed to them and the people around them in the theater.

The sound of birds being used to have Mike enter his dream sequences so he can be able to remember it fully, in theory the sound of birds will help him feel more connected to the day it happened, but that's just a theory.

Which would make this an aural motif, because it is used as a source/fact why Mike uses bird sounds to help himself sleep and needs that tape to be able to get to that dream sequence.

-Narrative and Themes

The plot of Five Nights at Freddy's consists of Mike Schmidt a man who seems to be struggling to be able to hold a job because of his rising PTSD and anger issues. He is tasked with raising his sister Abby while dealing with the accusation of being unsafe and unfit to be able to raise her and is served with a paper from his Aunt wanting to take full custody of his sister with this new found information he finds himself a job at an abandoned pizzeria where he just settles for six hours out of the night to watch over the place. He soon meets a police officer named Vanessa and she expresses more about the backstory of the pizzeria and why a series of killings led to the closure of the place back in the 80s. When Mike's babysitter for Abby randomly disappears he ends up taking Abby to his job for the night where she makes contact with the dead spirits of the animatronics that lurk the abandoned place and causes Mike, Vanessa and Abby to dig deeper into the lore of the pizzeria.

The character development that is used in this story is stuck onto Mike who is the main character of the story being told, he goes from wanting his younger brother's killer to wanting to live in a life where his brother is never taken and he is happy living his life with his family. He soon realizes his mistake and realizes that Abby is the only person he needs in his life and puts his brother's past and death behind himself to allow himself to heal from his PTSD and anger issues to just live a normal life.

The main themes of this movie is:

The American Dream.

Past Trauma.

Stepping up and becoming a new person.

Arthur Miller once explained The American Dream in a simple story after explaining the tragedy that Shakespeare often used as angst in his plays but it would only be used in a royalty and never as a common man. The American dream can simply be explained by the dreams held by someone who is financially stable enough to be living their dream in the bounds of America. Mike is shown to be failing The American Dream due to his struggles with money, the loose cases of him almost losing his sister because of his mistakes and failures where he is too wrapped in this dream that he's stuck in.

Which is why I wanted to touch on this topic, Mike does get past this dream and works on becoming a better person after a tragedy had happened. (more than once) He struggles in life but soon finds out his true answer to his troubles was family and that he had been pushing his sister out of the picture since day one. It was a recovery story with a theme of being the bigger person and learning from your mistakes.

-The Impact

As we get to the climax of this study I wanted to touch on the impact this movie had for the millions of people that decided that they wanted to watch this movie for the inner child inside of themselves. The movie has gone on to reach a 30% in critic reviews while there is an 88% audience view, (as of i'm writing this) it ended up becoming much like The Mario movie with the reviews as critics found it confusing and bland while the actual intended audience found it confusing much like the lore while their childhood dream was coming true.

Five Nights at Freddy's ended up shattering countless records on it's opening night of Friday, October 27th. Those records are:

The highest North American opening for PG-13 horror.

The second largest opening for a video game themed movie.

The biggest opening for a horror movie helmed by a female director.

The largest horror opening for 2023. (which took the throne from the Nun II)

The cultural impact this film had on the viewers and fans was overwhelmingly positive, it had people crying in the theaters, cutouts of Markiplier the titled 'King of Five nights of Freddys' in theaters, people taking in every bit of lore they could get. It impacted the inner child from 2014 that had hoped for a day that this movie would hit theaters and finally get recognized for the glory it truly is.

The movie had been rumored for more than eight years before it finally came to life around 2020 when Scott Cawthon came to light and explained the details of the film (very minor, might I add.) and confirmed it was going to be made. The same man went on to add how he went to opening nights and shared his experiences and he was happy to see how excited fans were to watch the film he spent hours and days to compact into something that was truly "made for the fans."

There were countless converseies of who would appear in the movie and the ongoing joke of the "We are FNAF" trend spreading its way through every social platform only for it to b debunked when the movie dropped. It truly will go down in its pure legacy of being a movie that took 8 years to come to limelight.

-The Conclusion

Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened. The key findings I found in this study was making the impact and techniques used to make the film as enjoyable as you could make a video game as confusing as FNAF into a movie and I have to say we definitely succeed.

The realization of failure or past trials and tribulations is what I really wanted to touch on. Mike Schmidt is welcomed as a character that is simply trying his best when it comes to taking care of his sister Abby and he is failing in every way possible but somehow makes up for it at the end of the day. This movie might've not changed lives but certainly rested the childlike excitement that we had when it was rumored all those years ago.

Finally, that inner child can come out and we can be kids again just for a smooth 2 hours. This movie was clearly life changing and will continue to be held dear in the hearts of many, it's nothing huge but something special.

I can't tell you how long I've been wanting to say this but the hype I felt in the theater the day I saw it just confirmed all my theories and doubts, this movie isn't going to be something someone is going to easily forget.

Thank you for reading my Cinematography study of the Five Nights at Freddy's movie.

And Thank You, Scott for making my childhood become a reality.

[dayshift-loop]

got possessed by more au ideas that are probably stupid.

there's a reason the loops start at the colorado location otherwise do you know how chaotic shit COULD get if someone gets revived that shouldn't be revived?

the colorado location is in shambles. no one knows whats going on. dave's still heartless, jack's still soulless, and steven's still in constant pain. harry doesn't know why he's there and he's having a crisis. henry's sick of people dragging themselves out of their graves. peter's tired. location 14 got set on fire by steven the day after henry killed him & harry was transferred to location 47 as a result. everything is going JUST FINE.

also why blue? bc red is the same color as blood and who wants to look like they're covered in blood constantly? so i just went with the opposite color to red, which is blue.

[reportinglivefromfreddys]

I have to disagree with you, Jeremy, pizza is not boring!!1!!11

IT IS WHEN IT'S BASICALLY ALL YOU EAT!!!!

[van-afton]

true and interesting to think about

after some thought, i wonder if this behavior developed more over time into adulthood and was less common in childhood. let me explain (ramble)

teenage years mike is being all rowdy and annoying (yadda yadda all that stuff) i think he’d be one of the types to be super into boxing and working out (because big boy muscles testosterone)

but then as his life takes a turn for the Much Worse he realizes he can’t just uppercut his way through his problems: this gets even worse after he gets scooped and basically loses all of his strength. now he has to rely on his resourcefulness rather than his own physical strength.

also as funny as it is i dont think michael is gonna start slapboxing an animatronic anytime soon. i think he knows better. maybe.

I think Mike would be the type of person to fight dirty. He takes the first swing while you’re still talking. He bites. He purposely keeps his nails long for optimal scratching. He’ll light your house on fire. Anything is fair game in his eyes. Because the world has never been fair to him, why should he be fair back.

[silly-goober]

i forgot i had tumblr, hi internet!! this is an artfight attack i did for artfight.net/~bubbleverse, a mutual of mine for a few years now :] i thought this one turned out neat, hope y'all like it

NOT MY OC!!! IN CASE YOU DON'T KNOW HOW ARTFIGHT WORKS THIS IS NOT MY CHARACTER :D just wanted to clarify i didn't come up with this banger design myself (sadly), she belongs to bubbleverse!!

[iiwontgiveuponmilkk]

Subspace | F.W.

summary: *requested* she spent the day purposefully teasing him and getting on his nerves with only one thing in mind. fred fucks her into subspace and takes care of her, she got a little more than she bargained for, not that she's complaining.

word count: 2075

warnings: straight smut, dom!fred, teasing, some fluff, okay honestly it's straight filth

notes: so excited to have a request after such a long time! may change the gif, can't find the right one... also may update this one again, it feels a little short

minors dni. 18+.

masterlist

She was driving him mad, absolutely mad. She waltzed into the shop around noon that day to bring him his lunch. The lunch he would have never forgotten if she hadn’t decided to tease him from the moment she woke up. She decided to join him in the shower this morning, wrapping her arms around him from behind. He thought it was cute at first, then she was gripping his cock in her hand. She waited until a groan fell from his lips before she released him and slid out of the shower. He had turned, reaching out to grab her and pull her into him, but she had managed to slip just out of his reach. He went through the morning frustrated, thinking about what he would’ve done if he wasn’t already running late that morning. And here she was now, a tiny little skirt on that was barely longer than his jumper that she wore. His eyes drug up her body, finding her smiling innocently at him when he met her eyes, batting her eyelashes at him. “I brought your lunch, seems you forgot it this morning, Freddie.” She handed him the small bag, a blush on her cheeks. He grabbed her arm as she turned to leave, pulling her against him. “And what are you up to now, love?” He whispered in her ear, nipping her earlobe. “N-nothing, just making sure you eat today.” She smiled, trying to hold her composure. She gave him a sweet smile, distracting him as her hands moved to his waist. Her fingers hooked under his belt, pulling him against her. She rested her chin on his chest, looking up at him. “You might want to eat that alone.” She bit her lip, a mischievous look twinkling in her eyes. His hand snaked around her waist, “and why is that, love?” The way he looked at her sent a shiver up her spine. She was sure he would take her right here and now if the shop wasn’t full. She let her fingers ghost over his growing bulge. “You’ll see.” She pressed a quick kiss to his lips, wiggling out of his grasp and leaving just as quickly as she came in. 

Fred had left a few minutes early, telling George he would close up tomorrow. He had stormed into her flat, finding her cooking dinner. “Oh, hi love.” She grinned, her smile slightly falling as he stalked over to her. “I see you’re still playing your little game.” He shook his head, looking her over. The skirt from earlier was gone, leaving her in just his jumper. He pulled something delicate and lacy out of his pocket, dangling it on his finger. “Did you misplace these? Hmm?” He raised a brow, watching her bite her lip. “I-” She started, only for him to cut her off. “You what, love? You just wanted to tease me all day, is that it?” His hands were on her hips, lifting her onto the counter. His hands slid over her thighs, pushing her legs apart. A whine left her lips as he drug a finger through her folds. “Have you been this wet all day? Just waiting for me to come home?” The only answer that came from her was a moan as he slid a finger into her. “I really shouldn’t be rewarding you.” His voice low as he thrusted his finger into her, slowly working in a second. She rocked her hips forward, trying to get him to go faster, to give her more. “Freddie, please.” She whined as he pulled his fingers out of her. “Not a chance, love.” He lifted her off the counter, gently pushing her down on her knees. She looked up at him as he removed his belt, unbuttoning his slacks. She slid her hands up the front of his thighs, her fingers grasping the waistband of his slacks and boxers, tugging them down. His hand wrapped around his dick, giving it a slow pump. His other hand ran through her hair, grasping a fistful of her hair at the back of her head. She wet her lips, looking up at him. Fred gave a quick tug on her hair as she slid her hands up his thighs. Her left hand gripped his thigh as she spread her fingers. Her other hand wrapped around his dick. She ran her hand up his length, brushing her thumb over the tip. Fred reached out, lifting her chin to pull her gaze back to his. He brushed his thumb over her bottom lip. “You look so good on your knees for me, baby.” He smirked, gently pushing her head forward. She parted her lips, taking his tip in her mouth. A small groan came from him when she swirled her tongue around him. Her hands came to rest on his thighs when she started to move. He let her go at her own pace, but soon realised she was still teasing him. The slow strokes of her tongue and shallow movements, and the look in her eyes when she looked up at him. He grasped her hair tighter, thrusting his hips forward. The moan that fell from her lips as he fucked her mouth made his head fall back. He pulled her off of him when he felt himself getting close. His fingers left her hair, grasping her chin gently as she stood. He leaned down, capturing her lips in a hungry kiss. She tangled a hand into his hair, the other grasping his shoulder. His hands slid down her body, grasping the back of her thighs as he lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist. He nipped her bottom lip before swiping his tongue along it. She parted her lips, her tongue brushing against his. 

She gasped when Fred dropped her onto the bed. She pushed herself up on her elbows, looking up at him. “Are you ready to behave?” He looked down at her, holding her gaze as she nodded. He shook his head as he began to unbutton his shirt. “Use your words, princess.” He slid his shirt off, watching her as she pulled his jumper over her head. “Yes.” She reached out for him as he moved over her. He used his knee to push her legs apart, his eyes dragging up her body. “Look at how wet you are for me.” He smirked as he got to his knees at the edge of the bed. He grabbed her ankles, yanking her down until her hips were at the edge. He pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh, nipping the skin before he moved down her leg. She watched as his mouth moved closer to her pussy. Each nip seemed harder than the last. Her head fell back when he pressed his tongue to her clit. His name fell from her lips when he plunged two fingers into her. She felt herself getting closer, then he dragged his teeth over her clit. She yelped at the feeling, her eyes rolling back when he sucked her clit between his lips. He curled his fingers, her toes curled, a moan leaving her lips as she clenched around his fingers. He pulled his fingers from her, he looked up at her as he pushed his fingers into his mouth. Her cheeks heated at the sight, causing him to smirk. He climbed over her as she scooted up the bed. She leaned up, kissing him. She pulled him down as she laid back on the bed. “You’re in for it, love.” He pressed a kiss to her neck, sucking a mark into her skin. “You’ve had me thinking about being inside of this pretty little pussy all day.” He gave her no warning as he sank into her. He tangled his fingers into her hair at the back of her head, yanking down. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as he thrusted into her. She gasped when he nipped at her collarbone. He maintained a tight hold on her hair. The pleasure mixed with small kisses of pain was starting to overwhelm her. Her nails dug into his skin when she felt the warmth building in her stomach. She moved her hips to meet his, trying to reach her orgasm. Fred kissed her hard, biting her bottom lip. He pressed his forehead to hers as she came, lewd moans falling from her lips. 

He flipped her over, pulling her hips up so she was on her knees. His hand moved up her back, pushing her chest down to the bed. She turned her head, reaching to move her hair out of her face. Fred grabbed her hands, pinning them above her head as he leaned over her. “Let go, love.” He whispered in her ear, rubbing his tip through her folds. She whined, pushing her hips back when she felt his tip at her entrance. He let go of her hands, leaning back. She gasped when his hand collided with her ass. His palm smoothed over the red handprint. “What did I say, princess? Let go, let me take care of you.” She gasped as he slammed into her. “F-Fred.” She moaned, “I-i.” Her words lodged in her throat as her breath hitched. He slammed into her relentlessly. She knew what she was doing earlier, teasing him. She just wanted him to come home and fuck her over the counter. But this? This was even better than that. She yelped when his hand came into contact with her ass again. He smoothed his hand over her hips, digging his fingers as he pulled her back against him to meet his thrusts. Her legs were shaking, she wasn’t sure she could take anymore. He leaned down, wrapping his arm around her chest, pulling her up with him. His fingers wrapped lightly around her neck as her back arched. She whimpered with each thrust. He pressed his fingers into her pulse point, her head falling back onto his chest. He glanced down at her, noticing her mouth fall open. She reached up behind, tangling her fingers into his hair. He slid his other hand from her hip and between her thighs. He used his fingers to circle her clit. “Look at you, taking me so well.” Fred groaned, giving her a hard thrust. Incoherent babble fell from her lips as her free hand gripped his arm that was pressed across her chest. He could feel her clenching around him, he pressed his fingers harder into her clit. She whimpered when she finally came, the feeling almost too much. Her fingers tugged at Fred’s hair, her eyes fluttering shut. Her fingers slowly slid from his hair as she started coming down from her orgasm. His hips snapped against hers, a groan leaving his lips when he came. She moaned at the feeling of him spilling into her, clenching around him again. He kept thrusting until she was trembling as she came again. She mumbled something incoherent again as her body relaxed against him. She was putty in his hands, if he let go of her, she would fall to the bed. He gently laid her down on the bed as he pulled out of her. He laid down next to her, rolling her over and pulling her into his side. He smirked when he noticed the dazed look on her face. He smiled to himself as he realised what state she was in. She curled into him, laying her head on his chest. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, holding her 

“Hey, love.” Freddie whispered, dragging his fingers up her arm. “Mm?” She hummed, nuzzling her face into his chest. He chuckled, pressing a kiss to her head. They laid in silence for a while as he held her. Her fingers traced paths between the freckles on his chest and stomach. “What are you doing down there?” He asked quietly, being patient with her. “I’m naming the stars.” She mumbled, moving her head to look up at him. A lazy smile graced her lips as she looked up at Fred. He brought his hand up to her cheek, tracing a finger under her cheekbone. “You want to take a shower?” He asked, holding her soft gaze. She shook her head gently, pulling herself closer to him. She nudged his chin with her nose, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw. He pressed a soft kiss to her lips. A soft sigh escaped her lips as he brushed his nose against hers. She brushed her lips against his, biting her lip as a small smile formed on her lips. It didn’t take long for her to shift so she was laying on top of him. He lightly drug his fingertips up her spine. 

“Freddie.” She mumbled, lifting her head to look at him. “Yeah, love?” He asked, turning his head to look at her. “Can we take a shower now?” She asked, giving him a small pout. 

[whencartoonsruletheworld]

time traveling ballpit: "into the pit." don't you fuckin tell me it wasn't time travel, they call it the "time-traveling ballpit" IN the ultimate guide that is a CANON descriptor

spring bonnie replaces some kid's dad in real life: "into the pit." we dont talk about that enough that's the REAL funny part of the short

plushtrap gets hit by a train: "out of stock." pretty self-explanatory. also had human eyes and teeth

funtime foxy taxi driver: "room for one more." it's the first nightmare this dude has and so you're not even expecting it and suddenly funtime foxy is just THERE

never explaining what the FUCK "the new kid" ending was about: if you've read it you know what i mean

springtrap mpreg: "in the flesh." i know the proper fandom term is matpat mpreg but the man's retiring let's cut him a little bit of slack

afton fuckin explodes: "the man in room 1280." i was noooot fucking expecting THAT

fazgoo: "he told me everything." i think the name speaks for itself

PUPPET FORKLIFT RAMMING INTO 15FT AGONY AFTON MECH: "the cliffs epilogue." why did nobody warn me about that one. everyone warned me about the mpreg and the ballpit and nobody about charlie being strapped to a forklift in the attempt to push the giant 15ft afton mech screaming "I AM AGONY" like an edgy teenager into a fucking lake to drown him. this one's my favorite personally. charlie forklift certified

9yo burns "just say no" onto drug dealer's forehead for kicks: "gumdrop angel epilogue." they set that shit up like jake was gonna kill the guy but instead he took the WAY funnier option

sea bonnies: "sea bonnies." sea bonnies.

michael in the bushes: "you're the band." michael loses animatronic freddy's possessed head and stalks the person who bought it, digs through her attic and hides in her bushes, and then follows her to a new house and hides in her bushes AGAIN. then when her kid is kidnapped he drives her down to freddy's in an awkwardly silent car ride, saves her kid from puppet tentacles, and explains nothing

[killeromanoff]

I KNOW YOUR GHOST | prologue

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

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

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

w.c: 9.8k

notes: would you want me to continue the series

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

oo. You know what your words can mean

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But what about her?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But instead, she was here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But tonight? Tonight, it felt empty.

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

Cheerier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She wanted to be more than this.

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

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

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

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

“Take care of yourself, Cass.”

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

But that didn’t make the choice any easier.

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

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

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

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

The radio filling the background quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She hated it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cassie paused for a moment, weighing her words carefully.

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

Bas raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued now.

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

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

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

“I already have a job, Bas.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cass? What’s wrong?”  

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

“Turn. That. Up .”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cass, think about this—”

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

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

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

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

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

The line clicked after a few rings.  

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

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

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

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

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

Bas exhaled sharply, gripping the phone tighter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cassie’s hands curled into fists at her sides.

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

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

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

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

Dan chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair.

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

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

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

Crawford straightened, his expression hardening.

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

That was all the time Cassie needed.  

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

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

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

Behind the glass, Crawford was screaming at the technicians.

“Get her off the air! Now!”

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

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

Her voice filled the airwaves, clear and commanding.

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

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

“Cut the feed!”

The lead technician hesitated, sweat beading on his brow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get her off the air!”

“That’s enough!”

“Someone call the police!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Declan inhaled sharply, breaking his stillness.

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

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

Declan, leaning against the counter, let his arms fold loosely across his chest. His posture was relaxed, but there was a sharpness in his gaze, a flicker of something darker beneath the surface.

“She’s forced their hand,” Declan said, his tone calm but deliberate, “He’ll want to make an example of her—show everyone what happens when you push too hard.”

Rupert hummed thoughtfully, folding his paper with deliberate care and resting his hands on it, as if weighing something unseen. There was an unspoken suspicion behind his narrowed gaze as he studied Declan—a sharpness that cut into the quiet space between them.

Rupert’s gaze flicked to Declan, a subtle spark of curiosity glinting in his eyes.

“And yet,” Rupert began, his words slow and deliberate, “you don’t sound like someone who thinks she’s in over her head.”

Declan’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

“She’s not,” he said simply.

Declan’s gaze set over the radio, his expression unreadable but far from indifferent. The static-filled silence that followed Cassie’s broadcast had settled over the room, heavy and charged, like the air before a storm. He rolled his shoulders slightly, as if shaking off the weight of it, but his thoughts stayed fixed on her words.

It wasn’t just what she’d said—though that had been sharp enough to leave a mark—it was how she’d said it. There was precision in her delivery, the kind of unyielding conviction that struck a nerve. Declan knew that tone. It was the sound of someone who’d spent too long being told to sit down and shut up, finally deciding they’d had enough.

He sipped his now-lukewarm coffee, his eyes narrowing slightly as Taggie’s voice broke into his thoughts.

“You sound like you admire her,” she teased, her smile faint but knowing as she turned back to her bowl.

Declan gave her a sidelong glance, his smirk half-formed.

“I don’t know her,” he replied, his tone light but carefully neutral, “Hard to admire someone you’ve never met.”

Taggie’s laugh was soft, her focus returning to her batter, “Doesn’t mean you can’t be impressed.”

Rupert chuckled quietly, folding his newspaper and leaning back in his chair with an air of satisfaction.

“Oh, he’s impressed, all right,” he said smoothly, casting Declan a sly look, “Rarely seen the Wolfhound so quiet after hearing someone on the air.”

Declan shot him a look, more amused than irritated.

“She’s reckless,” he said, his voice steady, as if stating an undeniable fact, “That kind of move doesn’t just burn bridges; it torches the whole damn village.”

“And you respect that,” Rupert countered, leaning forward slightly, his sharp eyes glinting.

Declan didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he set his coffee down with a deliberate slowness, the soft clink of the mug against the counter punctuating the silence. His thoughts churned, though he wouldn’t have admitted it outright. There was a spark to her, something raw and untamed that he hadn’t expected.

He’d seen plenty of people with ambition—had worked alongside them, had watched them rise and fall, often under the weight of their own egos. But Cassie’s drive didn’t seem rooted in vanity or ambition for its own sake. It was sharper than that. Purposed.

She reminded him of someone—maybe himself, years ago, when he still believed in tearing down the walls instead of navigating them.

“Reckless doesn’t mean wrong,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful.

Rupert tilted his head, watching him with an expression that bordered on amusement.

“Interesting,” Rupert murmured.

Declan ignored him, his thoughts still circling. Cassie Jones. Freddie’s niece, apparently. That explained part of it—Freddie was nothing if not sharp-tongued and stubborn. But there was more to her, something he couldn’t quite piece together yet. She wasn’t just loud or brash; she was precise, deliberate, and unafraid to be messy if it meant getting to the truth.

He could still hear her voice, cutting through the static with an unshakable conviction. It wasn’t easy to pull that off—to sound angry and controlled at the same time. It took skill.

Talent , he corrected himself silently.

“Think she’ll stay in Rutshire after this?” Taggie asked, her tone light, though her curiosity was evident.

Declan tilted his head slightly, considering.

“If she’s smart, she won’t,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact, “Crawford will make sure she’s blacklisted. She’ll have to find somewhere else to land.”

And yet, as he said it, he found himself hoping she wouldn’t. There was something compelling about her fight, her refusal to accept the constraints of her situation. He didn’t know what she’d do next, but he had the sense it would be something worth watching.

Declan’s smirk returned, faint but unmistakable. She’s not going to fade quietly, that’s for sure.

The air in the kitchen had grown heavier, the faint crackle of static from the radio fading into the background as Cassie’s voice disappeared. Declan stood by the counter, his coffee forgotten as his gaze lingered on the now-silent speakers. The energy of the room shifted, a quiet tension filling the space like the lull before a storm.

Rupert stretched his legs under the table, his smirk widening as he tilted his head to watch Declan.

“You’re planning something,” Rupert said, his tone light but knowing, “You always get that look when you’ve found a new target.”

Declan’s lips quirked into a faint smile, though he didn’t take the bait.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he replied smoothly, lifting his coffee mug again, though he didn’t drink, “I’m just thinking.”

“About a voice you just heard on the radio,” Rupert added, teasing. Taggie glanced at him from her bowl, her hands resuming the rhythm of her whisk.

Declan shot a sideways glance at both of them  but didn’t respond, letting the words hang in the air.

Taggie tilted her head slightly, her whisk pausing for just a moment.

“Did you like her?” she asked, her tone gentle but curious, as though she already had her own answer but wanted to hear Declan’s.

Declan shot a sideways glance at both of them, his expression guarded.

“I don’t even know her,” he countered, his voice calm but with a faint edge of irritation, “She’s Freddie’s niece, not a bloody headline.”

His daughter raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching into a small, knowing smile, but she said nothing. Taggie had learned long ago that her father’s defenses ran deep when it came to matters of people getting under his skin.

“Maybe not yet,” Rupert interjected, leaning forward in his chair, his sharp eyes glinting with amusement, “But she’s got the spark for it. We all heard it. She knows how to make herself heard.”

Declan didn’t respond immediately, though Rupert’s words hit him right away. He could feel them, like a distant echo, her voice still hummed in his head.

His gaze shifted briefly to the radio, now silent, as though it might still hold some faint trace of her words. He could see it—hear it again in his mind. Cassie Jones wasn’t just speaking; she was carving something from thin air, her words deliberate and measured, each one leaving an impression, like fingerprints on glass.

It had been a long time since Declan had felt this… Intrigued . Intrigued by a woman’s voice on a radio, of all things. Not just any voice either, but one that demanded attention without raising it too high.

She was clear, unwavering, the kind of person who knew what they were saying and made sure you heard it. The kind of person who didn’t need to scream to be heard.

Just shove a door and hit her feet into the ground.

He exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening slightly. His hands were still, but the irritation now felt more like a defense against something else, something unfamiliar that he wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge.

“Well, she must have locked herself in the station room to make that happen,” Declan said, his tone dry and dismissive.

He didn’t mean it; not exactly. It was just a reflex, the kind of armor he put on when people were asking too many questions that he didn’t know how to answer. But even as the words left his mouth, there was something deeper beneath them—a grudging acknowledgment of the effort, the willpower it must have taken to command that kind of attention.

To make those words land the way she did. Well, if they pressed him, he would admit he admired her indeed for being brave enough to be reckless.

Rupert smirked, leaning back in his chair with the ease of someone who had already sized up the situation.

“And you respect that,” he said, his tone lighter now, though his gaze didn’t waver from Declan’s face.

Declan didn’t look at him immediately. His gaze was fixed on something distant, the fleeting memory of her voice still running through his mind. He could feel the tension in his chest, a strange knot that wasn’t there before.

It wasn’t anger, exactly—it was something else. Something unspoken. Something he was still trying to conceive.

“She’s got something,” Declan muttered, his tone quieter now, almost reflective. The words tasted different in his mouth than they did when he first said them, no longer a dismissal but something closer to recognition. There was a shift in him, something subtle but undeniable.

“ And you respect that ,” Rupert repeated, his smirk softening into something more genuine. There was no mocking tone now, just the faintest trace of admiration—something Declan could sense without needing it spelled out for him.

Declan finally met Rupert’s gaze, his expression unreadable, but the flicker of something new in his eyes betrayed him. He didn’t answer right away, but the silence between them spoke volumes.

Cassie Jones wasn’t just another voice on the radio. That was a fact.

And for the first time in a long while, Declan wasn’t sure what to do with that.

[reidsdimples]

When Everything Changed | Part 4

18+❤️‍🔥 MDNI‼️

Spencer Reid x BAU!Reader

Enemies to lovers

Part 3

Mixed emotions are confronted while alone with Spencer in his apartment.

The team had zeroed on the unsub and the sting operation was being planned out. Last you and Spencer heard, they were about an hour from the address.

The night had stretched into the early morning. You had helped Spencer with his medicine and weird liquid food before putting on a movie. Said movie, Friday the 13th had just ended and he was asleep on the couch.

There hadn’t been another instance of him touching or kissing you but also neither of you sniped at the other. You mostly were in blissful silence either working or watching the movie. You didn’t know when Spence fell asleep but you glanced back at him from where you sat on the floor in front of the couch.

His face was slack with sleep and smooshed against his hand. He had the blanket pulled up over his shoulder and seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Your mind kept going back to Darcy and Elizabeth. Could he really be your Darcy? Did he want to be?

The credits ended and the room fell silent, prompting him to stretch and rub his sleepy eyes. He glanced over at you where you didn’t hide the fact that you were watching him sleep. The dim screen was the only thing illuminating his features but you could see the curiosity in his gaze.

“You fell asleep,” you tutted and turned from him. Your back was still leaning against the couch.

“I dreamed about Freddy Krueger if that counts,” you hear him smile.

“I hope he got you,” you pout and toss a piece of your popcorn at his head. It bounces off and tumbles to the floor next to you.

“Nope, unfortunately for you I’m still here,” he laughs softly, contently and sits up. You’re sitting next to his legs now, the urge to touch him heightening in such close proximity. “You tensed up,” he observed.

“What- no I didn’t!” You scoff.

“Deflecting and now you won’t look at me,” he points out. You whirl to face him to try and prove him wrong but he greets you with a devilish grin that has your stomach tightening.

“What are you implying Spencer?” You huff. He raises his eyebrows, pleased that you’re bothered. His knee knocks against your shoulder.

He leans down, prompting his elbows on his knees with his arms dangling between his spread legs.

“I’m not implying anything besides the obvious,” his gravely voice is near a whisper. His perfect lips form the words so sinfully that you adjust as you clench your thighs together.

“Obvious is relative,” you lean up on your knees and move between his legs, forcing him to sit back on the couch. “Elaborate.”

“Your hatred for me has melted into lust just as mine has for you,” he insists and folds his arms behind his head. You place your hands on his thighs where the thin pajama pants offer little barrier between you and his skin.

“Are you certain? Because honestly you look kind of punchable right now,” you give him a sarcastic smile. He leans forward so your noses are almost touching.

“I’m certain I can take whatever you want to do to me,” his words are deadly, dripping in seduction.

Shit.

“Your hand keeps inching up towards my cock. You keep licking your lips and clenching those delicious thighs. I bet you’re dripping wet right now,” he leans in and whispers against your ear.

Frustrations floods over you because he’s right, you hate when he’s right. But that frustration gives way to a wave of need that has your pussy clenching around nothing.

You glance down at his lap as he leans back again, the absence of his mouth near your neck only slightly upsetting. His erection has begun to grow in his pants and you know that crossing this line is dangerous. But then your mouth starts watering and you feel the need to grab it, the need to pump him until his whimpering beneath you.

“You’re arrogant,” you say because it’s true. The you trail your hand up and grip his cock through his pants. He flinches and watches you with wide eyes. “You’re a know it all,” you add as you adjust to his still hardening cock in your hand.

“Mhmm, anything else?” He bites his lip, watching you intently. You don’t know whether to focus on his facial expressions or his perfect length in your hand. He thrust his hips upward, filling your hand with him.

“You’re extremely infuriating,” you grab his waist band and tug his pants down. “Not to mention intellectually inferior to me,” you grin as you grab his cock.

His eyes go wide at the assertion and he’s about to say something when you bring your tongue to his tip and drag slow circles around the head. The salty flavor of him melts on your tongue and has your clit throbbing with need. He deflates into the couch when you wrap your mouth around him, taking him deep into the back of your throat all at once until your nose is flattened against his pelvis.

“Fuck you,” he pants as he draws out the words, finally responding to the last insult. You bring your head back up his length, hallowing your lips and sucking sweetly, torturously until he’s groaning beneath you.

You pop his head out of your mouth and look up at him.

“You could fuck me,” you shrug and then spit on his cock before take him deep again. “But you won’t,” you tease and continue your assault on him, pumping your hand with the motion of your mouth. You swirl you tongue to taste every inch of him, to draw out his pleasure.

Your other hand drops to your clit, running circles in speed with your mouth on his cock. His hand curls into your hair and shoves you deeper into his cock, making it clear that your little taunt pissed him off. You gag and choke and drool around him before he yanks your head off of him.

“It seems like you want me to be pissed off,” he tilts his head, jerking yours closer to his face. “Is that it? You want me to hate fuck you?”

You always enjoyed the darker more sassy side of him, this side of him. You did want that. You wanted him angry. You wanted him to use you.

“Mhmm,” you grin wildly.

He grabs the nape of your neck and stands, forcing you to stand with him.

“Your smart mouth and insistence on being right is going to get you fucked until you can’t walk,” he bends you over the kitchen table where files go flying.

“I don’t think you can,” you bite out, glancing back at him. He drops down behind you, removing your jeans swiftly and with ease.

“I’m going to enjoy making you scream for me,” he exhales as his long fingers trails up your soaked cunt. “Dripping with desire. Or was it hatred?” He muses and slaps your ass.

You grunt, annoyed at his fine line shit.

“Hatred. I want to fuck you out of my system,” you spread your legs and look over your shoulder at him.

His eyes are darker, filled with something more primal. This is another competition for both of you. Who is going to tap out first?

He lines the thick head of his cock up at your entrance and sinks in slowly.

“I know it’s tight baby. Don’t cum too soon,” you purr just to piss him off.

A groan of annoyance erupts from his chest as his grips your hips. He plunges into you hard now, forcing your walls to stretch around him, your cervix aching when he pounds into it. It feels so good.

He snaps and thrusts his hips forward and into you impossibly quick before angling himself to hit that spot inside of you that draws out a loud moan.

“Fucking let me hear how much you hate me, how much you hate this,” he grabs your hair and jerks your head back. It only improves that angle until sounds you don’t recognize are pouring out of you.

He reaches down and starts rubbing your clit and he rails into you, never missing a beat.

“Fuck,” you cry out as your legs start to shake.

“Cum for me,” he pants as he fucks you harder still. Your pelvis is slamming into the wooden table but it’s hurt so good.

Your eyes are rolling back in your head and the mix of pain and pleasure he’s giving you in equal measure. You tighten around him and shudder as your orgasm rocks you. You choke out a scream that sounds vaguely like ‘Reid’ but you hope he can’t tell.

He pulls out of you abruptly as your orgasm rattles you and before you can protest he’s on his knees with his face buried in your pussy from behind. You arch your back to give him better access and he grips your ass to spread you wider for him. Your clit is throbbing as he sucks on it until you’re on the verge of tears. He skids his tongue skillfully up and down your entrance, even all the way up to your ass until yours moaning for him.

He doesn’t stop sucking on your pussy and tongue fucking it until you’re orgasming on his face. You reach back and press his head closer into you as you cum in his fucking mouth.

“Finally something that mouth is good for,” you grind out.

He stands, fire blazing in his gaze, his lips glossing with your cum. He flips you on your back and pulls your legs up onto his shoulders. You can watch him now as he slides back into you.

Your cunt is sensitive as he rolls his hips to find the spot that causes you to moan. When he does, a satisfied grin plays in his face but you don’t have the capacity to sass him, it feels too good. Who would have thought that Spencer Reid was so versed in the art of pleasuring a woman.

His hands find your tits and squeezes them hard, they fit in his hands perfectly. The sight of him fucking you is overwhelming as he stimulates you in multiple ways. Fuck, you didn’t know if you could take another orgasm.

His tongue swipes across his bottom lip like it usually does when he’s focusing and he catches you staring at his mouth. He seems to have the same realization as you. You hadn’t kissed him yet. A wild thought given that his cock was sliding in and out of you at this very moment.

He drops your legs and brings them around his waist before leaning forward. He stares down at you for a moment, longingly as a whimper comes from his throat. You lean up and capture his lips in yours. It’s more intimate, more real than sex somehow.

You’re both a mess of moans and clashing tongues as he slowly winds himself in and out of you. He’s drawing you closer to the edge, he has you whimpering, nearly in tears at how good it feels. He’s kissing you deeply, passionately, as though he’s long for the taste of you for ages.

You curl your hands in his hair to deepen the kiss, to have something to hold on to as another orgasm crashes through you.

“Spencer,” it comes out as a plea as you pulse around him.

A damning grunt escapes him and he breaks the kiss, throwing his head back as you tighten on his cock. That’s it for him, his thrusting falters and he pulls out of you, grabbing his cock and pumping it.

You say nothing but sink to the floor and take him in your mouth until his hot cum is coating the back of your throat. He braces himself on the table, the most delicious moans escaping him as you swallow everything he has.

He crouches down on the floor with you, your legs shaking too bad to stand back up. He pulls you into him and holds you close to his chest.

“When are we going to admit that this isn’t hate?” He murmurs and kisses your head.