#and some people want it shoved in their face (ME!)

[tempesttz]

oh hey a topic i can talk about because webnovel isnt just for fanfic.

so i've used webnovel for over a year now? you can bet they have not gotten a single cent from me and i exploit the hell out of the bugs in their terrible system to allow me to read whatever the hell i want (no i will not post how i do it because i dont want that grubby company to be able to patch it) but its a pretty good (and one of the only that i know of) ways to read some good translated novels (especially of the cultivation/reincarnation genre, one of my favorites to read) to english. some more things about webnovel though

they will terminate and get rid of accounts that provide links to the original stories (because a lot of the stories arent original content, theyre translated, usually from mandarin. i am sure a lot of them are also MTL or machine translated works) to the dismay of readers

most stories are 40 chapters free, usually chapters of stories are in the hundreds, sometimes the thousands, and the rest are locked. no add pass no nothing go fuck yourself locked. to the dismay of readers

the male/female lead stories thing makes a little bit of sense to me because of the kind of content it hosts. i read 90% female lead content, the writing genre and "feel" of the stories is pretty different so as weird as it is i'll give them this one

they have a bunch of weird badges and things to add to your profile. most of them are things you have to pay for. speaking of here's my stats just to prove im not talking out of my ass here. the numbers are a little skewed because, again, exploiting the hell out of bugs to let me read whatever the hell i want. also how many badges there are holy shit.

my credentials. they overflow.

most of the art for the covers is stolen or, as i see more and more, ai-generated

i didnt even know webnovel HAD fanfiction by the way. so let that speak for itself. dont write fanfic on webnovel. dont write ANYTHING on webnovel. fuck these people. i am kind of terrified this will get my account terminated but hey fuck it thems the breaks i guess

this is a much smaller gripe but why is LGBT in the "female lead" section. its not yuri its mostly just BL why??? is this???? those leads are NOT female???? you cant blame the fujoshis for this thats on webnovel

they make you buy coins for EVERYTHING and they SHOVE them in your FACE.

they have this weird gamification thing they do with how long you read filling up a bar in the corner of your screen that gives you five fuck-if-i-know-points. so theres also that

if you are looking for fanfiction do not give webnovel your time. if you are looking for translated novels also do not give webnovel your time because its just not worth it, as hypocritical as i sound. go to wattpad. there are plenty of people semi-okay-probably-not-really-legally posting them there for your viewing pleasure, just put them in your offline library and read them with your wifi/data off because wattpad can also go fuck themselves for shortening the amount of books you can have offline to TWO i dont care how many years it has been i am still pissed off. and for running an ad after every chapter. ao3 supremacy until the end and stay away from webnovel they are a greedy greedy terrible company

I got this comment on a story from my Other AO3 Account this morning.

(Info redacted because I prefer keeping these accounts separate but no one follows me on the side blog I have for that account.)

The story was posted almost a year ago and is relatively “popular” by my average statistics even though it has tropes and themes that are big turnoffs for a lot of people (hence separate accounts). This popularity is undoubtedly because it’s a Marvel Loki story and that fandom is massive.

So there is obviously an algorithm or a bot scrubbing ao3 statistics and leaving this comment on fics that meet a certain metric with the main character of the fic inserted into the comment.

I had a little time to kill this morning so I decided to investigate further. And y’all this is so predatory. Come on this journey with me. It made me mad. It may make you mad.

First, if you go to Webnovel’s website, you HAVE to choose between male lead or female lead stories before you can go any further. WTF?

And that’s weird, but this gets so much worse. This is basically a pay-to-read site that has different subscription models. Which… okay BUT! The authors don’t get paid! Look at that comment again. They’re promising a supportive and nurturing community, but zero monetary compensation. It’s basically, “post your stuff here so we can get paid and you can get… nice vibes?” I mean look at this Orwellian writing:

Using the phrase “pay-to-read model” in the same sentence as “qualitative changes in lifestyles for authors” deliberately makes you think that you can get paid and maybe even make a living on this website. But that’s not actually what it says and authors will not receive one red cent.

Oh but wait, the worst is still to come. In case this breaks containment (which I kind of hope it does) this is where I mention that I’m a lawyer in the US.

I don’t do intellectual property or copyright law but I do read and write contracts for a living. So I went to look at their terms of service. It was fun!

Highlights the first, in which Webnovel gets a license to do basically whatever they want with content you post on their site. This is how they get to be paid for people reading authors’ writing without paying them anything.

Highlights the second, in which Webnovel takes no responsibility for illegally profiting off of fan fic. This all says that the writer is 100% responsible for everything the writer posts (even though only Webnovel is making money from it).

Highlights the third which say that by posting, the author is representing that they have the legal right to use and to let Webnovel use the content according to these terms. So if a writer posts fan fiction and Webnovel makes money from people reading the fan fiction, and the House of the Mouse catches wise, these sections say that that’s ALL on the writer.

So that’s a little skeevy to start off with but the thing that is seriously shitty and made me make this post was that these assholes are coming to ao3. They are actively recruiting people in comments on their fan fiction. And they are saying they are big fans of the character you’re writing about and that they share your interests.

They are recruiting fan fiction writers and giving every impression that you can make money from posting fan fiction on their site and hiding the fact that you absolutely cannot but they can make money off of you while you try, deep in their terms of service which no one but a lawyer who writes fan fic and has some time to kill will read.

I see posts on here regularly from people who don’t understand how this stuff works, don’t understand that they (and others) can not legally make a financial profit from fan fiction. And there are tons of people who will not take the time to dig into the details.

Don’t deal with these bastards. Fuck Webnovel.

[harrywavycurly]

Loving a Killer: Tuesdays are for Dancing

Masterlist: Here

Pairing: Killer!Harry x wife!reader

Tag List: @umadirectioner

CW: Language, mentions of ways to harm someone, mentions of weapons, mentions of drugs (it’s a pain medication that Harry doesn’t know about), threats, and as always Harry and Mitch kill people for a living in this series.

A/N: I had to come up with a way to introduce y’all to Niall and this just seemed to fit? It’s dramatic but in a fun-ish way or at least in a fun way for this series.

Summary: Mitch gets a call while him and Harry are at work and it leads so some dramatic events that let us get introduced to your nosey cubical mate that is the one and only Niall Horan✨

“I say we use the zip ties on his ankles.” Harry suggests as he places a hand on his hip while running his free one through his hair as he stands in front of a fold out table littered with different objects he packed with him for this evening’s job. “Makes it easier to move him to the trunk if his ankles are tied together and the zip ties haven’t let us down before unlike the-”

“I get it okay? Rope only works in the movies but how was I supposed to know that?” Mitch says in an attempt to defend his choice of wanting to use rope on a man’s hands and feet a few jobs ago, but it ended up being a massive issue because the rope kept coming undone as they moved the body from the living room to the car and then to the woods to be disposed of.

“It could’ve worked if you knew how to properly tie a knot.” Harry states as he reaches for the bundle of zip ties while Mitch just rolls his eyes as he walks over to the man lying on his back in the middle of the basement.

“Let me guess-” Harry turns to look over his shoulder as Mitch bends down and grabs the knife from next to the man’s wrist, placing it in his open duffle bag near the table. “You know how to tie a perfect knot?” He questions making Harry just shrug as he looks back at the table so he can count out four zip ties, deciding it’s best to do the wrists as well just to be safe.

“I mean I’ve been known to be able to tie a decent knot or at least one someone can’t wiggle their way out of.” Mitch doesn’t miss the slight suggestive tone to Harry’s voice as he talks or the small smirk that tugs at his lips when he turns to hand him two zip ties so he can get started on tying the man’s wrists together while Harry works on his ankles.

“Really? She’s into being-” Before Harry can even shoot him a warning glare to watch what comes out of his mouth next, Mitch’s brows are pinching together as he moves the zip ties to one hand so he can reach into his back pocket of his jeans for his phone. “Uh hello?” Harry raises an eyebrow as he begins to zip tie the man’s ankles while keeping a watchful eye on his bestfriend who in all the years he’s been working with him can count on three fingers the times he’s ever answered the phone while on a job.

“Yes-yeah he’s with me.” Mitch gives Harry a quick glance making Harry get an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. “What? Uh-uhm okay yeah yeah we will uh-yeah be right there uh huh-bye.” Harry is already done with the man’s ankles and standing up by the time Mitch is hanging up and sliding his phone back into his jeans.

“What happened?” Mitch runs a hand over his face with his free hand before he looks at Harry who is packing his backpack up, preparing to leave the moment Mitch explains what the phone call was about because he can just tell whatever it was about isn’t good.

“That was Niall-”

“Niall? As in my wife’s coworker Niall?”

“Uh yeah so apparently she goes to-”

“To dance lessons on Tuesdays? Yeah because that’s the night we work late and she doesn’t like to be home alone at night that much. Now what the fuck happened? Why did he call you?”

“Well if you would just let me talk I would happily tell you.” Harry sends Mitch a glare as he shoves the last of his stuff into his backpack but Mitch just ignores him as he quickly finishes zip tying the man’s wrists together.

“Niall went with her tonight because he was bored and I guess something happened and he thinks her toe is broken? But she’s okay and-and Harry dude where are you going? I drove us here you asshole!” Mitch shouts as he scrambles to get to his feet and grab his duffle bag before Harry is at the top of the stairs that lead to the kitchen of the man’s house.

The thing is Mitch knows Harry well enough to know he will absolutely leave him here if he doesn’t make it to the car fast enough so Mitch skips every other step and barley makes it into the passenger seat before Harry is putting the car into reserve and heading towards where he already knows you’re at. Harry doesn’t bother looking at how fast he’s going or how quickly the lights change from yellow to red as he runs through them. The only thing running through his mind is getting to you as fast as he can because until his eyes land on you and he sees for himself just how badly you’re hurt or hopefully how not hurt you really are, he can’t focus on much else.

“Traffic laws are still in effect by the way and I’m pretty sure you’ve already broken three of them.” Mitch reminds his friend who he knows is just in a panicked and probably slightly angry state of mind over the fact you got hurt and he wasn’t there to stop it from happening or make you feel better the moment it happened.

“Yeah well coming from someone who just stabbed a man not even two hours ago I think traffic laws are the least of our worries.” Harry argues with a casual tone that makes Mitch just let out a chuckle as he shakes his head.

“You just always have to be right don’t you?” This gets a small smile out of Harry as he briefly looks over at Mitch with a shrug.

“So…Niall has your number?” Mitch lets out a sigh and rolls his eyes making Harry grin because he can see the tiniest hint of a smile wanting to form on his face, he knew the two of them hit it off when they met a few weeks ago at the festival but he hadn’t heard much else about it because well Mitch isn’t one to share details about his personal life unless Harry really pushes for them.

Mitch knows Harry is only asking about Niall as a way to distract himself so his mind won’t wonder off to the darkest corners and start imagining the worst possible scenarios the two of them could be headed towards even though the only injury either of them know you might have is a broken toe. So Mitch decides that he’ll be nice, he will let Harry in on some bits of information regarding the Irish brunette man he was forced to meet at an event he only agreed to go to because of the promise of cookies and the chance to indulge in carving into something for fun and not for work, Mitch has always enjoyed a good pumpkin carving contest. But he also isn’t going to give this information up easily, so he thinks of something Harry can do for him in exchange for it.

“I’ll tell you about it if you actually stop at the next red light.” Mitch offers causing Harry to let out a huff as he reluctantly lets off the gas just a bit, his way of silently agreeing to the terms his bestfriend gave him making Mitch loosen the death like grip he has on the passenger side door handle.

Niall is a ball of nerves as he looks at the door of the bar waiting for it to burst open and to see your husband walk through it, he chews on his bottom lip as he looks down at his phone and sees it’s been five minutes since he’s called Mitch so he knows that’s probably way too soon for Harry to arrive considering both of them were at work when he called. He wouldn’t feel so nervous if the last few times he saw Harry he was just a little more friendly because the thing Niall doesn’t understand is how someone who works with computers and is a certified tech nerd can be so terrifying but that’s exactly what Harry is to Niall, terrifying. He knows the moment Mitch and Harry walk through the door he is going to be getting some hard glares and probably a nasty comment or two so he’s just trying to prepare himself the best he can.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t a good color I just said it’s unusual that’s all.” Niall’s head shoots up at the sound of Mitch’s voice as his eyes land on the door just in time to see Mitch walk through it with Harry following close behind him.

Now Niall has seen Harry before, he’s met him three or four times in casual settings and once at an office party but he’s never seen him look quite like this. The sleeves of his all black button up are rolled up to his elbows letting him get an eyeful of the tattoos that decorate his forearms and hands, it’s tucked into well fitting black trousers that are held up with a thin black belt while his hair is pushed back and his usual glasses are gone making Niall assume he has contacts in. It’s as if his attire just adds another layer of his already intimidating personality making Niall swallow down his nerves as Harry’s eyes finally land on him.

“Where is she?” Niall feels his eyes go wide at how harsh and deep Harry’s voice is as he walks towards where he’s standing near the end of the bar. He opens his mouth to say something but it’s as if all of a sudden Niall doesn’t knows how to form actual words so he just kind of stands there opening and closing his mouth for a moment making Harry’s jaw clench as his eyes narrow in one of the harshest glares Niall has ever been on the receiving end of.

“She’s in my office.” Harry’s glare softens as he looks away from Niall and towards Jeff who is standing behind the bar cleaning some glasses.

“Thanks.” Harry calls over his shoulder as he rushes past Niall and towards the back office of the bar and that’s when Niall lets out a deep sigh as he turns to rest his hands on the top of the bar finally feeling like he can somewhat breathe now that Harry is out of the room.

“Don’t take it personally he’s like that with everyone.” Mitch explains as he comes up to stand next to Niall so he can place a reassuring hand on his back.

“Is he always so-so intense?” Mitch just shrugs as Niall turns his head to look at him with a raised brow. “Nice to see you again by the way. This isn’t exactly how I imagined it going but I’ll take what I can get.” Niall jokes or at least tries to as an attempt to lighten the mood and he thinks it’s worked when he hears a soft chuckle come from Mitch’s mouth.

“Harry just really loves his wife that’s all.” Mitch explains as he looks around Niall and signals Jeff who just gives him a nod and a smile before turning around to start making Mitch’s usual drink. Niall just rolls his eyes as he turns his body so he’s now facing Mitch with his elbow on the bar and his hands clasped together in front of him.

“Oh come on the man looked like he wanted to kill-”

“What the fuck did you give her?” Harry’s voice is loud and full of anger that’s directed towards the man standing in front of Mitch as he comes barreling out of Jeff’s office. Niall doesn’t have time to do anything before Harry has a fistful of his shirt and is shoving his back into the bar with one hand while his other hand slams down onto the top of the bar allowing him to lean over Niall as he speaks. “You have five seconds to tell me why my wife is in that office acting loopy and dazed out of her fucking mind.” Mitch doesn’t even flinch at how harsh Harry’s tone is as his grip on Niall’s shirt tightens, Mitch just places a hand on Harry’s shoulder which he instantly shrugs off making Mitch roll his eyes.

“Harry you’ve got to-”

“Tell me to calm down and I swear I’ll break his nose right now.” Harry threatens as he quickly turns to give Mitch a look that makes the long haired man let out a sigh as he runs a hand through his hair. “You now have three seconds.” He states as his attention goes back to Niall who is trying his hardest not to freak out at the fact he just heard Harry casually mention breaking his nose.

“She uhm said she-she was in pain so I gave her something to make her feel better that’s all.” Niall explains the best he can with how he’s bent over the bar.

“You don’t know me very well Niall but you should know that I hate to repeat myself.” Niall closes his eyes after Harry’s statement half expecting to feel a blow to his face giving him the broken nose he heard him mention just a moment before. “So just know I’m only going to ask you one more time.” Niall slowly opens his eyes as Harry’s grip on his shirt loosens but only slightly. “What did you give her?” Mitch looks at Niall over Harry’s shoulder and raises an eyebrow at him and that’s when Niall realizes he might’ve made a mistake.

“I gave her a pain pill I had saved over from my knee surgery that I just keep around for emergencies.” Harry quirks a brow at Niall’s admission as his eyes momentarily glance down to his knees and Mitch knows he’s storing that information for later just incase he needs to use it against the man he still has in his harsh grip. “I just wanted her to feel better I’m sorry.” He blurts out making Harry let out a scoff as he gives Niall a shove as he releases his hold on his shirt.

“Oh well she’s feeling wonderful Niall so wonderful she can’t tell even me what actually hurts or what happened.” Harry says with a dark chuckle as he runs a hand through his hair while he turns to take a step away from Niall. “All she knows is that she feels nice and floaty.” He says as he glares at Niall over his shoulder, Niall stands up and fixes his shirt with a sigh as he glances towards the office door he knows you’re currently behind.

“I’m sorry-” Niall’s apology is cut off by Harry just ignoring him as he heads back towards the office, Mitch just gives Niall a sympathetic look as he follows behind.

“I know he seems like a massive jackass and for the most part he is but maybe if you go back there,” Jeff’s voice causes Niall to spin around and face the bar as he places a shot of whiskey down in front of him, Niall follows Jeff’s head tilt in the direction of his office. “You’ll see him in a different light.” He finishes explaining as Niall reaches down for the shot glass.

“I’d rather not get my ass kicked but thanks.” Niall answers before downing the shot and handing the empty glass to Jeff who just laughs.

“He won’t even notice you’re in the room.”

“Trust me he’ll notice. He fucking hates me man. I practically drugged his wife.”

“If you’re in the same room as her then no. He won’t.” With that Jeff turns and heads towards the opposite end of the bar leaving Niall standing there with no other option really than to just suck it up and honestly he doesn’t want to seem like a horrible friend so he needs to at least go check and see how you’re doing.

Mitch turns to look at the door when he sees it open and he gives Niall a small smile as he leans against the doorframe a few feet from where Mitch is leaning against the wall closest to the door. Harry doesn’t pay him any attention as he kneels down in front of the small couch in Jeff’s office, right in front of where your left foot is propped up on a pillow.

“Baby can you tell me if this hurts?” Niall feels his mouth slightly drop open at the tone of Harry’s voice, it’s soft and gentle, not a trace of the anger Niall heard earlier and the way he’s looking at you is as if he thinks even too harsh of a glance could break you.

“Sweetheart.” Harry’s face breaks out into a playful smile as he looks over at you and sees your eyes are closed but he knows by the way you’re breathing that you’re not asleep, just acting like you are.

“You sound like my husband.” Mitch chuckles as you let out a sigh while still keeping your eyes closed while Harry just playfully rolls his eyes at you as he gently reaches over and puts his hand on top of your foot. “But you can’t actually be him because it’s Tuesday and Tuesdays are for dancing.” Harry just nods with a smile still on his face as he puts a little bit of pressure on your foot while looking at your face for any signs of discomfort.

“Oh is he not allowed to come to these dancing Tuesdays?” Harry asks as he moves his hand further down your foot, still applying pressure and seeing if you show any signs of pain. When you give him a small pout he immediately removes his hand from your foot and rests it on your ankle. “Did that hurt baby?” Harry questions with a furrowed brow as you slowly open your eyes.

“He works late Tuesdays and comes home when I’m asleep.” You mumble sadly making Harry return your pout as he stands up and places a hand on the back of the couch so he can lean down and place a kiss to your forehead. “You wanna know a secret?” Harry just lets out a soft chuckle as he nods his head while you try to sit up onto your elbows. “Sometimes I’m not asleep and I just act like I am.” You whisper making Harry smile at the little giggle you let out when you fall back onto the couch after telling him your secret.

“That’s so sneaky of you love.” He teases making you smile as you reach up and place a hand on his cheek. “I’m sure your husband hates Tuesdays and coming home so late he has to eat dinner all alone and can’t even get a goodnight kiss.” He explains as he places a kiss to the inside of your wrist before you pull your hand away from his face.

“You always get a goodnight kiss.” You argue making Harry laugh as he leans down to place a quick kiss to your lips in an attempt to get rid of your fake pout.

“Do I? Are you sure?” He asks as he pulls away making you roll your eyes and let out a huff as you cross your arms over your chest.

“Yes I’m sure because you wake me up and beg me for one because you’ll have bad dreams if you don’t get it.” Harry just nods as he quickly leans down and kisses your cheeks before standing up and turning to grab your purse and shoes off the floor.

“That’s right sweetheart your goodnight kisses keep the bad dreams away so if I have to beg for them then so be it.” You smile as you watch him gather your things into your purse and toss the bag over his shoulder before he turns back around so he facing you.

“Hi.” You mumble as you look up at him causing a dimpled grin to take over his face as he looks down at you.

“Hi baby.” He says as he holds out his hands for you to take to help you sit up. “Ready to go home?” You just nod your head and before you can even ask him for your shoes you feel one of his arms under your knees and another under your arms scooping you into his arms. Niall moves out of the way before Harry has to tell him to allowing room for the two of them to exit the office and when you see Niall you give him a big smile and a wave.

“Bye Niall! See you tomorrow!” Niall just laughs and waves back at you while Harry ignores the interaction as he heads for the door to the bar with the keys to your car in his hand.

Harry knows he’s going to have to smooth things over with Niall at some point but not tonight, not when he’s still not even sure what exactly happened or what exactly on your foot hurts. As much as he hates to say it, he can admit he understands why Niall did what he did because he saw his friend in pain and wanted to help so he did what he thought would make you feel better. He just hopes that Niall will keep his moment of anger between the two of them because he just made you a promise about threatening people and he knows you’ll be beyond upset with him if you find out he threatened your cubical mate. But he will find a time to worry about that later because right now all he wants to worry about is getting you home and then figuring out which movie you want to watch in bed while he makes you dinner and gets you situated before he has to unfortunately return to the man in the basement to finish his job for the evening but he decides that can at least wait until you’ve gone to sleep.

With Harry gone Mitch takes a moment and looks over at Niall who he can tell is struggling with understanding how that man was the same man who had him bent over a bar as he casually threatened to break his nose not even five minutes ago. It’s something everyone who meets Harry goes through because they all come to learn that there’s two sides to Harry and only one person gets the side that involves gentle touches and soft voices and that person is you. But Mitch knows that since Niall is your coworker he gets told stories about the softer side of Harry and even though the past few times he’s been around him while Harry hasn’t been the friendliest he wasn’t ever blatantly an asshole, so meeting the rougher side of him full force tonight was probably a bit much.

“It’s weird right?” Mitch asks breaking Niall out of his trance as he stares at the door you and Harry just went through. “Seeing him like that with her?”

“Is he a Gemini or something?” Niall asks with a more than serious expression on his face as he looks from the door to Mitch who just laughs and shakes his head as he reaches over and puts a hand on Niall’s shoulder. “Like with the two people in one body kinda thing?” He adds with a quirked brow making Mitch just give his shoulder a little squeeze.

“Nope he’s an Aquarius.”

[anakinstwinklebunny]

Author's note: smth for my angsty people. Inspo from amazing writer of all times @rssmary

SAM MONROE thought he'd never find someone who truly understood him. Then there was you—brilliant, kind, and everything he didn’t think he deserved. You were his lifeline, the one who believed in him when no one else did. When you told him you were pregnant, he was terrified, but your excitement and unwavering faith in him made him believe he could be better for you—for both of you.

But life is cruel.

The labor was supposed to be hard but worth it. Everyone told him that once he heard the baby’s first cry, he’d forget the pain of waiting. But when your hand went limp in his, and the machines blared around him, he forgot everything else instead.

Time stopped as they pulled him away, shoving your baby into his arms while they tried to save you. The nurses told him to hold on to the little one, to stay strong, but all he could do was stare at your lifeless body through the window, his mind refusing to accept the reality.

You were gone..

You

Were

Gone

He tried to understand the meaning of the words

Days bled into nights as Sam sat in the nursery, the small bassinet feeling like a cruel mockery. The baby—their baby—was beautiful, with tiny fingers and your nose. But every time he looked at them, he felt a sharp pain in his chest. It was like holding his heart outside his body and knowing it came at the cost of losing his own soul.

The funeral was unbearable. He didn't appear at the ceremony, hell, it pained him to even think about going there. Yet, he still did. Out of respect and love he had for you.

He stood there alone hours after the ceremony, staring at your casket, tears streaming down his face. 'I can’t do this without you' he whispered into the silence.

Because who he was? A random guy who wore eyeliner and constantly did drugs now to raise a child alone?

Yet, still, he had to.

The first night without you was the longest of his life. The baby cried and cried, and Sam had no idea what to do. He was a mess—fumbling with bottles, pacing the floor, begging them to stop screaming. At some point, he sank to the floor, the baby against his chest as he sobbed into their tiny body. “I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’m so sorry.”

His mother was all supportive, helping Sam to do the stuff he never thought he'd have to do, but Sam refused to let anyone fully take over.

'They’re all I have left of her' he'd constantly say, not letting anyone to his room

Every milestone felt like a knife to the chest. The first time they smiled, he saw you. The first time they babbled, he heard your voice. And yet, he celebrated it all because he knew that’s what you would’ve wanted.

Sam made sure they grew up knowing you. He told them stories about your laugh, how you used to tease him, and how you were the bravest person he’d ever known. “Your mom,” he’d say, his voice holding onto the life to not break, “she was magic..wherever she is right now, she definitely loves you so much”

But there were nights when the grief swallowed him whole. When he’d sit in the nursery, the baby fast asleep in his arms, and cry silently. He’d whisper to the darkness, wishing you could see them, wishing you could see him trying so hard not to break.

“Why’d you leave me?” he asked once, his voice cracking as he rocked your baby in his arms. “How am I supposed to do this without you?”

He'd often find himself doing something so out of character to him - each week he wrote you long letters about the baby, about new stuff they did or how he got peed on while changing the diaper. Letters were hidden properly under his bed, becoming a mountain of folded papers. It was therapeutic to him, but also he felt like he owe you that, to let you know how his life's going without you, how he still lives - for the sake of your baby.

As the years passed, Sam became a father you’d be proud of. He was there for every scraped knee, every bedtime story, every school play. He wasn’t perfect—he had days when the weight of your absence was too much—but he loved fiercely.

Still, most of the nights, when the world went quiet and the baby-turned-toddler slept peacefully, he’d sit by their bed and mumble quiet “I miss you.” as if you could hear him

And he did.

Every.single.day.

Because no matter how much time passed, the hole you left in his heart never healed. You were his first love, his only love, and even though you were gone, you were everywhere. In the way the sunlight streamed through the windows, in the baby’s laughter, in the quiet moments when he closed his eyes and pretended you were still there.

And though it hurt more than he could ever put into words, he wouldn’t trade a single second of it. Because loving you, even in your absence, was the greatest thing he’d ever done.

And he’d spend the rest of his life making sure your baby—your legacy—knew just how much they were loved by the most extraordinary person SAM MONROE had ever known.

TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @divineani @haydensprettyprincess @skyguys-princess @catnipaddictt @heartscone @haydensbbg @inneedsoffanfics @jediavengers @literally-izzy @anisluvrgirl @slutforfinnickodair @xhunnybeeex @fuckmyskywalker @gallerygourmet @deceptiive @anakinskwkler @bimbo-baggins17 @cookybananas @emotionallybruisedx @diorvalentina @sevinax @throughparisallthroughrome @aniiuv @ritosparty @ninastyless @lily-strnlo @thesassypadawan

(if you want to be on the tag list or don't want to be, don't be shy and let me know 💋)

[eregyrn-falls]

^^^^^^ !!!!!

There's so much I'd like to add but it would be carrying coals to Newcastle. Great post! (And a lot of great tag-rants in the notes, too.)

I did want to add one thought to this set of tags from @achromaticegoist, about the punch in particular.

It took me a long while to realize it, but not only is the punch reflective of a whole lot of things about Ford's state of mind on his arrival back through the portral... but, it also serves as some really interesting closure (and I'm not even sure the writers realized it).

In the episode, it's told out of order, so we see the punch FIRST. But later in the ep, when we see the fight that led to Ford going through the portal in the first place, what happens is that he and scan are scuffling, and there's that moment when Ford pushes Stan off with his foot and inadvertantly presses Stan against the glowing (apparently red-hot) symbol on the side of the control panel.

Stan screams in pain, of course. And immediately, Ford is suddenly worried, and contrite. He says, "Stanley! Oh my gosh! I'm so sorry! Are you alr-"

And Stan punches him in the face.

That punch is what sends Ford stumbling out into the portal room and falling against the activation lever; and landing inside the danger zone. Ford does get up, but before he gets a chance to say anything else, Stan shoves the journal into his chest, Ford begins to float, and the disaster unfolds from there.

We don't spend enough time thinking that, basically, from Ford's point of view (if he replayed those last moments over and over in his head, as he probably did), the last things that Stan did to him was: punch him in the face, and then shoving him into the portal. The latter was accidental (though disastrous); but the first kind of wasn't. Ford stopped fighting, switching to concern and apology. While Stan lashing out due to the pain is understandable, Stan's punch is what prevents the fight from being over.

Ford coming out of the portal 30 years later and immediately punching Stan in the face kind of creates a book-end with that earlier punch from Stan, doesn't it? Ford getting to hit back the way he didn't (wouldn't?) 30 years ago. (He stands up, but he just stands there angrily staring at and listening to Stan as he approaches. He doesn't try to leap at Stan again or try to wrestle him for the book, etc. Was Ford, effectively, done fighting the moment Stan got seriously hurt?)

As I said, I'm not sure the writers were thinking about that consciously. I don't remember hearing them comment about it (i.e. that Ford's punch was a mirror of the punch that Stan gave him 30 years prior). But I do like to look at what's written and think about it in terms of, these scenes are deliberately written, the way it goes and the details included are chosen, often at the end of a long process of collaboration. I think that what's chosen for the final version is always very interesting.

And I just don't often see people discuss that moment where Ford stops fighting, and immediately becomes worried and apologetic. Not least because, like... up to that point in the series, we haven't seen Stan be apologetic very often. A few times, yes! And it's always notable when he does it. It clashes with the exterior he presents to the world; the man for whom saying "Please" gives him physical pain, etc. Some of which is meant for laughs, too! And some of which is just the product of being hardened by experience and so on.

It tells us something, I think, that Stan truly getting hurt, and screaming in pain, is enough to end Ford's desire to fight. That even after 10+ years of estrangement, he's that ready to be concerned for Stan; and that he's that ready with an apology. Later reads of Ford (post-portal) will portray him as the man who won't say "thank you", and I have other thoughts and feelings about that. But getting back to this, it's the show's choice to have Ford stop their fight and make a slight turn towards a sort of reconciliation. When they could have easily just had him and Stan keep fighting and struggling and the portal turn on because of that. It's such an interesting writing decision; and I just don't hear people dig into what it means for the characters very often.

What's your stance on Ford as a person? Honestly, I believe that for thr majority of canon he is a bad person. But I believe he grew. Still not great though XD

(Love him anyways obvs)

I disagree entirely! I think he's equally as good a person as any of the other main cast.*

*Except Mabel, who, as we all know, is always right about everything.**

(**This is a lighthearted joke. For the love of god, I don't want Mabel discourse in my inbox.)

His biggest sins in the show:

After telling his brother that he was thinking about changing their shared life plans, and then discovering that his brother had gone to the high school that night for no good reason and gone to the science fair for no good reason and messed around near Ford's science project for no good reason and broke it and didn't tell Ford about it... Ford believed Stan did it intentionally and held a grudge for it. You know what, it WOULD be pretty damn hard to believe it was an accident.

Hilariously ill-equipped to cope with Fiddleford's mental health. A guy who responds to "I have anxiety" with "have you tried yoga, it helps me" isn't a bad person, he's clueless. "Character cheerfully enacts a bad idea while a loved one in the background goes NO PLEASE DON'T DO THAT" describes half the episodes of Gravity Falls.

Was successfully manipulated by a professional manipulator into believing his best friend wished him ill. Man, what a terrible person Ford is for being manipulated by a manipulator and saying cruel things to somebody he'd been genuinely convinced was trying to harm him.

??? Didn't say thanks to a guy he was still mad at after the guy fixed a problem he himself had caused. This is a solitary example of stubborn bad etiquette, jesus christ. There's half a dozen different reasons why it makes perfect sense Ford wasn't in the right mindset to feel grateful, this is not something worth indicting his entire character over.

He had high ambitions, which everyone seems to lambast him for, but high ambitions that wouldn't have required doing anybody harm! (Until the professional manipulator started manipulating him into harming the people around him, but we are going to demonstrate some reading comprehension and not blame Ford's underlying morality as a person for things he never would've done if not for Bill's bullying, con artistry, and outright lies.) Like, what is it that he wanted to do with his life? Use his talents to get rich and famous? Shit, that's exactly what Stan wanted to do with his life. It's what Dipper fantasizes about doing with his life. Even Mabel, who thinks about her long-term future the least, dreams big with her art & performances and is already making big money off cheap-ass commissions. What terrible people they all are, for—let me check my notes here—uhhh... unrealistically fantasizing about achieving success in life by doing the things they're good at.

When their dad accuses Stan of lying as a child, Ford puts his entire summer on the line to defend Stan even though he knows Stan is a habitual liar and has no reason to believe Stan is telling the truth this time.

When his new college roommate he barely even knows gets laughed at for proposing an outlandish scientific theory, his first emotion is outrage at this injustice and he drops everything to convince his already-despondent roommate that he was right and help him prove it beyond a shadow of a doubt.

When he moves to a new town, he tries again and again to befriend his new neighbors, and fails not because he's rude or a jerk, but because he's awkward as hell, tells terrible jokes, and sucks at identifying phoenixes.

When Fiddleford gets hurt around him, he cares about it, feels guilty about putting him in that position, doesn't want it to happen again, and tries his best to help even though he's bad at helping.

When he gets kidnapped by a weird holiday folklore creature, he concludes without even thinking about it that he's now in charge of protecting and rescuing the kidnapped kids. Yeah, then he immediately starts hollering at the folklore creature for trying to impose his religious beliefs on Ford and the kids—but like, Ford was right tho, he just had bad timing.

When he discovers that the Northwest family committed atrocities against their poorer neighbors a century ago, his first instinct is to march up to their house, find the first Northwest he can locate, and give them a piece of his mind for it. Like, this won't even FIX anything. He's just THAT OUTRAGED over the injustice.

When he sees what he thinks is a fortune telling fraud conning the people, he attempts to debunk her because he's mad to see someone cheating other people with lies—and when he can't debunk her, he just leaves her alone rather than harass her about it. Typically, if assholes think somebody's doing something wrong but don't have any proof of it and fail to get proof when they look, they decide they're right anyway and keep giving that person shit. Ford doesn't give her shit. That's the opposite of an asshole move.

When he discovers his Portal To Knowledge (And Fame & Fortune) is actually a Portal To Doom (But Still Possibly Fame & Fortune, Maybe Even Godly Power), he isn't tempted for a second to keep working on it anyway. There is no moment where Bill manages to tempt him. No matter what Bill offers, no matter how long Bill offers, never, at ANY point, does Ford have a SECOND of "but what if I did make a deal with the devil?" the way so many heroes in similar situations often do.

You ever notice that? So often moral moments in the show are presented as choices the characters make. Will or won't Dipper give Bill a "puppet" in exchange for knowledge. Will or won't Stan fight a pterodactyl to protect Mabel's pig. Will or won't Mabel hand Bipper the journal. Ford is never given a "will or won't he" moment over Bill's threats, offers of friendship, or offers of infinite power—he steamrolls straight past them without a second of consideration—because, to him, the selfish, cowardly, easy choice ISN'T EVEN AN OPTION. He doesn't even SEE it as making a choice because the possibility of doing the wrong thing is invisible. A character who wavers first before turning Bill down would look more noble for "overcoming" temptation—it's harder to notice just how much stronger Ford's moral compass must be to not even feel temptation in the first place.

Greed and pride never tempt him to join Bill's side. Exhaustion, despair, and fear never tempt him to give up. He bears up under weeks, possibly months of extreme sleep deprivation, physical torture, psychological torture, emotional torture, threats of death, threats of brainwashing, threats to his family. He doesn't hold up so that he can pat himself on the back for being a hero—if that was all it was he would've gone "screw it, this isn't worth it and nobody would know I'm the one who gave up" a week in—he does it because he simply knows it must be done and because he's so isolated (half because of Bill's influence!) that he believes he's the one who must do it, all alone.

Thinking he has to do it by himself isn't egotism or pride; it's helplessness. He thinks no one else stands a chance. He thinks he's alone.

And, when he discovers his Portal To Knowledge is a Portal To Doom, he immediately feels guilty. No trying to deny the situation to protect his ego. No shuffling the blame off to someone else. No "maybe the apocalypse could have a silver lining!" No locking the door and trying to ignore the problem. He blames himself for being fooled—he IMMEDIATELY takes full responsibility for his actions—and he CONTINUES to take responsibility FOR THE NEXT THIRTY YEARS.

He takes more responsibility than is even warranted—he treats himself like he's an idiot for believing in an APPARENT GOD who's been practicing manipulating humans for thousands of years and who had never given Ford reason to believe the portal was anything but what Bill said it was. He beats himself up to no end every single time his past with Bill comes up. He even keeps beating himself up thirty years later when he's shoving warning notes to future readers in Bill's evil unkillable book!

When he falls into the multiverse, he dedicates his entire life NOT to finding a way to rescue himself, but to finding a way to permanently stop the CHAOS GOD who's still at the threshold of destroying Ford's world and countless others. He makes himself a hated criminal in the process, just to stop Bill. He's ready to spend the rest of his life trying to protect a world he doesn't think he'll ever see again. He does it because, as he sees it, somebody has to stand in between the children and the obnoxious folklore cryptid menacing them, and he's the only adult in this damn cave with the skills and knowledge for the job.

When he gets home, he doesn't tell his family about Bill and his quest because he's afraid that doing so will get them involved and endanger them too—and because he's too deeply ashamed of himself and his mistakes to stand the thought of his family knowing about the horrible things he's done (AGAIN, WHILE BEING MANIPULATED BY THE GOD OF MANIPULATION).

He loves his great-niece and great-nephew the second he lays eyes on them; he nevertheless tries to steer away from them to keep them safe from Bill; and yet he caves to the very first temptation to emotionally bond with his great-nephew he gets, because in spite of his noble "keep them safe" intentions, he wants so so badly to be close to his family.

As pissed as he still is at Stan and even though neither of them can look at each other without hissing like cats, he still makes an attempt to start bridging their divide by inviting him to play DD&MD.

When the apocalypse happens, he immediately puts his life on the line to try to kill Bill.

And when he's captured, isn't fazed for a second by Bill's offers or threats... until his family is threatened. The exact thing he'd been trying to avoid & prevent from the very start.

And when he's reunited with Fiddleford, his immediate reaction is to point out that Fiddleford's well within his rights to hate him—which isn't a new revelation, it's not like Ford had to do any soul-searching to reach this conclusion, he'd concluded that 30 years ago the instant he realized Bill had played him and that he'd been lied to about Fiddleford.

And then he tries to kill Bill again.

And then he's ready to sacrifice his own life to kill Bill—and the only reason he doesn't is because he has a metal plate preventing him from making the sacrifice... but, Stan doesn't have a plate. If Ford hadn't had the metal plate, he would have gladly done the exact same thing Stan did—and he would have thought it was right for him and only him to make that sacrifice, because it's VERY clear he feels (and has felt from the start) that this is all his fault and he's obligated to fix it.

Over and over and over, these are Ford's two defining character traits: getting so pissed off at injustice that his common sense shuts off and he goes into terminator mode until he's righted this wrong as best he can, even when he can't actually do anything about it; and feeling like he's Atlas, weighed down with the full responsibility of fixing everything he's done wrong and made to believe that, for everyone else's sake, he has to do it all alone. Even when doing so puts himself in harm's way, even when he has to put his entire life on hold for it, even if it might cost him his life. Scrape off his awkward social skills, his loneliness, his nerdiness, his endless curiosity, his zealous love of the strange, his starry ambitions, his yearning for recognition and success—scrape his personality down to the bone and that's what you're left with. A man who believes in defending the exploited so strongly that it makes him a little stupid.

I'm gonna go out on a limb and assume that you probably don't think Stan's fundamentally a bad person, and that you probably think that isn't even worth questioning. Stan's made a whole career out of swindling people, conning them out of as much money as he possibly can, stealing, lying, committing a long list of goofily-named crimes, and attempting douchy pick-up artistry on women; and to cap it all off, he held the safety of the entire universe hostage to demand a goddamn "thank you." Don't send me any "But he had reasons—" "But it was only to—" I don't need it, I don't want the essay, I'm not arguing that Stan's a bad guy, it's fine.

But. You can look at Stan's moments of cruelty and unkindness, his uncharitable thoughts, his character flaws, and think, "that doesn't define him. He's more than his cruelest moments and worst mistakes. He's imperfect, but he cares so much and his heart's in the right place, and beneath all the flaws his core is good."

And if you can't do the same for Ford, it's not because he's a worse person. It's because we got two seasons with Stan and five and a half episodes with Ford—and while we saw Stan yearning to fish with the kids or encouraging Mabel to whoop Pacifica's butt at minigolf or crying over a black and white period drama or punching zombies to save his family, we only saw Ford at the worst moments in his life and under the stress of a prolonged apocalyptic crisis—and, it so happens, all the moments he was pissed at the guy we spent two seasons learning to love.

Ford's got moments of cruelty and unkindness, uncharitable thoughts, and character flaws. But, at his core, he's a good person, and he always has been, and he still is.

[fuckitupfelix]

ANON. LET ME COOK WITH THIS ANON.

third time's the charm !?

miya atsumu x male reader

word count: 1.8k

atsumu's self proclaimed "flirting" doesn't get him very far when the guy he's crushing on is absolutely clueless.

FEM ALIGNED DNI

atsumu miya is a fairly popular student. he’s quite well known among his classmates, and generally well liked. as a result, he’s grown a bit cocky. he considered himself a chick magnet— osamu jokes that he’s actually just a manwhore, to atsumu’s dismay— but the fact remains that he was attractive and he knew it, even if he never really acted on it. sure, he liked the attention, but when it came down to it, and osamu or suna ever prodded on why he didn’t get with any of the countless people leaving love letters in his locker, he would simply say they were ‘distractions’. his main focus was volleyball! he’d mess around here and there, but he would never take any of his little flings seriously. that’s what he’s been telling himself. he knows he could get with anyone, and he prides himself on that. it gives him a sense of power; a sense of control— until a certain (name) (surname) joined his class.

the teen had transferred into inarizaki in the middle of second year, and while he knew of the ‘wonder twins’ (he so aptly nicknamed them in his head) through friends and bits he’d seen online, he didn’t care much for them. as far as he was concerned, they were just teenagers. athletes with admirable skill, sure, but teenagers nonetheless. just the same as he was.

atsumu’s been pulling his hair out over the past few weeks because of (name)— his previous logic going straight out the window with the new transfer student. any and all attempts that the setter made to drop hints were futile. the guy was, to put it simply, far too dense.

ATTEMPT ONE: HOMEROOM.

upon (name’s) initial arrival, atsumu’s hooked immediately. it’s not like his introduction was anything crazy; the teacher called him in, he introduced himself, and sat down in the free seat next to suna and behind atsumu. but there’s something so appealing about the teen that draws atsumu in. the setter turns around in his seat, his usual lazy grin sprawled across his face.

“hey there. name’s miya atsumu,” he hums, before jutting a thumb towards the seat to (name’s) left. “that there’s suna rintaro.”

the expected reaction, if you know who he is— and he’s offended at the notion someone at his school potentially wouldn’t— would be absolute joy and surprise. instead, the new student responds with a, “oh. you’re the volleyball guys, right? nice to meet you two.”

suna has to bite back a snort at atsumu’s expression— his jaw dropped, his eye twitching. that’s it? “ya know who i am, yeah?” he asks, regaining his composure immediately. “ain’t i impressive?” he drawls.

“i guess? yeah. you’ve got impressive skill.” (name) responds, seemingly missing the way atsumu bristles at the lack of praise. he decides to flirt a little, wanting to throw this guy off his game.

“since ya missed some of the curriculum already, i can help ya study. get ya caught up.” atsumu says. he catches the way (name’s) face lights up and feels the pride bubbling in his chest. “really? that’d be such a big help! where should we meet up?”

“i was thinkin’ we could study at my place,” atsumu hums, voice a bit lower.

“. . . wouldn’t it be more productive if we went to a library or cafe? i also don’t wanna disturb your parents at all.” (name) replies. suna barks out a laugh, and atsumu shoves his shoulder. “shut it, suna!” he sputters.

“i’m definitely tellin’ ‘samu this later,” the teen snickers, leaning back in his chair. “‘n turn around, ‘tsumu, the lesson’s startin’.”

with a grumble, atsumu turns back to face the front, his arms crossed. there’s no way he just got blown off like that . .

ATTEMPT TWO: VENDING MACHINE.

atsumu refused to give up, even after the relentless nagging from suna to ‘quit being a pussy’ lasted for weeks on end. the two of them sat together with osamu and ginjima on their lunch, a figure slumped over the table, groaning dramatically; the person being atsumu, of course.

“could ya whine a lil quieter? i’ve gotta finish my history assignment and yer bein’ distractin’,” suna says, prodding at atsumu’s crunchy hair— which only prompted another, longer, louder groan.

“i don’t get it! how oblivious is this guy gonna be?!” atsumu whines, his cheek pressed against the cool table. his teammates were going to comment on how none of his attempts were straightforward in the slightest, but decided to let him wallow a bit longer. with a sigh, atsumu stands from his seat, shoving his hands into his pockets. he just needs to clear his head.

“d’you guys want anything from the vending machine?” he asks. they tell him their respective requests, and he exits the cafeteria to find a free vending machine. as he’s wandering about, mind filled with thoughts and plans to get (name) to give in to his ‘flirting’, lo and behold, he’s right there, crouched in front of the vending machine. a pretty face contorted into a hardened expression, eyebrows furrowed as he scans the contents, before letting out a sigh and standing. he turns in the direction of atsumu, and he jumps a little.

“oh! miya-san, hey.” he hums. atsumu scoffs lightly at that, walking closer and leaning an arm against the edge of the vending machine. at this angle, he can see (name’s) face perfectly, the light from the window on the other wall shining beautifully against his skin. it makes him feel giddy.

“i told ya, you can jus’ call me atsumu. drop the honorifics already, (name),” he drawls, his signature smirk on his face. “ya grabbin’ a drink?” (name) nods. he frowns slightly, turning back to look at the vending machine. “i can’t decide what to get, though. any suggestions?”

it’s almost like a lightbulb sparks above atsumu’s head. he has a perfect idea. leaning over (name), he comes closer to the glass dividing them and the drinks, purposefully drawing his face inches away from (name).

“hm,” he narrows his eyes, pretending to think about it, before pointing to a peach tea can, letting that same arm loosely wrap above the other teen’s shoulder. “this peach tea’s pretty good. it’s sweet, just like you,” he says, adding that last part a little quieter.

this has to be it. (name) has to hear that and take the hint, atsumu thinks to himself. so when (name) turns, his face lighting up with joy, and he responds with, “that sounds perfect, man! thank you!” he gawks at the teen's obliviousness as he punches in ‘D-3’ on the keypad, sliding the coins in. the can falls down with a thud, and he takes it, walking off as he cracks it open and takes a sip.

atsumu really cannot catch a break.

ATTEMPT THREE: NATIONALS.

atsumu's been going at it in the gym for the entirety of his lunch break, practicing his serves, sending ball after ball over the net.

“i’m done!” atsumu sputters, his shoes squeaking as he jumps up, arms stretched out as he slams another volleyball across the court. it lands out, and he grits his teeth. “he's impossible! he keeps actin' all buddy-buddy with me!”

osamu snorts at his brother's pouting. “so you'd rather (name) hate yer guts?” “that's not what i meant!” he huffs childishly, kicking at the floor. “fuck it. i’m tellin’ ‘im! ‘samu,” he whirls around to face his twin, jostling him by the shoulders.

“where would (name) be right now?” “why would i know that? it's lunch, check the classrooms.” osamu says dryly, shoving atsumu off of himself.

atsumu just nods, ignoring the action. like his life depends on it, he sprints out of the gym and towards the main building. through the side doors, past the lockers, up the stairs, to the very end of the hall, until he reaches their classroom.

“(name)!” he all but yells, sliding the door open with too much force. students whisper and murmur around the room, girls huddled up in the corners, eyes wide and hands cupped over their cheeks as they practically marvel at the sight of atsumu. (name), however, looks a bit concerned. placing his lunchbox onto his desk, his fork laid gently beside it, he stands and walks over to the door, not noticing the stares from all over the classroom. as he steps out, he shuts the door behind him.

“atsumu? are you alright?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed. “you look like you just ran a marathon—”

“we're goin’ to nationals tomorrow,” atsumu pants. (name) knew that— he's heard him and the others on the team talk about it in the halls, or when they have lunch at atsumu's desk.

“right, yeah. goodluck with that. you guys are gonna do amazing, obviously,” (name) chuckles. god, the sound makes atsumu's heart ache. he needs to get it out already, he's wasted far too much time dawdling.

“right, yeah. words don't mean much, though,” atsumu leans an arm against the wall, right next to (name). “a goodluck kiss would work wonders, though.” he says smoothly. this was his final attempt for (name).

the teen stiffens up at that. “what?” he laughs, wondering if he even heard atsumu correctly. “ya heard me. it’d be pretty motivatin’ if the pretty boy i’ve been likin’ gave me a lil goodluck kiss. just a lil peck.”

what?

“. . . you like me?” (name) asks. “since when?” atsumu huffs at that. “since forever! yer just too dense, i’ve been tryna hint at it for months now!” at that, the realization dawns on him. oh. “i thought you were just being nice!” (name) sputters, clearly trying to defend himself. atsumu lets out a choked noise.

“am i that bad at flirting?” he asks weakly. “no! i don't think so? i didn't realize you liked me at all! you should have said something!”

yes. he should have. he knows that, god knows osamu does as well. he just leans in a little closer. “so, how about that goodluck kiss, hm?” he asks after a beat of silence.

with a light scoff, (name) plants his hands on atsumu's shoulders, gripping at the fabric of his uniform shirt. it’s crumpled and smells slightly like sweat, but he decides to overlook that detail. he leans in, capturing atsumu's lips with his own. the kiss was brief, but atsumu's hands had already flown to cup the back of (name's) neck, gently tugging him forward. (name) lets out a startled noise, but doesn't move back until a few seconds later.

“so. you'll be watchin’ me at nationals, yeah?” atsumu drawls, his fingers carding through (name's) hair, idly twisting a strand.

“of course i will.”

this was so fun to write omg!!! also my reqs are open if you wanna drop any ideas for any fics !!

divider by @/plutism !!

[ohe-ohe]

Linemates to Lifemates: A Hockey Love Story

Newlywed PWHL stars Laura Stacey and Marie-Philip Poulin navigate the complications of marriage and career

By Devin Heroux, CBC Sports, Nov. 21, 2024

When you walk into the Montreal home of Marie-Philip Poulin and Laura Stacey, one of the first things you’ll notice is that there’s not much to suggest the couple are two of the greatest hockey players in the world today. 

They aren’t the type of people to boast about their long list of achievements. 

Their two-storey abode, with a spiraling glass staircase, is tucked on a quiet suburban street, located off-island away from the hustle and bustle of downtown. Purchased three years ago, it’s the perfect place to keep a low profile. 

There are no trophies, plaques or medals on display that showcase the Olympic and world championships they’ve collected. No photos or banners of their hockey triumphs. Those are reserved for Arlo, a golden retriever that is their pride and joy. 

There’s an Arlo treat jar. An Arlo candle. At their wedding in late September the napkins at each table were adorned with Arlo photos. He features prominently on their social media

Their home, in many ways, resembles how these newlyweds and PWHL Montreal Victoire teammates have lived their lives. They’ve been intentional about hiding from the spotlight, hiding their love, and hiding the most intimate parts of their lives. 

Over the past year that’s started to change.

[whole article below]

Sitting in their living room on an October afternoon just before they begin training camp for a second season, the two share what this has all been like, including now being part of a true pro women’s hockey league, something they wondered and many before them wondered would ever happen in their lifetime.   

“Being able to say we're professional women's hockey players, it's pretty amazing,” Poulin says. “And seeing little girls wanting to be there one day is better than we ever expected. And we don't take it for granted.”

Nor do they take for granted the freedom they have to live their lives as they wish.

“This is probably the most myself I've ever been,” Poulin says. “Being myself, having the community, family and friends embracing me, embracing us, embracing this new team. And it doesn't matter who you love, it's who you are. And I think that's the best part about it.”

It hasn’t been easy for many who have come before them. Twenty-six years ago in Nagano when women’s hockey debuted as an official Olympic sport, some media coverage focused more on the sexual orientation of the players than the competition.

But relationships among athletes are slowly gaining a normality in women’s pro sports. In 2021, married couple Allie Quigley and Courtney Vandersloot won a WNBA championship with the Chicago Sky, and they are just one of many couples in the league. 

Women’s sports is undergoing a transformative expansion — new leagues, more money and investment, increased media coverage — and the story of teammates as couples is only going to become more common.

“I've always been the hockey player. But I have a wife and I can be myself. People are coming to the rink and saying thank you for allowing me to be myself,” Poulin says. 

Stoic and composed in a hockey arena, Poulin’s eyes well up as she talks about their September wedding. Stacey sits beside her, Arlo on the couch. Tears are streaming down Poulin's cheeks and she hides her face under her black ball cap. 

“She’s a crier,” Stacey says, rubbing her hand along Poulin’s back, filling the space between tears as Poulin tries to compose herself. 

Poulin, 33, has kept who she really is buried for years, shoved away in the depths of all that she is. She was only going to let people know her as this great hockey player who comes up clutch in the biggest moments.

Poulin is the only hockey player in history to have scored in four Olympic gold-medal games. Her heroics in the 2014 Olympic final — tying the game with a late goal and then winning it in overtime against the United States to capture gold — put her in a category all by herself. She’s been seemingly unstoppable for years. 

Stacey, 30, found a way to break through that tough exterior, to strike at the heart of all the things that matter to Poulin. 

“She puts up that front of, ‘I'm the hockey player’. That's all people see and have seen of her,” Stacey says. “The world knows her as the best hockey player in the world, but they don't know her as the best person in the world as well. 

“And I've been fortunate enough to see that but now for the world to see that too, it's pretty special.”

If Poulin has helped make Stacey a better hockey player, Stacey has assisted Poulin in living her most authentic life. 

And in a lot of ways, they have become bigger than the game.

Their late-September wedding at Le Peaches and Cream in Low, Que., is described by many of the 192 family members and friends who were in attendance as the perfect day. Poulin and Stacey both call it “the best day of their lives” — an epic celebration of life and love, the culmination of a relationship that began in 2017 when they locked eyes while swimming at a Team Canada event at Blue Mountain in southern Ontario.

Stacey had just competed in her first world championship, Poulin a decorated champion many times over. They were teammates, but they didn’t really know a lot about one another. 

“A few of us decided to go skinny dipping in the pool at 2 a.m.” Stacey says. “The two of us looked up into the sky at the same time and we saw a shooting star. Our eyes met and we asked each other if we just saw that. Nobody else in the pool saw it or knew what was going on but we saw it. For the rest of that night it was a weird feeling. I had a feeling.

“We always go back to that moment. Even in my wedding vows, that was the thing — that she was the wish I had always dreamed of and I didn’t realize it until now.”

Poulin, who’s happy to take a backseat to Stacey’s storytelling, jumps in. 

“You should have seen the skyline the weekend of our wedding. It was so bright and magical. Stars everywhere. I believe in those little signs,” she says.

It was an idyllic setting for the two to share their vows, with vibrant, fall-coloured trees, expansive fields of lush green grass and breathtaking sunsets surrounding a barn-like building. There was a fire pit too, and on the eve of the big day, all of their friends gathered around the flames, sharing stories, drinks and laughs. 

The crescendo came during the late-night dance party, when Poulin and Stacey had changed out of their stunning white dresses and into matching white pant suits, joyously leaping around to Celine Dion’s It's All Coming Back to Me Now.

With everyone surrounding them in a big circle, Poulin and Stacey jumped up and down, shouting, smiling. “Baby, baby, baby,” they sang, swept away in a moment that quickly went viral on social media.

It’s pretty remarkable considering Poulin and Stacey are the last of a generation that had to play on all-boys teams.

“I dreamed of playing for the Leafs because that’s all I knew. And that wasn’t possible but it’s the only thing I saw,” Stacey says. 

No longer. They are now what young girls see — Olympic champions as teammates in 2022, twice as world champions — and working toward a championship as linemates on the Montreal Victoire.

Before they were even in this position the two had to navigate free agency ahead of the new beginning for the PWHL.

All six teams were able to select three players ahead of the league’s inaugural player draft on Sept. 18, 2023. Hometown hero Poulin was always going to Montreal — that was never in question. But would her then-fiancee and national teammate also be part of that deal?

And that was just it. Poulin and Stacey made it very clear throughout the entire process they were not a package deal — and didn’t want to be considered one.

“It was really, really hard on me,” Stacey says. “I had conversations with all of the GMs and stated that I'm only coming or only want to be drafted by you if you actually want me as a person and a player.

“Obviously there's always those thoughts that go through your head that they're only taking me or they're only asking me to sign early because they want her.”

Stacey even considered skipping free agency just so that she’d be part of a draft and not have to endure being favoured because she was Poulin’s partner. 

“We did have those hard conversations, the two of us sitting here and seeing what was going to happen,” Poulin says. “There was no package deal. And that was something that we take a lot of pride in. I'm myself, she's herself.”

Enter Montreal Victoire general manager Danièle Sauvageau. She’s been part of women’s hockey for decades and was head coach when Canada’s women won gold at the 2002 Salt Lake City Olympics. 

Sauvageau was deliberate in making sure Stacey and Poulin were treated like two separate players, with separate conversations with each.

“For me it was important that the choice was made individually,” Sauvageau says. “Is she going to think we value her because of the context of her private life? We had to ask that question. I wanted to do the exercise to show her that wasn’t the reason. I wanted to sign her.”

Sauvageau says their decision to pick Poulin and goalie Ann-Renée Desbiens was easy, but choosing their third and final free agent was a process. They had a five-player wishlist. Stacey was on that list — and they weren’t going to roll the dice on missing out on her. 

“When you look at Stacey the last two or three years — the best line of Team Canada — she never gives up," Sauvageau says. “She brings a lot of energy. She’s a student of the game.

“We just didn’t want to lose her.”

Inside their home there’s a warmth and vulnerability the two share. But at the rink, it couldn’t be more different. Home is family. The rink is work.

“You're not going to see us fight or argue. We know it's business and we know we're going to get the best out of each other,” Poulin says. “When we train, we do our work. It's not about us being lovey dovey. It's us getting better, making people around us better.”

They have had to figure out how to give each other constructive criticism and feedback after their games — it’s still a work in progress.

“The first couple of games it was like, how do we do this?” Stacey says. “Do we just talk about it in the car? And then when we get home it's over? And I don't think that worked that well because I know for myself I just can't get over things that quickly.” 

“So we did a lot of detours on the way home,” Poulin says, and they both laugh.

“We just kept driving. We just kept driving,” Stacey says.

~

Jill Saulnier, their teammate at the Beijing Olympics who plays for the New York Sirens, has been practising with the pair in Montreal ahead of the new PWHL season. During an unrelenting two-hour practice on a Thursday morning at the historic Verdun Auditorium, which is the training facility for Montreal, Saulnier is doggedly keeping up with her two best friends in dryland training and on the ice. 

“They come to the rink. They’re married. It’s our job and it’s all business for them,” Saulnier says. “They’re able to separate the craziness.”

“I’ve known both of them for 15 years and they were wonderful individuals when I met them and they’re even more wonderful together. I feel that’s such a testament to a powerful relationship."

Erin Ambrose has also played alongside the two of them for years on the national team — and is getting ready to be their teammate on La Victoire for a second season. 

“As their teammate and friend, if there’s ever been an issue you’d never know it,” Ambrose says. “It’s heartwarming to see two people lift each other up and genuinely two of the best people you could have in your life.”

Caroline Ouellette knows perhaps better than anyone how tricky it can be to find a balance between being in love and playing the game you love.

She won four Olympic gold medals and a handful of world championship titles with Team Canada between 1999 and 2018, victories that came at the expense of her American partner and now wife, Julie Chu, who starred for Team USA.

For Ouellette it was a question of legitimacy. She was scarred from the coverage at the 1998 Nagano Olympics when women’s hockey made its debut. She still vividly recalls a newspaper highlighting the sexual orientation of the women playing at those Olympics.

“It was front page in Quebec — a sexual orientation that makes people talk — that’s what it was about. The whole article was about maybe there being relationships on the team, maybe with the coach and players. It was so hurtful and negative to the game,” she says. “It was shocking and disappointing.

“It silenced me for years. I took the approach that it wasn’t going to overshadow the performance on the ice.”

For Ouelette it was less about people knowing her and Chu were together and more about keeping the focus on the talent on the ice. 

“For me, I still felt I could be myself and be who I was with Julie. I think a lot of the media knew we were together and I’m grateful they didn’t make it something,” Ouellette says. 

A lot changed for Ouellette and Chu in 2017 when they celebrated the birth of their daughter, Liv. For Ouelette, it was because there was no hiding anymore. 

“We won the Clarkson Cup in 2017 with Liv in my belly. I thought that this was the coolest thing ever and I wanted to win that Cup so badly because I wanted to say we won with too many players on the ice,” she says with a laugh.

Ouellette was ready to share all the parts of her life and fully understands this place Stacey and Poulin have arrived at. 

“They complete each other,” she says.

All of this almost never happened.

Six years ago Poulin’s and Stacey’s relationship was on again, off again as they, like many young couples, struggled with the decision of whether they wanted to be together. Poulin had just returned from the 2018 Olympics in Pyeongchang and was devastated after losing to the Americans in the final. She says it was one of the darkest points of her life. 

“I felt like I let the entire country down,” she remembers. “I was one of the leaders. You take everything on your shoulders. I didn't want to see anybody and I was just really on my own.”

She sat in that sadness for weeks, but the Humboldt Broncos bus crash in April 2018, when 16 members of a junior hockey organization were killed, shook her to her core.

“You see parents losing their kids, kids losing their parents. I'm here in my bed and people lost their lives and I'm going to cry over a silver medal?” Poulin says. “That moment switched my perspective. That silver medal probably made me way better. It taught me that when there's hard moments, you get back up.”

That fall, Poulin and Stacey were playing on separate teams in the CWHL, the precursor to the NWHL, Poulin a member of Les Canadiennes and Stacey with the Markham Thunder. 

“There was a lot. This is complicated. She was in Montreal. I was in Toronto. We were national teammates. We just stopped talking. I was not talking to her. I was good and ready to move on,” Stacey says. 

Poulin wasn’t.

On Oct. 20, they found themselves lined up on opposite ends of the rink. Poulin’s Montreal team beat Stacey’s Thunder 5-1, and in a bold move, Poulin followed Stacey’s team bus back to her hotel after the game.

Poulin sent a text, imploring her to come out to her car to talk.

“She was serious,” Stacey says. “I didn’t know what to tell my roommate. I lied and said I needed to go see my family or something like that.”

Poulin finally convinced her to go for dinner, and the two now use that day as their anniversary. 

And while there are many more championships the pair want to collect, they’re also starting to think about what could be next.

That’s where Arlo has picked up the assist.

“Ifwe have a bad practice or bad game, when we come home Arlo does not care. He's going to love us till the very end. And what's not to love about him?” Stacey says. “I think that's just opened our eyes to having a family and growing our family.”

“We've talked about having kids as part of our next project. We love kids. We have friends with kids and we love it. And honestly, it will be the next project for sure,” Poulin says.

There’s a practical part of that conversation — that one of them would have to take a backseat, at least for a bit, to their athletic career.

“And it's going to be interesting for us — two female athletes navigating how to have kids, when to have kids. It's definitely going to take some thought, some planning because it is brand new to us and it's brand new to a lot of people too,” Stacey says. 

[taurasiscntybun]

But we’re roommates! Pt 2

-College DT x nerdy reader

-18 plus minors DNI

-Warnings: Adult language, anxiety, internalized homophobia, descriptions of foreplay, virginity kink

-2,800 words

Diana’s POV

I shove my headphone over my head, my hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, the curls threatening to escape. 50 cent blares in my ear as I cross through the hallway of the dormitory.

“Distracts me?” I mutter to myself. I don’t understand my weird ass roommate, it’s rare she actually talks to me, even rarer that she comes close. Maybe it’s for the best, if she knew the thoughts I had about her I'm sure she’d never speak to me again.

“Distracts me?” I mumble again, I’m stuck on that, it has to fucking mean something. Why would it bother her if I’m in my sports bra? I wish she wouldn’t walk around in her goddamn tank top and shorts, well not really, I think her thin sleep shirt is my favorite thing she owns. I let out a groan as I picture her, the thin fabric stretching over her tits.

“Fuck” I mumble and shake my head to clear the thoughts. If only she knew how distracting she was, I keep my music blaring so I don’t notice her. I already know today is going to be a waste in class. Not that I give two fucks about my English class, as long as I get a C I can keep my scholarship and keep playing basketball. I should care more, I’m the first in my family to go to college; I’m not gonna flunk out or some shit but I’m happy with getting by. I hate my English class the most, what the fuck am I learning by reading Beowulf and Pride and Prejudice? At least my roomie helps me with English, she’s so smart. I turn up the volume on my mp3 player, keeping my mind from drifting to thoughts about my nervous baby bunny. I wave to a few people as I walk through the green, I don’t know everyone but since my face was on the fucking school magazine everyone seems to know me. Finally I get to one of the biggest buildings on campus, it’s on the other side of the fucking campus from my dorm but at least most of my classes are here. I glance down at my watch and swear under my breath, I’m like five minutes late.

“Miss Taurasi, you do know class starts at nine, correct?” My professor says, a smug look on his face.

“Yes sir, I got held up this morning.” I reply and flop down in my seat, pulling out my notebook.

“It’s five minutes, can he fucking chillax?” I mumble under my breath as he drones on about the oral history of Beowulf. I should be paying attention, I should be taking notes, but I can’t stop thinking about my fucking roommate. The way my hands fit perfectly around her waist, her touching my shoulder, her soft voice saying I’m distracting plays over and over in my head. It means something, it has too; why would my sweaty body be distracting to her? I look up from my blank notebook, realizing.

”Fuck, she’s attracted to me.” I mutter without thinking and a few heads turn my way but I ignore them. Now all I want is my classes to be over so I can get back to my dorm.

“Oh god, shit.” You say and run your fingers through your hair. Your classes start a little later in the day, back to back history classes then humanities. You stare at Diana’s unmade bed and replay your conversation. You had admitted she was distracting, you’d said her body was distracting.

“God she’s gonna think I’m some lesbo weirdo.” You mutter and pace the small space.

”No.. no.. it’s normal to be distracted, she’s hot.” You try and reassure yourself but it doesn’t work, you know deep down that the feelings you have towards Diana aren’t platonic. You want to feel her big hands on you, her lips, her everything, you want to be consumed by her presence. She’s gorgeous, a mix of strong muscles and soft curves that make your mouth water.

“Don’t be weird, it’s fine, it’s fine.” You dress quickly, a tank top and loose cargo pants and hurry out the door for class; your mind clouded with anxiety with before class.

The rest of the day goes by in a droning bore, your classes blurring together as your stomach tumbles in anxiety. When your last class leaves you bolt for the door and race across campus to your dorm. Diana’s day ends before yours but she has practice so it’s fine.

“Calm down, calm down, its fine, she’s at practice and I’m sure she doesn’t even remember what I said this morning.” You mutter as you fit the key in your dorm room door. You swing it open and yelp as Diana looks up at you from her bed.

”Finally you're home, I didn't know when your last class ended.” She says and stands to come closer.

”No it’s Monday, your math class lets out at four and your practice starts at four-thirty, why are you here? It’s five?” You say and shake your head.

“You memorized my schedule?” She asks and cocks her head to the side, her hair is down for once and the dark curls bob as she turns her head.

”I..I..I wanted to know the times you wouldn’t be here, for.. for studying.” You stammer, still standing in the open doorway. Diana gives you a wolffish grin and takes another step towards you, she’s in touching distance now but she feels much closer, her large statue looming.

”Oh yes because I’m so distracting right?”

“Y..your music and..and..” You stammer but she cuts you off by grabbing you and pulling you into the room, the door clicking shut and locking behind her.

”We dont need to have this talk with the door open.” Diana says in a hushed tone, her hands still on your arms.

”And I know, you find me walking around in my sports bra very distracting right?” She taunts, her thumbs rubbing up and down your bare arms, leaving goosebumps along your skin.

”I..I..”

“Why does my body distract you Baby bunny?” She whispers, drawing you even closer.

”I’m not the genius you are but could I be distracting you because you find me hot?” She’s standing so close now you could count the freckles across her face, she looks down at you with a serious expression, something you're not used to. You look up at her slack jawed and you know you're blushing but you can’t stop. You try to think of something, anything to say to her but your mind is drawing a blank.

”Y..yes you..you are pretty but..but lots of g..girls are pretty.” You stammer and try to pull away but her grip tightens to nearly painful.

”Do you look at a lot of other girls?” She whispers and searches your face.

”I..I mean a normal amount, everyone notices pretty girls right? I mean you notice pretty girls right?” You answer nervously and look down. Diana moves one of her hands from your arm to under your chin and she tilts your head up gently to look at her.

”Oh yeah, I notice pretty girls, all the time, but then again I don’t notice boys.. if you understand what I mean. I definitely fucking notice you. You think I’m distracting? Baby I can hardly think when you're around, everything comes out in a rush of word vomit when you look at me with your big eyes.” She’s leaned down to you, your air mingling as her eyes dart from yours to your lips.

“Do you feel the same way baby? Am I right?” Diana says, her tone so hushed its barely audible over the roaring in your ears. The room feels too small, Diana too close, you can’t breathe let alone think. As if she can read your thoughts she takes a step back and lets go of your arms, raising her hands in surrender.

“Tell me I’m wrong, tell me to fuck off and I’ll never bring it up again, I’ll even wear a shirt all the time.“ Her eyes search your face and you can see the quiet vulnerability in her face. You’re frozen, not able to deny how you feel but not knowing what to say either. Diana looks at you concerned and then a look of understanding crosses over her face.

“You’re new to liking girls aren’t you? Or rather new to admitting it to yourself?” Her tone is soft and her gaze warm. She sits on her bed and pats the place next to her.

“It’s ok, everyone’s been there.” You take a tentative step towards her, trying to think of anything to say.

“If you don’t say anything cause you’re scared of rejection, don’t be.” Diana says in a hushed tone and you sit, she immediately puts her hand on your thigh, nothing scandalous just resting on your knee but it was enough to get your blood heating.

“I don’t know why I feel this way about… about you.” You say softly and turn to look at her.

“Are you attracted to me? Do you get distracted by my body because it turns you on? You don’t understand why I affect you… it’s nothing I did baby, you just like women.” Diana says and grins, her touch on your thigh turning teasing as she traced patterns on your inner thigh; the calluses on her long fingers leaving goosebumps under your pants.

“It’s ok, I feel the same way, I want you baby, fuck I want to kiss you all the time, I want you to come to my games in my jersey. I want to devour you.” Her tone dropped as she spoke and she squeezed your thigh for emphasis on the last part. You let out a hushed whimper and she moved closer, her hand moving up your thigh.

“You gotta say something babygirl, I’m not going to keep touching you unless I’m sure you want it.” She starts to pull away and immediately you feel the loss of contact and speak before thinking.

“No please keep touching me. Fuck I want you to touch me please.” You admit and she grinned.

“Thank fuck.” Diana groans and doesn’t give you a chance to respond before pulling you in tight, her lips crashing into yours. You freeze, your body locking up under the foreign touch.

“Come on baby, let go, let me show you how I good I can make you feel.” Diana says and kisses down your neck.

“Don’t think, just feel; you want me to keep touching you? Well I want you to touch me too, give in baby.” She almost begs and her soft suck on your pulse point makes you come undone. You melt against her, and pull her down for another kiss. Your kiss is clumsy and unpracticed but passionate; Diana’s hand comes up behind you and tangles in your hair, tilting your head back as she takes control. She slows your kiss, her mouth moving against yours with practiced ease.

“God you don’t know what you do to me.” Diana practically growls and pulls away a bit.

“Talk to me baby.” She begs and strokes your back.

”Im sorry I..I’m not good at this at uh talking about stuff.” You manage to say and she grins.

“No apologies baby, you don’t need to try, just be you.” She kisses down your jaw and you gasp.

“O..Ok” you say in a breathy tone, collecting yourself a bit.

”I like you, i really like you in a way I haven’t liked another girl before and I didn't know what to do or how to act because i didn't want you to think I’m a freak but then that meant you needed to stay away from me because my like brain stops working when you're around.” Your words tumble out a fast long sentence and Diana pulls away to process your words.

“Firstly I dont think you're a freak, I’m actually super fucking happy that you have feelings for me because fuck I’ve wanted you since you walked into this dorm all wide eyed and excited the first day.” She smiles and pulls you close again, this time in a tight hug, Diana was successfully breaking your walls down, bit by little bit. She waited until she felt you relax in her embrace to speak.

“When you see me walking around in my underwear what are you thinking baby?” She whispers against your hair, her tone low.

”I..I..” You start to stutter in response.

”You tell me and I’ll tell you what I’m thinking when I see you in your cute little pajamas.” She teases, moving her head down to whisper in your ear.

“I..I think about your body and.. and how much I like it and want to touch you. I..I think about your boobs probably too much and your uh sweaty sports bras hide little.” You admit and pull away again, sitting next to her. Diana raises her eyebrows in question.

”My…boobs?” She asks and looks down at her somewhat flat chest.

“Yes yes I think about them all the time, every time I see you without a bra at night or when you walk around after practice. God Diana were you not doing that on purpose?” You ask, you're softening, feeling more comfortable with her now that your crush was out in the open. Diana laughs and shakes her head incredulously.

”I honestly just started dressing in here because it seemed to annoy you and you look so adorable when you're mad but you weren’t mad were you? You were horny?” She hooks a finger in your belt loop and tugs you towards her, forcing your body to angle to her. You blush and look down at your hands in your lap.

“Nah baby dont get shy on me now, you were just telling me how much you like my boobs.” Diana’s hands cover yours and you tilt your head to look at her.

“Do you wanna see ‘em baby?” Her voice drops to a whisper and she looks down at you with heat in her gaze. You suddenly realize yes, you’d very much like to see her boobs and the rest of her.

”Yes, Diana I..I want you.” You say in a shaky tone and bite your lip. She lets out a groan in response.

“Ok , you can have me but fuck that means I get you, I get to really know you, you gotta let me in.” Dianas words came out in almost a plea, she needed you as much as you needed her right now.

“Yes I promise Dee you can-“

”Don’t call me that.” She cuts you off abruptly and you look at her in confusion.

”But everyone calls you that?”

“Yeah but you aren’t everyone and you’ve never called me Dee, I uh I like that you're the only one that calls me by my full name. To everyone Im Dee or DT but you have always called me Diana.” She brings your hands to her lips and kisses across your knuckles; you're left breathless by the reverence in her touch.

”Diana I promise I’ll be myself, I want you, I don’t want to hide from you anymore.” You admit to her as she kisses your knuckles again.

“Thank god baby, now I want to touch you, I want to touch you everywhere, can I?” Diana asks softly and drags her big hands up your arms.

“I wanna show you how much I like you.” Her thumbs hook under the thin straps of your tank top and pulls them down your shoulders.

”I..I dont know what to do, i.. I’ve never..” You stutter and she groans low in her throat.

”Fuck are you telling me you're a virgin?” Her thumbs move in small circles on your shoulders as she looks down at you predatorily.

“Y..yeah I uh have never with uh anyone.” You say quietly, a touch embarrassed.

”But you want me to touch you right? You want me to make you cum dont you baby bunny?” She asks in a raspy tone, dipping her head to kiss down your neck.

“Y.yes Diana p..please.” You say and let your head lull to the side giving her more access.

“Mhhmm you're so beautiful.” She said against your skin, one hand fisted in your hair to gently lean your head and her other hand wandered up your body, teasing at the hem of your shirt.

“Diana please I..I want you to make me cum I… I want you.” You whine and arch your back into her touch, your body automatically knowing what to do. Diana chuckles against your skin and places one more kiss on your pulse point before pulling away.

“Ok baby but first I need you out of these clothes.” She leans down and starts untying your sneakers, her long finger moving deftly as she undoes the knot and slips the shoe off you.

“Lay back, lemme take care of you.” She says softly and kisses your inner ankle sending a buzz of heat through your body. Diana repeats her actions with your other shoe then stands.

[4ranghaes]

heyy I'm really craving for angsty fics these days!!

i feel like leehan's character is more like nerdy one so i request you to please make a heart clenching breaking angst but w happy ending where Leehan gets constantly bullied

Thank you !!!

kim leehan x reader [angst, fluff ending, fem!reader]

warnings - bullying (nothing extreme), mentions of sexual assault

a/n - this is probably not what you were expecting anonie but i am notoriously bad at writing angst😭 hope you enjoy still!!!

2009 - “ya! kim donghyun!” the loudest boy in your year yelled across the classroom. primary school had been kind to you so far, but not to some others. lunch time was done, children pouring back into the classroom to chat before the teacher came in.

donghyun, the known weirdo of the class, didn’t even look up as he helped a bug navigate his small hands. the boy calling for him scoffed, obviously provoked by the lack of reaction.

“donghyun-ah,” you whispered, moving your face closer to his, as his big brown eyes suddenly flicked up to study your face, “heebok wants you.”

donghyun nodded, a small smile on his face as he went back to the bug. you sighed, he was always like this. he was quiet, and did nothing to help himself as the kids in the class walked all over him.

heebok started throwing wrappers across the classroom, hitting donghyun’s head as you frowned, getting up and standing in front of him as you glared at the boy.

“y/n, get lost!” heebok’s friend threatened.

“stop picking on him!”

“or what?” they laughed.

you grumbled, turning donghyun’s body away from them and towards your own seat.

2012 - “who even is he?”

“that’s kim donghyun. he’s a serious weirdo.”

“yeah he like, never talks. and he disappears as soon as school ends!”

“freak.”

you rolled your eyes, getting up from the table where all the girls continued to gossip about the boy sat by himself, “i’m going.”

“where?! y/n?!”

you took your lunch, walking over to where the boy sat and taking a seat opposite. donghyun looked up at you wordlessly, continuing to eat his lunch.

“i’m not gonna thank you, y/n,” he said.

you scoffed, “i didn’t ask for thanks, donghyun.”

he nodded. as did you, even though he couldn’t see you, and continued to eat your lunch in silence.

2015 - “donghyun-ah,” you spoke, furrowing your eyebrows as you walked into the classroom, “what are you doing?”

donghyun glanced up at you, straw in his mouth, the bottom half in the cup of ramen. he had no emotion on his face as he went back to it.

“it’s hot.”

you sighed, rolling your eyes as you took your seat at the desk beside him.

“by the way, y/n,” he spoke, folding his arms and laying his head upon them, looking up at you from that position; his eyes looking exactly the same as they did 6 years ago. “i’ve decided i’m going to be an idol.”

“a-an idol?!” you exclaimed, lowering your voice quickly before it drew attention to your friend who, despite your best efforts, was the victim of serial bullying at your school, “can you even sing?”

donghyun chuckled, nodding, “you don’t need to worry about me anymore.”

you gave him a worried look, before turning and looking at haejun walking through the door.

“just… don’t tell anyone else about this idea, okay?” you hummed, grabbing his hand under the desk.

“why?” he asked, looking genuinely confused. he never helped himself, and it drove you mad sometimes, “i can do it.”

“i know,” you nodded, sighing, “i believe in you. it’s just... other people won’t be so kind.”

“believe in what?” haejun asked, before glancing at donghyun up and down, “what the fuck are you doing, freak?”

donghyun just shrugged.

“i asked you what you were doing!” haejun yelled, “you disrespectful bitch!”

“get lost, haejun,” you sighed, haejun scoffing and rolling his eyes as he found his seat, continuing to kick donghyun’s seat from behind, “stand up for yourself kim donghyun, please!”

he just smiled pitifully at you, continuing to drink his ramen.

2018 - “you’re really going?” the boy scoffed, shoving donghyun’s shoulder, “good. i’ve been trying to get rid of you since we fucking started school.”

“i don’t think he’s really going to be a trainee, you know. i think he’s lying and dropping out of school. always were fucking weird, anyway.”

“maybe. even if he was a trainee, he wouldn’t get anywhere anyway. freak.”

“oh?” the other boy said, his gaze shifting behind donghyun, “your girlfriend’s here.”

“she’s not my girlfriend,” donghyun murmured as you reached his body, pulling him back away from the boys and glaring at them, fists clenched at your sides.

“how many times have i told you to leave him alone?!” you yelled, shoving at their chests, “you two have been doing this since the day we started school, for no fucking reason. donghyun has been nothing but kind and patient and he doesn’t even show any reaction! is it fun?! are you having fun?! yeah he’s a little weird, so what?!”

“y/n, please,” donghyun spoke quietly from behind you, you shrugged off his grip on your arm.

“you’re so sweet, always protecting him, you know,” heebok cooed, cupping your cheek with one hand and your waist with the other as you flinched, “so obedient, i like girls like that.”

“get the fuck off her!” donghyun yelled, suddenly grabbing your body and pulling you away, punching heebok square in the face and shoving haejun into the wall. he grabbed your arm, pulling you into a nearby storage cupboard, “y/n, are you okay? i always told you to stop!”

“donghyun,” you laughed weakly, looking at him incredulously, “you could’ve done that the whole time… what– seriously, donghyun-ah. stand up for yourself!”

“are you okay?!”

“i’m fine,” you sighed, “answer me.”

“i didn’t need to stand up for myself,” he cried, more emotion in his voice than you’d ever heard before, “it doesn’t matter, you know?! none of it matters, i always told you.”

“you just let them walk all over you!”

“it’s fine,” donghyun sighed, shaking his head dismissively, “they never caused any harm. but that? what he almost did to you?!”

“he didn’t do anything, donghyun, i’m okay,” you nodded, taking his hand.

your heart started beating fast as you realised the proximity between you in this cupboard.

“so,” you spoke, trying to move as far away from him as possible, “you’re really going to seoul?”

donghyun nodded once, definitively, “i already got into a company. it’s a small one, but i can always move when i’m there.”

you nodded, “are you gonna be okay? in seoul?”

“it’s okay, heebok and haejun aren’t gonna be there,” donghyun chuckled, taking your hand to calm your nerves - though it seemed to have the opposite effect.

“yeah but…” you trailed off, thinking of all the other people throughout your life that you’ve caught laughing at your friend behind his back.

“what?”

you shook your head, “nothing.” you sighed, ruffling his hair, trying to restart the playful vibe between you, “i’ll miss you, kim donghyun.”

donghyun blinked, nodding, “i’ll miss you too.”

he leaned forward slowly, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek before swiftly leaving the cupboard.

2023 - “leehan-ah!” you called, running over to your boyfriend as he stood outside the café.

donghyun smiled, opening his arms to welcome you with a hug as you reached him.

“okay, okay, love birds, enough,” jaehyun scolded, “we need to go.”

“woonhak’s not even here yet!” leehan laughed, one of the most legitimate smiles across his face that you’d seen in his whole life, “how can y/n be here before woonhak? we live across the road.”

“y/n?” a random voice came from down the street, “wow! y/n!”

you furrowed your eyebrows, approaching the man as he approached you.

“it’s heebok!” he laughed, “woah, it’s been so long!”

you gasped out a laugh, “wow heebok. hmm, i suppose it has.”

“what? you’re still mad about all that donghyun stuff?” he scoffed, “come on, we were so young! i’m sure we’ve all moved past it. come to think of it, he’s in seoul too, right? training? or has he already dropped out.”

you scoffed, “he debuted, heebok.”

“wow, good for him!”

you rolled your eyes, suddenly an arm snaking its way around your waist.

“wow, it really has been a while, hasn’t it, heebok?” leehan smirked, “good to see you!”

“k-kim donghyun?”

he nodded, “although, i’m mostly going by leehan these days, maybe you’ve heard of us, boynextdoor?”

heebok’s eyes widened, “my daughter’s such a big fan! wow, good for you, mate!”

leehan scoffed, before nodding and speaking politely, “hmm, be sure to tell her how much of a fucked up person her dad is. and how horrible he was to me.”

heebok looked at him shocked.

“come on, baby,” donghyun smiled, kissing your head, “the car’s here.”

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

can you see the stars in your dreams (and do they have a lot to say about me) - Part 17

Or: a secret Admirer AU

PART 1 || PART 2 || PART 3 || PART 4 || PART 5 || PART 6 || PART 7 || PART 8 || PART 9 || PART 10 || PART 11 || PART 1 || PART 13 || PART 14 || PART 15 || PART 16

Eddie’s back to school on Tuesday, black eye turning a mottled sort of green, lip scabbed over. From where he’s hemmed in by Robin and Chrissy, Steve watches Eddie catch a glimpse of him and bolt the other way.

Jeff sighs, lets go of his hold on Chrissy’s arm, and says, “sorry, Steve. I’m just gonna—” and then he points toward Eddie and follows after him without another word.

Steve’s gut clenches with guilt. He’d put that look on Eddie’s face, had caused the rift in his and Jeff’s friendship, had split the forming group up with his ridiculous crush. But Chrissy and Robin are still here, standing by his side.

“Are he and Jeff okay?” Steve asks, biting his lip as he glances at Chrissy.

“I think so,” she says, looking after her boyfriend. “They talked on the phone, but Jeff didn’t tell me what about.”

“Forget about them,” Robin replies, reaching out to take his hand even as it makes everyone around them stare. “Come on, Stevie, or we’ll be late to Ms. Clickity Clack’s class.”

Steve passes the rest of the day in a daze, the spot at his side a revolving cast of Chrissy, Robin, and Jeff, like they’d all talked behind his back and decided he couldn’t be trusted with being alone right now. Steve can’t blame them because as soon as he’s left unattended in his big empty house, he gets out his notebook and pen, and begins to write.

   Eddie —

   I’m sorry I never got to read your last letter, but it wasn’t for me anyways. Maybe none of them were, not really. And I’m sorry about that, even sorrier about how your pretty face got caught in the ceasefire. I’m just full of sorries I’m to scared to tell to your face—from the way you ran when you saw me in the hallway this morning, maybe you wouldn’t want me to anyway.

   You’ve always been the brave one, so you must really want to not see me, huh? I hope you and Jeff are friends again. I’m sorry about that too, I’m the one who asked him not to tell you. I was afraid, but that’s no excuse.

   I don’t know how to stop wanting to right write to you. I can’t turn off the part of me that still wants to know everything about you. There’s a whole in my heart, and I keep trying to find people to fill it, but I can never be in love with someone who loves me back. You know?

   I’m sorry, Eddie. Maybe someday, I’ll get to say it to your face.

   Sorry,

   Steve

He closes the notebook on the damning words and shoves it into his nightstand so he doesn’t have to look at it. Sleep doesn’t come—the house is too quiet. He grabs the phone off his dresser and calls the only other person he knows whose parents trust them enough to have a phone in their bedroom.

“H’lo?” Robin mutters sleepily after finally picking up the phone six rings later.

She sounds tired—Steve’s sorry he woke her. “I wrote another letter,” he says.

That seems to perk her up instantly, as she hisses down the line, “Steven James Harrington.”

“Not my name, Robin Steven Bobbington,” he replies, talking right over her shrieked “well, that’s not mine!” to continue, “I’m not going to send it.”

“You better not,” she replies, and Steve can hear some rustling on her end, like she’s settling back down into her bed. He wishes, suddenly, that he was in there with her, clutching her hand as they fall asleep side by side. Instead, he lays down on his own bed and concentrates on the noises coming down the line.

“Is it stupid that I miss him?” he asks.

“Yeah, kinda.”

“Robin!”

She laughs, a quiet sleepy chuckle that warms him straight through. “I’m just saying! He’s been treating you like shit, Stevie.”

Steve sighs, burrowing down under his comforter and taking the phone with him. “He was different in the letters,” he whispers, like someone in his empty house might hear him otherwise. “Sweeter, you know?”

Robin sighs, “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me too.”

There’s enough sorries to go around for all of them, apparently. They’re quiet for a while, Robin’s breathing keeping him company in his big, lonely bed with his big, lonely thoughts.

“I love you, Robbie,” he whispers. “You know that, right?”

He’s been saying it a lot lately, throwing the words around like they’ll connect this time and get him something real. And they had, with Chrissy, with Robin, hell, even with Jeff. Just, not with Eddie. Maybe someday, he’ll learn to be okay with that.

“Love you, too, Dingus,” Robin replies, like it’s easy.

He falls asleep that night to the sound of Robin’s quiet snoring.

***

Eddie thinks about it—obsessively, compulsively. He dreams about it, jerks off about it, fucking cries about it. He reads the letters, again, and again, and again, wishing desperately that he still had that first one. At school, he checks his locker obsessively, compulsively, hoping there’s another note in his locker—there never is.

“Dude, what’s your problem?” Gareth asks, an elbow into Eddie’s side.

“Ow, ribs!” Eddie cries, curling away from him and into Doug at their usual lunch table.

“Sorry!” Gareth replies, leaning away from him and raising his hands up like that’ll somehow prove he’s harmless.

Jeff snorts around his sandwich, “gotta be careful, Gare-bear. He’s precious cargo now.”

“Oh fuck off,” Eddie replies, rolling his eyes as the rest of Hellfire laugh around him.

“No, but seriously, dude,” Gareth asks, this time without the thrown elbow. “What’s up with you?”

Eddie looks across the cafeteria at Steve and Chrissy’s usual spots, still empty the way they have been for weeks. He worries, sometimes, that they’re not eating, and it’s his fault.

Hopefully, they’re just packing lunches from home and eating somewhere else (he’s been too afraid to check).

“Can’t tell you buddy,” Eddie replies, still looking at the empty spot like that’ll somehow make the duo appear. “I promised.”

Gareth, clearly having followed his line of sight, leans closer and asks in an unsubtle whisper, “but it’s about you know what?”

Doug sits on, oblivious, but Jeff snorts again and asks, “okay, you didn’t tell me jack shit, but you told the freshman?”

“Sophomore, jackass!” Gareth cries, before seeming to realize the implications of Jeff’s sentence. “You told Jeff?”

“I knew before you did,” Jeff says smugly, and Eddie’s starting to get pissed off about that again.

“How!”

“Jeff, dearest?” Eddie grits out. “Do you want me to punch you in the face?”

That shuts the table up catastrophically. But in the end, Jeff sighs and says, “I’m coming over after school,” and the rest of lunch is spent fielding Gareth’s indignant questions.

True to his word, Jeff climbs into Eddie’s passenger seat at the end of the day. Eddie doesn’t take them to the trailer, he just drives around, taking back roads round and round, restlessness making his fingers twitch in the gear shift.

Jeff’s the one who breaks the silence, in the end. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he says, making Eddie flinch at the sudden noise. “Steve just seemed so scared, and Chrissy was crying so—”

“He was scared?” Eddie interrupts, stuck on the thought. He’d known that, before, but now that Eddie’s afraid, too, it hits like a punch to the chest.

“Of course he was,” Eddie replies to his own question. Suddenly unable to focus, Eddie pulls over to the side of the road. “I’m scared, too.”

Jeff sucks in a breath; Eddie doesn’t look away from his own knees.

“Yeah?”

Eddie bites his lip, knowing that Jeff will be able to read between the lines. “Yeah.” His eyes are watering, and Eddie swipes at them, embarrassed. “And I know we’re supposed to be talking about us, but I just—”

“No, hey,” Jeff replies. Eddie hears the sound of his seatbelt unbuckling, and the rustle of him shifting in his seat, and suddenly, Jeff’s hand is clasping Eddie’s shoulder, shaking him around just a little. “You’re my best friend—we’re fine, dude.”

Eddie swipes at his eyes again, “I think I want to ask him out, but what if I’m wrong?” Eddie asks, tracking Jeff’s expression out of the corner of his eye. “I don’t want to hurt him again.”

“So, what?” Jeff asks, voice deadpan. “You find out he likes you and suddenly he’s not just a jock anymore?”

Eddie looks down at his own knees, bracing for a hit he knows will never come. But, Eddie’s always been good at hurting himself, so he thinks about that yellow nail polish again, the enraptured look in Steve’s eyes during every D&D session, the way he’d glued himself to Robin Buckley, band nerd supreme’s side in recent weeks. The way he’d look at Eddie like he wasn’t the king of the freaks, like he was worth something.

“He was never just a jock,” Eddie murmurs. “I just never let myself think about it.”

Jeff mmmhmms him and Eddie knows him well enough to hear the doubt beneath the agreement.

“I was afraid, okay?” Eddie laments, scrunching his eyes closed tight until that makes his bruised eye ache too much. “You wouldn’t get it.”

At that, Jeff scoffs, and before Eddie can start up another tirade, he replies, “right, the black guy dating a white girl in Po-dunk, Indiana has no idea how scary it can be to make a move on the person you like.”

Okay, fair.

“You know what could happen if the wrong person finds out?” Jeff continues. “I’ll be lucky if they let me get out of town alive.”

“Okay, okay! I get it, sorry!” Eddie cries, throwing his hands up in defeat. And Jeff, being the asshole he is, just laughs at his discomfort. “How’s that going anyway?”

“With Chrissy?” Jeff asks, continuing when Eddie nods. “She’s great, man. I really, really like her.”

He’s smiling all goofy and in love. Eddie waits for the jealousy to hit; it never comes. Even as he’d flirted with her, there’d always been a disconnect for him between the letters and the girl. He knows why, now.

“I’m happy for you.”

Jeff aims that same goofy smile at him and punches his shoulder. “Thanks, man.”

Eddie wants to feel that way about someone. He wants to think of them and smile like he just can’t help himself. And with Steve Harrington of all people, maybe he can.

“If I ask Steve out, do you think he’ll still say yes?”

“Oh, for sure,” Jeff replies without hesitation before he turns to Eddie and eyes him up and down. “But are you sure you want to?”

Eddie bites back the defensive retort rising on his tongue, and grits out, “what do you mean?”

Jeff sighs and leans back in his chair. Eddie waits, three seconds from snapping as he stews in Jeff’s silence, hands clenched so hard against the steering wheel that it feels like one of his nails might pop clean off. 

“Jeff–”

“No one’s ever liked you before!” Jeff cries, and it hits Eddie like a punch to the sternum. “And maybe it’s not fair of me to ask but, are you sure you even really like him?”

“What?” Eddie asks, his mind a record skipping against a bent needle. “What do you–”

“Eddie, man,” Jeff sighs, swiveling his head to finally look Eddie directly in the eyes. “Do you like Steve Harrington, or do you just like that he likes you?”

He drops the wheel, hands almost numb as he shakes them out, no longer able to meet Jeff’s eye. 

How would anyone ever know that for sure? How can he know the origin of a feeling when it’s been there, simmering in the background of his brain, just waiting for him to wake up? How can he separate the feeling for a person and the person’s feeling for them?

That’s like asking him to unbraid his hair, let it fall back together, and still be able to tell which strands made up each component of the braid–it can’t be done.

But, “Gareth said I was obsessed with him,” Eddie replies, barely above a whisper. “Like, before I knew he wrote the letters?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Eddie laughs, but it’s just like Steve said–it sounds different when he doesn’t think it’s funny. “And, he was right, you know? I was flirting with Chrissy, but I couldn’t stop thinking about him.”

Eddie runs a shaking hand through his hair and buries his face into his hands with a shudder. “He’s just–he’s Steve Harrington, right? Everyone knows everything about him, but then he just changes the script!” Eddie’s smiling now, manic, animated. “And I wanted to know everything.”

Eddie drops his hands to look over at Jeff, meeting his eyes once more. Jeff looks patient, ready, hopeful in a way he hadn’t before, so Eddie keeps talking.

“Like, Chrissy was flirting with you and he didn’t even seem to care, and the yellow nail polish, and he came to Hellfire, Jeff. Steve Harrington came and watched us play Dungeons and Dragons.”

“I know,” Jeff replies, grinning now, pearly whites all on full display. 

“And when he came to band practice, he was just like, watching me, and I sort of wanted to die, but in a good way, you know?”

Jeff decidedly does not look like he knows, but he’s still grinning across at Eddie like he’s proud of him. Eddie’s kind of proud, too, that he’s managing to say all of this aloud. It feels somehow new and a long time coming at the same time. 

“Okay, you can ask him out,” Jeff says, turning forward in his seat and buckling his seatbelt once more. 

Eddie laughs. “Oh, because I needed your blessing?”

“Yeah,” Jeff replies, grinning as he turns back to Eddie, looking him up and down like he’s a slab of meat Jeff’s checking for its quality. “Maybe wait until you’re healed up, though. You look like one of those cardboard box kittens that I keep seeing on the news.”

“Shut up!” Eddie squawks, but he’s smiling, helplessly, hopefully.

Eddie Munson with a chance at love, who would’ve thought?

[lostintransist]

This song inspired a whole fic I don't have the time to write. But here is the blurb I threw at @backseatsoldier and @scaredyspooks

Background Johnny has low self esteem and accepts whatever affection he can from a friend bitch who takes advantage of that, shoving him in boyfriend situations emotionally for far to long. His best friend, you, has been pinning for him so long you have started to give up hope.

When the bitch moves to a city far away and you see her give Johnny a goodbye kiss that you don't realize is such. You turn on a heel and walk away, ignorning Johnny's calls and texts for the next few days.

Johnny thinks it unusual but it is about time for your period to start and you tend to be a bit wonky until the blood starts flowing. He brushes it off until a random man on base asks about his girlfriend.

"My what?"

"You're girlfriend sir, the woman on your home screen? She is your girlfriend right? I've seen her at some of the parties hanging out with you. Always has hearts in her eyes when she's around."

"Do you love me?" "Johnny I can't talk about this right now," she pushes on the door. It catches on his boot. "Please, I-I need," Johnny swallows down the fears crawling up his throat, "Do you love me?"

The dam breaks.

"I have loved you for a long time," your jaw quivers as you stare into his eyes, more familiar than your own.

"Oh thank god," he rushes forward, pulling you into a hug. One arm wraps around your ribs while the other grips into your hair, pushing your head into his shoulder. He kicks the front door shut. "I thought I would be to late," his voice breaks on the last word.

"What do you mean? You want Shannon?" Your fingers burrow into the back his shirt.

"I did. She represented everything I thought I deserved."

You try to pull back. Johnny isn't to much taller than you but the mucsle he maintains for his job robs you of the ability to flee from his words.

"What happened then? Why are you here?" You bite the words out in the space you could create between his chest and your face.

"Someone asked me today if I had broken up with my girlfriend. I was confused until they said the woman on my home screen, the one I am always gushing about. That is when I realized that he meant you."

That makes you pause in your efforts to escape. You were his home screen? Looking up at him Johnny shifts his hand from your hair to caress your face, thumb sweeping the leftover tears from your cheek.

"How long have I been your lock screen?" You whisper.

"Years," he whispers back.

The tears start up again.

"Why?" You can't force your words any louder than a whipser.

"There was a challenge a few Christmases back, to change your home screen to a photo of something that brings a smile to your face every time you see it. The last photo I had taken had been you. I've updated the photo a few times but it's been you since."

"Why did you never say anything?" The words hurt your throat as they leave.

"How could I tell one of the most important people in my life that I love her but I am a bad man who has done unspeakable things and don't deserve time or love from her? Why would I set myself up to be rightfully refused? For you to scoff at my affections?"

It's your turn to caress his face. He loosens his arms enough to allow you to touch him, but not enough to step back.

"You don't get to make that choice for me Johnny. And I don't like the version of me that lives in your head if you thought I would ever scoff at you."

He recoils, eyes slamming shut and chest caving in as if he took a bullet to the chest. Feckin' hell, she was right. It had to be him that didn't think he deserved anything resembling love though you had been peppering him with it for years.

You give him five breaths to deal with the emotional revelation before you are squishing his cheeks into his teeth, causing his lips to pop out.

"I would like to sit down and talk about this instead of being held hostage in my entryway. Would you like something to drink while we talk Johnny?"

You give him the softest smile he had ever seen, the gentlest crinkles forming around your eyes.

"Aye love, I think I need a drink." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "Can I hold your hand while we talk?"

"I would love that."

[killeromanoff]

I KNOW YOUR GHOST | RIVALS

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

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

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

w.c: 9.8k

notes: would you want me to continue the series?

oo. what the hell was I doin'?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But what about her?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But instead, she was here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But tonight? Tonight, it felt empty.

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

Cheerier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She wanted to be more than this.

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

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

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

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

“Take care of yourself, Cass.”

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

But that didn’t make the choice any easier.

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

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

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

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

The radio filling the background quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She hated it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cassie paused for a moment, weighing her words carefully.

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

Baz raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued now.

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

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

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

“I already have a job, Baz.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cass? What’s wrong?”  

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

“Turn. That. Up.”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cass, think about this—”

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

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

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

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

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

The line clicked after a few rings.  

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

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

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

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

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

Baz exhaled sharply, gripping the phone tighter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cassie’s hands curled into fists at her sides.

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

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

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

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

Dan chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair.

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

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

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

Crawford straightened, his expression hardening.

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

That was all the time Cassie needed.  

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

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

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

Behind the glass, Crawford was screaming at the technicians.

“Get her off the air! Now!”

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

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

Her voice filled the airwaves, clear and commanding.

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

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

“Cut the feed!”

The lead technician hesitated, sweat beading on his brow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get her off the air!”

“That’s enough!”

“Someone call the police!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Declan inhaled sharply, breaking his stillness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s not,” he said simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Declan shot him a look, more amused than irritated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Interesting,” Rupert murmured.

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

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

Talent, he corrected himself silently.

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

Declan tilted his head slightly, considering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[dwobbitfromtheshire]

Not so mean and scary

Did someone ask for a Steddissy fic to this? Here it is!

All that craziness happened right before the Christmas break, so Eddie was grateful to squirrel himself away inside his trailer to hide from people and even more grateful that he got to escape by driving Dustin to his science fair in Indianapolis. Hopefully, everyone had time to cool down. When he pulled up to the school, he found Jeff waiting for him in his normal spot. He shoved his hands in his pockets, looking awkward.

"Hey," Jeff said.

"Hey," Eddie said.

"I'm sorry I'm never told you," Jeff said.

"What? That you're attracted to me?" Eddie scoffed. "I didn't judge you when you told us you're gay, but I'm definitely judging you for your taste in men, so that might have been a good call."

"Fuck off, asshole!" Jeff laughed. "I definitely want to fuck you, but date you? Nah, you're too much of a mess for me."

"Dick!" Eddie laughed. "At least, things haven't changed in that aspect. . .please, tell me things have gotten back to normal."

"Wish I could, man, but it's now socially acceptable to like Eddie Munson: platonically, romantically, and sexually. You've opened up the floodgates to self-acceptance," Jeff shrugged.

"The jocks did that," Eddie scowled.

"Yeah, but they wouldn't have if they hadn't been inspired by you to stand up to Jason and his friends," Jeff pointed out.

"Gah!" Eddie yelled. "I'm mean and scary, Jeff! Mean and scary!"

"Not anymore, man. Now, it's Jason and his friends who are the freaks," he replied. "Higgins is pissed."

"Of course, he is. He's always been out to push people like us out of school," he rolled his eyes. "Alright, I guess I should face the music. . .nope, nope, I can't!"

"Be a big boy, Eddie," Jeff laughed as he pushed him.

Eddie walked past people, and so far, everything seemed great. No one was paying any attention to him, focused on trying to walk on the still icy concrete. Until. . .a guy whose name he didn't know cheerfully waved at him. A shiny rainbow pin was fastened to his coat. Eddie screamed as the guy gave him another friendly wave before walking off. Jeff rolled his eyes before clapping his hands onto Eddie's shoulders and steering him into the school. He moved through the hallway, passing by people who waved at him. Some of them had rainbow pins, and some of them didn't. Eddie didn't get that one. He thought he managed to find someone who was still afraid of them when he jumped out at someone, and he jumped. Eddie started to grin until the guy laughed, slapping Eddie's arm.

"Oh, Eddie, man, you're hilarious," he said.

"No, I'm scary!" Eddie shrieked.

"I used to think that but I was just scared of how I felt. . .oh, someone works out," the man said as he squeezed Eddie's arm. "Can't believe I ever thought I was into women."

Jeff clapped a hand over his mouth and pulled him away from the guy before Eddie could scream again. Just as they were about to approach Eddie's locker, they ran into Steve Harrington. Jeff removed his hand.

"Hey, Munson, how are you handling your newfound fame?" Steve asked.

"I do NOT want you caress my bicep," Eddie said.

"I wasn't going to," Steve laughed. "I wouldn't touch you unless you wanted me, too."

"I like women," Eddie scowled.

"Yeah, so do I," Steve said, winking at him.

"What are you doing here anyway?" Eddie asked.

"Oh, I decided to come back to school just to flirt with you," Steve said, and Eddie scoffed, blushing. "Nah, I was dropping off Dustin his lunch. He forgot it in my car. By the way, thank you for taking Dustin to the science fair. I kind of wish I had gone with you guys instead of going on that date. It would have been a lot more fun."

"Uh. . .you're welcome, I guess," Eddie said and tried to control his rapidly beating heart.

"Steve Harrington, don't you have a low paying menial job to go back to?" Chrissy asked from behind him.

"Chrissy Cunningham, I thought we were friends," Steve said.

"We are, but we're also competition now," Chrissy said.

"Ah. . .Do you like Eddie, too?" Steve asked.

"Ever since middle school," Chrissy said.

"You remember that?" Eddie asked.

"Corroded Coffin, how could I forget?" Chrissy asked.

"Kind of thought you got swallowed up by high school and popularity," Eddie said.

"I did," Chrissy said. "I'm back, now. I like your hair."

"Yeah, me too. It's definitely better than the shaved look," Eddie said, grinning. "Also, I got these sweet tatties now."

Eddie pulled his shirt down to reveal two tattoos on his chest. Chrissy bit her lip and reached over to trace the tattoos with her finger tips.

"Sexy," Chrissy said in a husky voice.

"Y-yeah?" Eddie asked.

"Oh, yeah," Chrissy said. "I should get to class. It's good catching up with you, Eddie. Steve, you really need to step up your game. Eddie. . .balls in your court."

Eddie clutched his chest and collapsed against the lockers, staring after her.

"Damn," Eddie and Steve said.

"Yeah, I guess I do have to step up my game," Steve said and winked at Eddie. "Good luck with all this."

Steve walked away, swinging his hips as he did so. Eddie's eyes zeroed in on his ass.

"I like women!" Eddie yelled.

"So do I!" Steve yelled back.

"Why do you keep saying that?!" Eddie shrieked and Steve laughed as he exited the school.

"Man, you do you realize you can like both?" Jeff asked.

"What?! No!" Eddie yelled, and then he grabbed Jeff by the front of his shirt. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I thought you knew," Jeff said with wide eyes.

"Was it just me, or were Chrissy Cunningham and Steve Harrington. . ." Eddie trailed off.

"Vying for your affection, yeah," Jeff replied.

"Hmm, whoever shall I choose?" Eddie cackled. "Who shall win the hand of one Eddie Munson?"

"Eddie, you still got me by the shirt," Jeff said.

"Oh, sorry."

"No, problem."

While Eddie had once been freaked out by the fact that people now liked him, he realized that it gave people to be more free to be themselves in the hallway. He did yelp when he found two jocks making out against the lockers, and then he grinned before moving on. Maybe it did have something to do with him constantly standing up to people, letting his own freak flag fly, but maybe it also had something to do with all freak occurrences that happened in Hawkins specifically the fire at Starcourt mall. Maybe they realized that life was too short. Eddie moved through the school, greeting his people through the halls with a wave and very melodramatic, Renaissance style greetings. He still felt like he was dreaming, especially knowing that Chrissy and Steve were planning to woo him.

"Pssst, Wheeler," Eddie hissed, peeking through the door of the nearly empty newspaper room.

"Eddie?" Nancy asked. "You're allowed to enter."

"Oh good, I wasn't sure," Eddie said and moved to sprawl across her desk.

"But you're not allowed to do that," Nancy said.

"So, what is Steve’s deal?" Eddie asked, raising his eyebrow. "Or do you know?"

"Are you asking about what he likes?" Nancy asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I mean. . .kinda, sorta," he said.

"Yeah, I know he's bisexual. He told me when we were dating," Nancy said.

"What should I expect with him trying to woo me?" Eddie asked.

"Oh, he was always really good at finding what you like, letting you tell him what you need even when you can't say it," Nancy said. "And he likes taking care of people even if he complains about it a lot. And he loves holding hands. You never really know what to expect because he's full of surprises."

"Has he ever been wooed?" Eddie asked.

Nancy frowned at him as she thought about it.

"You know, I don't think he has," Nancy said.

"Knowing Carver, I don't think Chrissy has either," Eddie frowned. "Not really."

"Steve and Chrissy?" Nancy asked.

"Yeah," Eddie said, flashing his dimples. "They both want me. I'm sorry to say, Wheeler, that my dance card is all full up."

"Just because I find you attractive doesn't mean that I want to actually do anything about it," Nancy replied.

"You and Jeff. . .honestly," Eddie grinned. "Anyway, I have got planning to do! See ya."

Eddie made his way stealthily through the library before finding the stacks of yearbooks. He pulled one from 85 and opened. He flipped between one page and then to another. Back and forth. Back and forth.

"Which one?" Eddie hissed as he looked at Steve and Chrissy's yearbook photos. "I don't have enough information to decide."

"What are you doing, Eddie?" Dustin asked as he suddenly popped his head through the shelf right next to Eddie's head.

Eddie shrieked and clutched his chest. He turned and glared at his protege.

"You butthead, Henderson," Eddie gasped.

"Seriously, what are you doing?" Dustin asked.

"Hold on, let me stop my heart from, oh, I don't know, JUMPING OUT OF MY FUCKING CHEST!" Eddie yelled.

"Quiet!" The librarian yelled.

"Don't be so dramatic," Dustin said, rolling as his eyes as he plopped down next to him on the floor. "It's not like I'm a duck."

"A duck?! Where?!" Eddie asked, whipping his head around fearfully.

"Eddie, why would a duck be in a library?!" He asked in exasperation.

"Because ducks are evil, and I'm pretty sure they're plotting to take over the world," Eddie said. "And a library is a good place to start."

"What are you doing?" Dustin asked again.

"Trying to make a decision," Eddie sighed.

"Between Steve and Chrissy Cunningham?" Dustin asked.

"Yeah," Eddie sighed.

"Why do you have to choose one?" Dustin asked.

"Well, because otherwise I'd be leading them on," Eddie rolled his eyes.

"Why not date both of them if they're okay with it?" He asked.

"Listen, just because I happen to like both men and women does not mean I have to date both," he replied.

"No, but you want to, and isn't that the important thing here. . .that everyone involved wants to?" Dustin asked.

"You might have a point," Eddie said thoughtfully.

"I do have a point," Dustin said. "You have overturned this school in like a day, turned it into like a safe haven, so I think you can definitely date two people if you wanted to."

"Never change, Henderson!" Eddie yelled as he jumped up.

"I wasn't planning on it!" Dustin yelled. "Are you planning on going to lunch?! Lucas is actually going to sit with us for once!"

"I'll be there!"

"Quiet! This is a library for Pete's sake!"

Eddie skidded to a halt outside the window to the classroom that Robin Buckley was sitting in. At some point today, Eddie was planning on going to class, but right now, he was too busy. He cracked open the window, and to his amusement, Robin was right by it and fast asleep with her cheek pressed against her arm. Eddie pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and threw it at Robin. She sat up, wiping her face, and she scowled at Eddie.

"What the hell are you doing, Munson?" Robin asked.

"What kind of flowers does Steve like?" Eddie asked.

"Why do you want to know?" Robin asked.

"I want to see if he wants to open a flower shop together," Eddie said.

"Really?" Robin asked.

"No! I want to woo the fuck out of him!" Eddie hissed.

"Well, it's not totally far-fetched. Steve would actually like that, though. Ooh, a jock and a metalhead opening a flower shop together then falling in love? Oh, the story just writes itself," Robin said.

"Robin, focus - ooh, we could call the shop - no, no, focus!" Eddie exclaimed, shaking his head.

"Maybe not a flower shop because Steve doesn't really get the idea of giving people decapitated dead things as gifts. Ooh, baking - you could bake him something! You could open a bakery with him!" Robin said.

"Okay, are you or are you not his best friend in the entire world? I mean, that's the word on the street," Eddie hissed. "Help me out here! I can't bake for the life of me!"

"I really don't need to. You've basically been wooing him without even knowing about it," Robin said. "Despite his complaining, he loves those kids, especially Dustin and the fact that you were with them, giving them a safe place to belong. . .it meant a lot to him."

"Got it. He basically wants a baby daddy. . .a partner," Eddie said. "Someone who cares about those kids as much as he does while also being able to knock their egos down a notch. I swear the tone on Dustin. . ."

"Yeah, basically, and he doesn't say it but I know he wishes he just has someone to take care of him, you know?" Robin said. "Unlike his shitty parents."

"You know, I always thought people like him had it easy," Eddie said. "But seeing all of this, even knowing what they've called me, they struggle just as much as we do."

"You know, Steve, when he called you freak, out of sheer ignorance, he thought it was a nickname like when people called him the Hair," Robin said.

"He doesn't know that people were calling him that to be mean?" Eddie asked.

"No," Robin said.

"Miss Buckley! Mr. Munson! Is my lesson getting in the way of your conversation?!" The teacher yelled.

"Oh, absolutely not, Mrs. D! How's the arthritis?" Eddie asked cheerfully.

"Get to class!"

"Right!"

Okay, he was for sure going to class after lunch, but this time, he really needed to talk to Chrissy's cousin, Vickie. It was the last period before lunch, so he really needed to talk to her. The girl in her math class had said she was in the bathroom. Eddie skidded down the hallway and came to a stop.

"Nope, can't go in there, I am a gentleman-ish. Well, I do have boundaries," Eddie said and leaned against the lockers to wait.

There was no one else in the hallway, and from what it sounded like to Eddie, there wasn't anyone else in the bathroom except for Vickie. He could hear her talking to herself, and it was very likely that she was talking to her reflection.

"Oh. I should tell her. I should definitely tell her. Oh, but I can't. . .what if she doesn't like me at all or women?! What if she's not okay with it. I mean, there does still seem to be people who don't agree with all of this, and what if this is just a freak accident? Like, maybe someone put something in the water or there's a gas leak? Maybe we're all having the same hallucination. . .no, that's crazy. Just as crazy as me telling Robin I like her. I mean, I tell her that I like her, and everyone snaps out of it before going back to normal. Maybe it would be safer going back to Dan. . .no, no, he's a dick! Oh, but he's so good with his hands, terrible with his mouth. Oh, what if she does like me and she dumps me because I'm so bad at sex?! That's crazy, Robin isn't like that, but how would I know? How do you even have sex with women? Where do you - oh, God, sex with Robin - ugh, I should have gone to that gay bar in Indie everyone went to over break - oh, Robin's boobs!"

Eddie couldn't help it. He let out a laugh. Eddie quickly slapped a hand over his mouth. It was too late, though. The door opened, and Vickie poked her head out the door.

"I heard nothing!" Eddie exclaimed.

"So, you heard everything," Vickie laughed.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to eavesdrop," Eddie said. "Someone in your math class told me you were going to the bathroom, and I swear I wasn't going to follow you in there. I was just going to wait out here until I could get your opinion on something."

"Okay, and that would be?" Vickie asked.

"How close are you with your cousin, Chrissy?" Eddie asked.

"Oh, she's my best friend," Vickie asked.

"Great, I need more information," Eddie said. "Not all of it, of course, because I do plan on getting to know her on my own, but I do need some information to surprise her with when I woo her because I also don't want to accidentally offend her."

"Woo her?" Vickie asked.

"I plan on wooing her and Steve Harrington before they can woo me," Eddie said. "I'm going to win their little competition and they don't even know that I'm playing."

"Technically, haven't they already been wooed if they're trying to woo you?" Vickie asked.

"Semantics!" Eddie exclaimed. "Let's retire that word because I have said and heard it too many times today."

"Well, the fact that you're showing any actual interest in her is definitely a step up from Jason and that you're trying to find out what she likes," Vickie said.

"She deserves that," Eddie said.

"Oh, definitely," she said and smiled softly at him. "Well, she doesn't like flowers because she's never really understood getting dead things as gifts, but she loves chocolates. . .specifically, chocolate covered strawberries."

"Man, that's Steve and Chrissy both. What's up with them and flowers?" Eddie asked.

"Maybe it's something to do with ripping flowers from their home and people using them to make their homes pretty, but then once they served their purpose, they're tossed aside?" Vickie asked.

"So, they represent how they themselves are used and then tossed aside?" Eddie asked and frowned. "Damn. That's fucking deep. I'm going to be thinking about that one. Think, Munson, think! Oh, I got it!"

"Mr. Munson!"

"Oh, hey, Mrs. D, I am just seeing you everywhere today. . .may I just say that you are wearing a lovely shade of purple! It suits you!"

"Get. To. Class."

"I. Am. Trying."

Eddie did, actually, attend lunch and the rest of his classes. Being distracted by Chrissy and Steve pulled his attention away from everyone being nice to him all of a sudden. It helped, especially when Chrissy flirted with him with her eyes across the cafeteria. He did the same, leaning his elbow in Dustin's applesauce as he batted his eyelashes and hid behind his hair. A few minutes later, Robin came back into the cafeteria and held up a sign:

Steve agreed to pay me $50 to do this. He also agreed to do the same if I needed it. This is from Steve.

Robin leaned forward and gave Eddie her best comehither look before running her hands through her hair, winking at Eddie and shooting him finger guns. He had laughed in delight and ended up knocking Dustin's applesauce into his lap. Chrissy was scowling at Robin, but she was also trying not to smile.

"This is only going to get worse when you guys actually start dating, isn't it?" Dustin asked with a sigh.

"Oh, yeah."

Finally, after school, Eddie managed to convince the theater arts teacher to let him use the drama room for what he had planned to do. Had it really only been a day? He had realized that as he sat on his throne with a robe thrown over him and the hood over his eyes, waiting for his prey. Finally, the doors opened, and he grinned when he heard their voices.

"You can't just call dibs on a person, Christine!" Steve exclaimed. "Especially when it's because you saw him first!"

"Why the hell not, Steven?" Chrissy asked.

"Because it's childish!" Steve yelled.

"Well, it seems like it's right up Eddie's alley!" Chrissy exclaimed.

To his amusement, they had yet to notice Eddie sitting on his throne.

"Why were we told to come here, anyway? I don't see Eddie at all," Steve said with his hands on his hips.

The lights flickered on above Eddie, revealing himself. A horn behind him started to play.

"Robin?" He asked, squinting at the light and Eddie smiled.

"Tis I, Edward Munson, your one true love!" Eddie burst out in dungeon master voice. "I have decided to bring this competition to an end. I have had many offers and many favors, but it has come down to the two of you - "

"Oh, man, you're not going to make us fight to the death, are you?" Steve asked.

"Ooh! I can totally take Steve," Chrissy said, cheerfully.

She dropped her bag and rolled up her sleeves. She raised her fists and started bouncing around Steve, her ponytail bouncing with her. Eddie bent over laughing. God, she was so fucking cute. Clearly, Steve thought so, too.

"Alright, stop that," Eddie said, dropping his voice for a moment.

"So, you already made a decision? Seems pretty quick. We didn't get to enjoy the chase," Steve said.

"Yeah, I was looking forward to seeing what Steve would bring to the table, but I'm looking forward to your answer," Chrissy said, and then she gasped in realization. "Steve. . ."

"What?"

"Do you think that Eddie might be naked under his robe?" Chrissy asked, giggling.

"Oh, I did not think about that," Steve said and then he grinned. "But now I am."

"That's not what - No, I am not - !" Eddie shrieked.

"Eddie Munson, you better not be naked under your robes!" Robin yelled from the back.

"Robin?" Vickie asked.

"Vickie? Where are you?" Robin asked.

"I'm manning the lights!" Vickie asked cheerfully.

"How did you get involved?" Robin asked.

"Oh, Chrissy's my cousin, and he said he wanted to do something nice for her, so I agreed," Vickie said. "What about you?"

"Oh, Steve’s my platonic soulmate, and Eddie said he wanted to do something nice for him," Robin said.

"Oooh! Do you think that he's choosing both of them?!" Vickie asked.

"We can hear you and you just ruined the big reveal!" Eddie shrieked.

"Yell at her again, and I'll beat you with my instrument, Munson!" Robin yelled.

"Sorry, Vickie!" Eddie rolled his eyes.

"I'm sorry, too!" Vickie exclaimed.

"It wasn't going well, anyway," Eddie sighed and leaped from the throne, standing in front of both of them. "I've completely forgotten where I was going with this."

"I did tell you to write it down," Vickie said gently.

"You did, you did," Eddie said, then focused on them. "I have something for you guys. . .it's in my pants. Hold on!"

"Yeah, I bet you do," Chrissy said and giggled with Steve.

"Okay. . .so maybe I didn't think this all the way through," Eddie said.

"Eddie! You idiot!" Robin yelled.

"You want to get some coffee and leave these guys to it?" Vickie asked.

"Oh, yeah, definitely. . .you need help getting down from there?" Robin asked.

"Please. . .," Vickie said, and then she giggled. "Are you going to let go of me any time soon?"

"Uh, yeah, right!"

". . .unless you don't want to, then I'm okay with that."

Robin and Vickie burst out the curtains, rushing towards the door. Robin's arm was secured around Vickie's waist.

"See ya, Steve, don't pregnant!" Robin exclaimed.

"You see what I'm dealing with! I can't make any promises!"

"Slut!" Robin yelled.

"Whore!" Steve yelled back.

"Oh my god!" Vickie laughed.

"It's okay. Those are the nick names we chose for each of her. We picked them out of a hat," Robin replied. "It's all with affection."

"Anyway," Eddie said as he tried to remember what was going on. "Right! Uh, I had this big speech and story, but now. .the rocks are for you. I painted them your favorite colors. I was told you didn't like to be given dead things, so. . . rocks!"

"My favorite colors. . .pink and blue," Chrissy muttered.

"Pink and yellow. . .you talked to Robin and Vickie, didn't you?" Steve asked.

"Yeah," Eddie said. "I don't know if that's weird or stalkerish. . .I've never been a boyfriend before, let alone to two people."

Chrissy surged forward and kissed him. Eddie responded eagerly, wrapping his hands around her. He really couldn't stop it. . .he was a big bad metalhead. He wasn't supposed to make sounds like this. Eddie giggled delightfully against her lips. Chrissy pulled back, beaming, wiping away her lipstick with her thumb. She stepped back and let Steve take her place. He cupped Eddie's face and pulled him in for a kiss. Eddie's knees were already shaking from Chrissy's kiss, but when Steve kissed him, they couldn't hold him up anymore. Eddie's legs gave away, and Steve wrapped his arms around his waist to support him. Steve broke the kiss, still holding Eddie.

"Are you okay?" Steve asked.

"Where am I?" Eddie asked, and then he shook his head. "Am I dead? I mean, I'm fine!"

"You swooned, Eddie," Chrissy giggled.

"I did not!" Eddie shrieked.

"You totally swooned," Steve said.

Chrissy let out another giggle and kissed Steve.

"Definitely swoonworthy," Chrissy said.

"His knees were already shaking, babe," Steve said.

"You know, I don't know what's harder to believe that I have a type or that my type actually likes me," Eddie said with a sigh.

"I don't know why it's so surprising. . .considering that I once tried to join Hellfire myself once upon a time," Steve said, tucking a hair behind Eddie's ear.

"You did?" Chrissy asked.

"Oh. . .wait, you were serious about that? I thought you were fucking with me when you asked to join," Eddie said.

"I was just a young freshman who thought the guy in charge of the club was really cute," Steve said.

"Oh fuck, I was a total asshole to you," Eddie groaned.

"I totally get why you thought that, though. People like me, like us, didn't really help matters. Hey, you changed that. It took a lot of work, but you turned things around here," Steve said.

"You could ask to join again, I might have a different answer for you this time," he said, blushing.

"Nah, I only play with Dustin, Erica, and Robin. . .it's sort of a Scoops Troops thing. It's hard to explain," Steve said.

"Right, Starcourt," Eddie said, nodding.

"I think it's okay, you know, to have different interests, I think it's only truly important how you deal with them. Going a long way to respect the differences, I think, it shows that you kind of just want to be seen as a person," Steve said. "If makes any sense."

"That makes perfect sense, big boy," Eddie said, showing his dimples. "And you two are really okay with this?"

"More than okay," Chrissy said as she wrapped her arms around the both of them.

TWO WEEKS LATER. . .

Eddie grinned as he climbed up on the table, and he looked down at everyone. He was right, everyone who had different interests. . .they just want to be seen as people. He could see them now, now that they were no longer pretending to hate them. . .they were just trying to get by just like he was.

"Announcement, ladies, gentlemen, and. . .still undecided! I would like to formally declare that I, Eddie Munson, am officially off the market!" He yelled.

There were several cheers and groans of disappointment all throughout the cafeteria. There were also plenty of people who just did not care.

"But I realized that I was gay because of you!" Connor exclaimed.

"Connor, if you would look to your left, you'll realize that there is someone better and clearly more interested than I am," Eddie grinned.

"Patrick, is that true?" Connor asked.

"It's always been you, man," Patrick said.

"I just - I never wanted to assume - ,"

Patrick pulled Connor into a kiss. Connor didn't hesitate and returned the kiss.

"AWWW!"

"This is disgusting!" Jason yelled, standing up. "You're all going to - "

Suddenly, a basketball flew past and hit Jason in the face.

"Oh, man, I really have to work on my aim," a player said.

Eddie laughed and slid back into his chair next to Chrissy.

"Eddie, man, where's your - oh, nevermind," Jeff grinned.

Steve made his way over to the table, a visitor's pass sticker on his chest. In his hand was Eddie's vest.

"Hey, Steve!" Dustin exclaimed. "I didn't leave my lunch in your car again, it's right here!"

"No, I'm here for Eddie. He left his vest in my car," Steve said. "He called and said it was urgent."

Eddie grinned and made grabby hands for the vest. Steve handed it over to him when a third chair appeared between Chrissy and Eddie. He yanked Steve down into it.

"It wasn't as quite as urgent as I made it sound," Eddie grinned.

"You tricked me," Steve said.

"So, I wanted to have lunch with my boyfriend and girlfriend," Eddie said. "Sue me."

Steve smiled and kissed Eddie on the cheek. He turned to Chrissy and gave her a kiss on the lips.

"Hi," Chrissy giggled.

"Hey! How come she gets a kiss on the lips?" Eddie scowled.

"Because she didn't trick me to get me here," Steve said.

"Worth it," Eddie grinned and slid down so he could tuck his head into the crook of Steve’s neck as Chrissy slid her legs over Steve’s.

It was crazy how things changed. One minute, he was just as scared of jocks as they were of him, but it turns out. . .not so mean and scary as Eddie thought.

[devouredlamb]

matteo rested against kieran, her tears ran dry, sore and chafing against her cheeks, she couldn't find words right now although she appreciated her sister's comfort. she knew they needed to go to hospital, her neck and her hip stung, she could feel the rough material of the blanket clinging to her stomach where ezekiel had carved his initials into her skin but it didn't matter. dakota had a point. " me too, " she breathed shakily, " I won't believe it until I see it. "

gabriel looked at dakota, he wanted to object, he was going to object, but maybe that was what they needed to move on. the man straightened up and then looked at kieran, frowning deeply and shrugging, " okay, we'll stay until it's done, but then straight to the emergency room. "

ezekiel groaned, falling forward as colby shot him. isaiah's jaw clenched, brows knitting together as he looked back at the two. it didn't take long to decipher here, but maybe he should have picked up on it sooner. " oh, " he breathed, " I see. you think because my friend here was on top of your girl that he had a little something for matteo? " he snorted. josh's hand tightened and he shot again this time, hitting isaiah's other arm and finding some satisfaction in the hiss that left the man, although his enjoyment was short lived as isaiah was soon laughing again. " matteo was all mine, " he grinned, " well-- not all mine, she's been passed around more times than... " he didn't get to finish that thought, josh pushed his gun into pocket and closed their distance, swinging his fist into isaiah's face.

ezekiel laughed this time, finally understanding what isaiah was trying to do. if they pissed them off quick enough, at least their death would be fairly quick. he shrugged, " I preferred dakota, always did. he was just as easy but a hell of a lot more fight in him. he tried to fight me off so many damn times, got quite the mouth on him, in every fucking way. people paid extra for that, you know? " josh pulled out his gun again, shoving it into ezekiel's mouth, his focus entirely there now, isaiah could be handled by colby if need be but this guy was all josh's, " you think this is gonna work? "

kieran wrapped her arms around matteo , running a hand up and down her back . she didn't need to say anything . she already knew . " i got you , " she whispered . " you're safe now , okay ? " there was no way josh and colby were going to let those men live .

dakota rubbed his lips together . he understood what gabriel was saying and he understood they should probably leave . go to a hospital . " i need to see it , " he whispered , lifting his gaze to look back at gabriel . " i need to know they're dead . " just knowing wasn't good enough .

it seemed as if isaiah really liked to talk . colby's jaw clenched as he kept going , hand tightening on the gun but his aim didn't rest on him but the other guy he tied up . he fired off another shot , landing in ezekiel's knee before looking back at isaiah . " let me guess . partners ? you want to watch me use him as target practice or do you want to shut the fuck up ? "

[misc-obeyme]

Re: the earlygame beef between Mammon and MC. I always find it so funny whenever I see the (abundantly common, entirely typical) "Mammon has been there for us since day one! Our first man! Mammon is the only brother who never threatened to kill us or try to hurt us!" posts. Because it's just...so incredibly obvious how wrong they are? I have to assume that the people making those posts either literally never played the actual game at all, or they played with their eyes closed. Or perhaps they don't know how to read.

Because the game was literally shoving the fact that Mammon hates your guts and wishes you were dead in your face for like 2 or 3 Lessons straight. On day one when he first meets you? He can't stand your ass. He wants you gone. All the way up until you make a pact with him, and even for a little while AFTER making a pact, Mammon actively despises you and tells you so himself. And then multiple other characters (including Diavolo, Barbatos, and Lucifer) ALSO come along and give you extremely obvious exposition like "wow, it's Mammon's job to watch over you and protect you in this hostile new environment? And he abandoned you the first chance he got, leaving you to the wolves? Haha, classic Mammon. Of course he abandoned you to get eaten by other demons, what a goofy guy"

And YOU LITERALLY ARE ALMOST EATEN BY DEMONS. BECAUSE MAMMON DIDN'T GAF ABOUT DOING HIS JOB AND DITCHED YOUR ASS. The manga goes into more detail about it too, showing that you literally came to harm because Mammon abandoned you when he was supposed to keep you safe. And later on when you call Mammon out, he threatens to kill you and eat you. To your face. He literally does that.

Idk, it's just crazy to me how badly people can mischaracterize these things. I know that Mammon is the fandom baby or w/e but Mammon fans in particular love to rewrite history and infantilize him as this sweet innocent woobie who never did anything wrong. "Mammon is the only brother who never wanted to kill us!" you're literally lying, lol. He threatens to kill you and eat you to your face. "Mammon loved us from the very beginning!" No he didn't, he repeatedly told you that he hated you lmao.

This happens with other characters too, yeah. People include Beel as part of the "never tried to hurt us" group even though he absolutely DID try to hurt us when Mammon physically force-fed us his custard (another thing Mammon did to deliberately harm us) Also Satan gets thrown in the "one of the bad ones who tried to hurt us" camp, despite never actually doing anything to us. He gets angry and goes on an edgy little rant, but if you actually know how to read you'll notice that he doesn't ever actually DO anything to harm us or try to kill us. He never makes any kind of move to actually harm us, but everyone assumes he does? Wild. But Mammon gets this the worst for some reason.

I could go into a whole entire separate spiel about how the Mammon infantilization also applies to the "everyone bullies him for no reason even though he's literally an innocent pure baby who never did anything wrong ever" but I'm just gonna double the length of this already long rant. What's crazy is I don't even dislike Mammon, he's cool. But oh my god some Mammon fans can be absolutely fucking insufferable 😭

Woobie 😭 I'm sorry, I know there's like paragraphs happening here but that word sent me lol.

I'm gonna level with you here, anon. This kinda thing just does not bother me in the slightest. I mean it doesn't matter to me if people mischaracterize or rewrite the story to fit their preferences. If it makes them happy, then they can go ahead and live their truth.

I think I probably land somewhere in between on the Mammon characterization scale, mostly because I like when he's a lil pathetic~

Anyway, if you want me to get into the nitty gritty of how I characterize Mammon, I can certainly do that. But I kinda get the vibe that you just needed to rant a bit. And that's okay, my ask box is always open for ranting or rambling or anything else!

[respectthepetty]

Your post about being happy that there are so many queer media to watch nowadays, even the bad ones is just spot on. I live in a homophobic country and I'm still in the closet at 25. so imagine growing up, discovering yourself, being so afraid and then have all the queer content you find end with the characters dying, being laughed at, or reduced to harmful stereotypes. because what did that mean for silly young closeted me?

But now?

Now I'm thriving, i get to experience queer love, queer joy, even queer dumbassery lmao. These reminders, despite still feeling stuck, constantly show me how other queer people are moving forward and living their lives—and it's beautiful, even the trashy ones (which always are the most fun to watch)

So thank you for your post. It’s a reminder that our stories matter, no matter how imperfect!

Anon, although I live in the United States, I have always lived in a super conservative county where the town clerk refuses to issue marriage licenses to queer couples (and sometimes people of color depending on the day). We have billboards coming into town telling everyone they are going to hell and compared to all my friends in bigger cities who had to wait for the COVID vaccine, I got mine in 2020 when they were mostly only available to medical staff because the medical staff at our hospital refused to get it because Trump told them not to or some shit, so the local pharmacy begged anyone to get the shot before they expired. For a long time, my town refused to let cable or internet companies come in because then we would be exposed to sinful media.

But I ain't moving!

So although I haven't lived your experience, I feel ya.

Which is why I love all the discourse about QLs. If someone loves a show, I want to see why. If someone hates a show, I want to hear all about it. Because for so long, I had NOTHING! I was looking at the bible in Catholic school like . . . "Judas, you could've just told Jesus you wanted him instead of doing all this" *sign of the cross* and we all know how that ended for both of them.

Now, I'm trying to figure out where to find the time to watch all that is being offered to me! I can be picky now! I can dislike a show without feeling like ALL queer content will be taken away from me. I can get characters giving hand jobs, rim jobs, and blow jobs without having to pay-for-view at 1 am praying that the volume stays low.

I have watched some of the worst imaginable queer content, and I have watched queer porn with a plot which has smacked, and not just literally *wink*. I have watched so many queers be buried in ways that people cannot even begin to fathom. I have seen more than my fair share of queer media, and I can say without a doubt that these BLs are giving us some of the best variety of queers I have ever seen, and regardless if they are true to the queer experience (Dinosaur Love, I'm looking at your wild ass), two men holding hands is really fucking queer to these homophobes regardless of the plot. Two men cuddling in bed is super queer to these homophobes regardless of how aligned it is with the queer experience. Two women kissing is giving a homophobe a heart attack right now!

Century of Love had homophobic crew members. Those people got a paycheck for filming a BL while tweeting homophobic comments. Homophobia doesn't magically go away because we have queer content, which is a truth you and I know, but it gives me tiny pleasure knowing that 1) the show is airing on a popular-ish Thai channel in a prime-time slot, and 2) homophobes had to film two men kissing, multiple times. If we can't beat (the fuck out of) them, at least we made them feel super uncomfortable for even a teeny tiny bit.

And that's the other half of this - Not only do we get to consume all of this, but others are being exposed to it. These shows are airing in their countries ON TV. These actors are being shown in ads on TV and doing spreads for magazines. So while my town has billboards telling us to seek Jesus or perish in the fires of hell, Apo and Mile are eating Lay's on a billboard somewhere in Thailand.

Because this isn't just about the queers watching but about the homophobes and even the in-betweens witnessing it.

Give me all the trashy series (Dinosaur Love, still looking at you)! Give me the series that have absolutely no plot except two boys holding hands. GIVE ME EVERYTHING! Because no matter what I get, I guarantee it is pissing off some grandpappy somewhere, and that's really the queer experience; pissing people off for not only existing, but having the audacity to thrive despite it all.

So thrive, QL Land, THRIVE!

[moeblob]

I'm on an OC kick and also super indecisive so I spun a wheel (thank you for choosing for me, RNG).

Ricardo is a body guard and is bffs with Marlo. Ricardo's current job is watching after a celebrity's daughter who the public doesn't know even exists. She's just a teenage girl vibing with her mom and getting texts and calls from her dad (who loves her a whole lot and keeps her out of the spotlight very purposefully) and has this bodyguard and his weird friend. Marlo is just vibing with his best friend.

(Also Marlo would absolutely laugh if he heard Ricardo say "someone called me eye candy and it wasn't you and now I think you should call me that")