#cassandra crawford
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curiousb · 9 months ago
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The Bingley Family Album: Volume XV
We're catching up with another member of the Bingley clan today - Benjamin, over in Sanditon, and his fiancé Walter.
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Top of the list after getting his own place, was to adopt a dog from the animal shelter. Enter Moody! He reminds Benjamin a lot of his childhood pal Bella.
~ Libra
~ Doofus / Lazy / Friendly / Pigpen
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He proves to be great company while Benjamin is alone at home during the day.
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And the pair soon form a close bond. (He also sports some rather splendid facial hair, just like his master.)
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He quickly becomes a favourite with Dog Person Walter too. His family never had any pets while he was growing up, but he's thoroughly enjoying having Moody around now.
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Benjamin was also keen to set up his own dedicated art studio at home, to pursue his dream of perfecting a masterpiece.
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He finds inspiration everywhere he looks.
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Well, I guess his ambition to make his mark on the art world has to start somewhere!
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Robert doesn't know about art, but he knows what he likes, and that includes his ex's oeuvre.
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Walter meanwhile is still risking life and limb on a daily basis as an Adventurer. He's certainly well equipped for tackling the considerable risk posed by taking a shower.
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Also on the agenda is hosting a house-warming party. Unfortunately, it turns into an occasion for Benjamin's past conquests to come back to haunt him - including his flings with Townie Chandler Platz (undocumented), Julia,...
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...Robert and Anna.
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While Walter was happy to be just one of many before their engagement, he now expects a little more commitment from Benjamin.
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Now that they've reached a firm understanding as to the footing of their relationship, everything is soon smoothed over between them.
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And - much to the surprise of both - it's hello, impending parenthood! But will Walter stay the course this time, or will he cut and run, just as he did in the past with Cassandra? (I've given up trying to rationalise same-sex pregnancy in my game - Sims aren't humans, they don't have the same biology as us, so it just happens, because I want it to! 😁)
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the-antiapocalyptic-man · 1 year ago
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a couple Cass and Dinah sketches I finally colored, with a bonus Starling (Evelyn Crawford) who I don't think I've draw before
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brokehorrorfan · 2 years ago
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If you’re hung up on Elvira, say hell-o to Fright-Rags’ new design by Kyle Crawford. Available on T-shirts ($30) and zip-up goodies ($52), it features a secret number (hence the blurring on the image above).
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tinyreviews · 5 months ago
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Tiny Review: Reunion 2024. Pretty good whodunit B-movie.
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Another example of how a good ending can change minds. It felt pretty lackluster until the reveal. Then the whole story isn’t that bad afterall. A pretty good whodunit. Execution could have been better.
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Reunion is a 2024 American comedy film directed by Chris Nelson and starring Lil Rel Howery, with Billy Magnussen, Jillian Bell, Cassandra Blair, Nina Dobrev, Chace Crawford, Jamie Chung and Michael Hitchcock.
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authorafterhours · 2 months ago
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The parallels between Will and Cassandra are astounding and heartbreaking. They are cursed to always tell the truth but never believed. 💔
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I’m usually right about Hannibal these things.
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lachicapulpo · 6 months ago
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killeromanoff · 2 days ago
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I KNOW YOUR GHOST | prologue
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summary: Declan O'Hara is intrigued by Cassandra "Cassie" Jones, Freddie’s niece, who’s trying to carve her own place in the Rutshire media world. After her bold broadcast challenges the status quo, Declan finds himself unexpectedly drawn to her unapologetic spirit and the fight she's ready to wage. Will their paths collide in ways they hadn't anticipated?
pairing: Declan O’Hara x Cassandra 'Cassie' Jones (Female OC)
warnings: Mild language, Some political and media industry-related themes, Power dynamics, Age-Gap (Cassie is 25 yo)
w.c: 9.8k
notes: would you want me to continue the series
[here], [1]
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 almost a year. But Cassie had never been one to engage directly with Venturer.
She had always preferred to keep her distance from the spotlight, staying on the outside where things were quieter, less exposed—at least publicly.
A little thing in the shell, as 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.”
Declan, leaning against the counter, let his arms fold loosely across his chest. His posture was relaxed, but there was a sharpness in his gaze, a flicker of something darker beneath the surface.
“She’s forced their hand,” Declan said, his tone calm but deliberate, “He’ll want to make an example of her—show everyone what happens when you push too hard.”
Rupert hummed thoughtfully, folding his paper with deliberate care and resting his hands on it, as if weighing something unseen. There was an unspoken suspicion behind his narrowed gaze as he studied Declan—a sharpness that cut into the quiet space between them.
Rupert’s gaze flicked to Declan, a subtle spark of curiosity glinting in his eyes.
“And yet,” Rupert began, his words slow and deliberate, “you don’t sound like someone who thinks she’s in over her head.”
Declan’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
“She’s not,” he said simply.
Declan’s gaze set over the radio, his expression unreadable but far from indifferent. The static-filled silence that followed Cassie’s broadcast had settled over the room, heavy and charged, like the air before a storm. He rolled his shoulders slightly, as if shaking off the weight of it, but his thoughts stayed fixed on her words.
It wasn’t just what she’d said—though that had been sharp enough to leave a mark—it was how she’d said it. There was precision in her delivery, the kind of unyielding conviction that struck a nerve. Declan knew that tone. It was the sound of someone who’d spent too long being told to sit down and shut up, finally deciding they’d had enough.
He sipped his now-lukewarm coffee, his eyes narrowing slightly as Taggie’s voice broke into his thoughts.
“You sound like you admire her,” she teased, her smile faint but knowing as she turned back to her bowl.
Declan gave her a sidelong glance, his smirk half-formed.
“I don’t know her,” he replied, his tone light but carefully neutral, “Hard to admire someone you’ve never met.”
Taggie’s laugh was soft, her focus returning to her batter, “Doesn’t mean you can’t be impressed.”
Rupert chuckled quietly, folding his newspaper and leaning back in his chair with an air of satisfaction.
“Oh, he’s impressed, all right,” he said smoothly, casting Declan a sly look, “Rarely seen the Wolfhound so quiet after hearing someone on the air.”
Declan shot him a look, more amused than irritated.
“She’s reckless,” he said, his voice steady, as if stating an undeniable fact, “That kind of move doesn’t just burn bridges; it torches the whole damn village.”
“And you respect that,” Rupert countered, leaning forward slightly, his sharp eyes glinting.
Declan didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he set his coffee down with a deliberate slowness, the soft clink of the mug against the counter punctuating the silence. His thoughts churned, though he wouldn’t have admitted it outright. There was a spark to her, something raw and untamed that he hadn’t expected.
He’d seen plenty of people with ambition—had worked alongside them, had watched them rise and fall, often under the weight of their own egos. But Cassie’s drive didn’t seem rooted in vanity or ambition for its own sake. It was sharper than that. Purposed.
She reminded him of someone—maybe himself, years ago, when he still believed in tearing down the walls instead of navigating them.
“Reckless doesn’t mean wrong,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful.
Rupert tilted his head, watching him with an expression that bordered on amusement.
“Interesting,” Rupert murmured.
Declan ignored him, his thoughts still circling. Cassie Jones. Freddie’s niece, apparently. That explained part of it—Freddie was nothing if not sharp-tongued and stubborn. But there was more to her, something he couldn’t quite piece together yet. She wasn’t just loud or brash; she was precise, deliberate, and unafraid to be messy if it meant getting to the truth.
He could still hear her voice, cutting through the static with an unshakable conviction. It wasn’t easy to pull that off—to sound angry and controlled at the same time. It took skill.
Talent, he corrected himself silently.
“Think she’ll stay in Rutshire after this?” Taggie asked, her tone light, though her curiosity was evident.
Declan tilted his head slightly, considering.
“If she’s smart, she won’t,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact, “Crawford will make sure she’s blacklisted. She’ll have to find somewhere else to land.”
And yet, as he said it, he found himself hoping she wouldn’t. There was something compelling about her fight, her refusal to accept the constraints of her situation. He didn’t know what she’d do next, but he had the sense it would be something worth watching.
Declan’s smirk returned, faint but unmistakable. She’s not going to fade quietly, that’s for sure.
The air in the kitchen had grown heavier, the faint crackle of static from the radio fading into the background as Cassie’s voice disappeared. Declan stood by the counter, his coffee forgotten as his gaze lingered on the now-silent speakers. The energy of the room shifted, a quiet tension filling the space like the lull before a storm.
Rupert stretched his legs under the table, his smirk widening as he tilted his head to watch Declan.
“You’re planning something,” Rupert said, his tone light but knowing, “You always get that look when you’ve found a new target.”
Declan’s lips quirked into a faint smile, though he didn’t take the bait.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he replied smoothly, lifting his coffee mug again, though he didn’t drink, “I’m just thinking.”
“About a voice you just heard on the radio,” Rupert added, teasing. Taggie glanced at him from her bowl, her hands resuming the rhythm of her whisk.
Declan shot a sideways glance at both of them  but didn’t respond, letting the words hang in the air.
Taggie tilted her head slightly, her whisk pausing for just a moment.
“Did you like her?” she asked, her tone gentle but curious, as though she already had her own answer but wanted to hear Declan’s.
Declan shot a sideways glance at both of them, his expression guarded.
“I don’t even know her,” he countered, his voice calm but with a faint edge of irritation, “She’s Freddie’s niece, not a bloody headline.”
His daughter raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching into a small, knowing smile, but she said nothing. Taggie had learned long ago that her father’s defenses ran deep when it came to matters of people getting under his skin.
“Maybe not yet,” Rupert interjected, leaning forward in his chair, his sharp eyes glinting with amusement, “But she’s got the spark for it. We all heard it. She knows how to make herself heard.”
Declan didn’t respond immediately, though Rupert’s words hit him right away. He could feel them, like a distant echo, her voice still hummed in his head.
His gaze shifted briefly to the radio, now silent, as though it might still hold some faint trace of her words. He could see it—hear it again in his mind. Cassie Jones wasn’t just speaking; she was carving something from thin air, her words deliberate and measured, each one leaving an impression, like fingerprints on glass.
It had been a long time since Declan had felt this… Intrigued. Intrigued by a woman’s voice on a radio, of all things. Not just any voice either, but one that demanded attention without raising it too high.
She was clear, unwavering, the kind of person who knew what they were saying and made sure you heard it. The kind of person who didn’t need to scream to be heard.
Just shove a door and hit her feet into the ground.
He exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening slightly. His hands were still, but the irritation now felt more like a defense against something else, something unfamiliar that he wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge.
“Well, she must have locked herself in the station room to make that happen,” Declan said, his tone dry and dismissive.
He didn’t mean it; not exactly. It was just a reflex, the kind of armor he put on when people were asking too many questions that he didn’t know how to answer. But even as the words left his mouth, there was something deeper beneath them—a grudging acknowledgment of the effort, the willpower it must have taken to command that kind of attention.
To make those words land the way she did. Well, if they pressed him, he would admit he admired her indeed for being brave enough to be reckless.
Rupert smirked, leaning back in his chair with the ease of someone who had already sized up the situation.
“And you respect that,” he said, his tone lighter now, though his gaze didn’t waver from Declan’s face.
Declan didn’t look at him immediately. His gaze was fixed on something distant, the fleeting memory of her voice still running through his mind. He could feel the tension in his chest, a strange knot that wasn’t there before.
It wasn’t anger, exactly—it was something else. Something unspoken. Something he was still trying to conceive.
“She’s got something,” Declan muttered, his tone quieter now, almost reflective. The words tasted different in his mouth than they did when he first said them, no longer a dismissal but something closer to recognition. There was a shift in him, something subtle but undeniable.
“And you respect that,” Rupert repeated, his smirk softening into something more genuine. There was no mocking tone now, just the faintest trace of admiration—something Declan could sense without needing it spelled out for him.
Declan finally met Rupert’s gaze, his expression unreadable, but the flicker of something new in his eyes betrayed him. He didn’t answer right away, but the silence between them spoke volumes.
Cassie Jones wasn’t just another voice on the radio. That was a fact.
And for the first time in a long while, Declan wasn’t sure what to do with that.
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deathsbestgirl · 1 year ago
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new txf fandom question: what character do you wish we got to see more of / learn more about?
mine: cassandra spender, gibson praise & max fenig!! and the eves & kurt crawfords...
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bethanydelleman · 6 days ago
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Hello, I just read The Watsons. I didn’t had any expectations but it was so fascinating and felt so sad when it ended, even knowing already that it was incomplete. Those few pages really left a big impression on me. Have you find any completions worth reading and with a resemblance of Jane Austen’s style?
I love your blog btw. I’m always interested in what you have to say in all your posts about Jane Austen and the first thing I did when I finished The Watsons was to look up your take on it.
I've only read The Younger Sister by Catherine Hubback which really went off the rails so I wouldn't suggest it. I only finished because I was reading it with a group.
The Watsons is interesting because I feel like Austen never finished it because she used pieces for other stories instead. Tom Musgrave is a lot like either Willoughby or Henry Crawford, Lord Osborne almost seems like a proto-Darcy (more awkward and less proud, younger too), and Mr. Howard kind of reminds me of Mr. Knightley. Emma is like a mix of Fanny Price & Jane Fairfax. The brother reminds me of John Dashwood. But I don't read it too much because it also makes me sad that it wasn't finished.
Edward Austen-Leigh's Memoir provides a hint of how it was to continue:
When the author's sister, Cassandra, showed the manuscript of this work to some of her nieces, she also told them something of the intended story; for with this dear sister – though, I believe, with no one else – Jane seems to have talked freely of any work that she might have in hand. Mr Watson was soon to die; and Emma to become dependent for a home on her narrow-minded sister-in-law and brother. She was to decline an offer of marriage from Lord Osborne, and much of the interest of the tale was to arise from [the dowager] Lady Osborne's love for Mr Howard, and his counter affection for Emma, whom he was finally to marry.
One other thought: in her orphaned state, it seems a bit unrealistic that Emma wouldn't marry Lord Osborne, so maybe Austen figured she'd set the heroine too low and the foil too high. This is the only love-interest-possible in Austen who is part of the nobility.
And thank you!!! Also, if anyone has read other The Watson's completions, I'd be happy to hear about them.
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qbdatabase · 1 year ago
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Hi, could you please recommend me bisexual memoirs? I have already read Boyslut btw. Thank you!
Memoirs by Bisexual Female Authors
A Cup of Water Under My Bed: A Memoir by Hernández, Daisy
Bad Feminist by Gay, Roxane
Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body by Gay, Roxane
Death Threat by Shraya, Vivek
Tomboyland: Essays by Faliveno, Melissa
Unbecoming: A Memoir of Disobedience by Bhagwati, Anuradha
A History of Scars: A Memoir by Lee, Laura
Marbles: Mania, Depression, Michelangelo, and Me by Forney, Ellen
A Song for You: My Life with Whitney Houston by Crawford, Robyn
Yours Cruelly, Elvira: Memoirs of the Mistress of the Dark by Peterson, Cassandra
Believe: Boxing, Olympics and My Life Outside the Ring by Adams, Nicola
Good Talk: A Memoir in Conversations by Jacob, Mira
Girlhood: Essays by Febos, Melissa
Wow, No Thank You. by Irby, Samantha (she has several other books I haven't yet had time to add to the database, but they are on the list to be added!)
Manifesto: On Never Giving Up by Evaristo, Bernardine
Memoirs by Bisexual Male Authors
Sorted: Growing Up, Coming Out, and Finding My Place by Bird, Jackson
Baggage: Tales from a Fully Packed Life by Cumming, Alan
Trans Mission: My Quest to a Beard by Bertie, Alex (he's pansexual, not bi, but there's so few mga male memoirs here that I wanted to include it, esp bc I have personally read and do rec this one!)
Bisexual Men Exist: A Handbook for Bisexual, Pansexual and M-spec Men by Mehta, Vaneet (not a memoir, but he does discuss a lot of his personal life and experiences)
Memoirs by Bisexual Nonbinary Authors
Fairest: A Memoir by Talusan, Meredith
(if anyone knows of others, please let me know!!)
full notes on representation and publishing info at qbdatabase.com
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squidprinceofwinterfell · 5 months ago
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The Deep made me so sad this episode :(
The way he finally completely self destructs, and chooses hatred and violence instead of doing ANY kind of self-reflection. (It's all very on-brand for his character - I'm not going to claim bad writing or OOC behavior.) Still, this character choice hurt like hell to watch because of how real it felt. To watch him cling onto Sage's comment about him being a superior being (because it's one of the few pieces of positive reinforcements he has) and use it as proof that she cares about him because it's a much better story to tell himself than that he's being manipulated (just like the dumb guy he is, right? like everybody else thinks). Then he lashes out at Ambrosius, possibly the only being in the world that does care for him and he lets her die because she doesn't fit into this worldview he's been carefully constructing where he's a victim and all his violent behavior is justified.
The Deep is a dumb guy but I believe the reason he's been so easy to manipulate (by Sage, Cassandra, the Church of the Collective, etc) is because he's also a really lonely guy desperately in search of connection and community. Even smart people can be duped into believing dumb shit or indulging their worst impulses because their social needs aren't being met. That being said, I'm not letting the Deep off the hook here - he's a grown man who NEVER reckoned with his own bad choices or chose to grow on his own, despite having many opportunities to do so.
It reminds me of Firecracker's comment earlier in the season about "purpose" and how people go down dark rabbit holes of conspiracy and anger because they're lonely and afraid and it's easier than admitting their own shortcomings.
I thought his assault of Starlight and subsequent arc was written so well because it showed how guys like him aren't born bad - they're made by a combination of their own insecurities and the toxic environment that encourages and enables that behavior. This season is a continuation of that arc in the worst way possible - it confirms Ashley's comment about how easy it is to be a monster at Vought, where that behavior is not only encouraged but rewarded.
Tbh I was kind of lying when I said I was excited for his villain arc this season - it's true that I was looking forward to seeing them explore a darker version of the Deep but I've always secretly held out hope for a redemption arc or any kind of positive character growth from him. It would've been a nice way to show that no matter how many bad things you do, you can always come back. It would've felt like hope to me. (But we are getting that sort of story line with A-Train so I can't complain too much.)
Kevin has always been sooo much more interesting and meaningful to me than just a comic relief character. And I still find him really fascinating and well-rounded even if this isn't the arc I would've chosen for him. I think the reason I'm so gutted by it is because this villain narrative is so in-line with this character - and because it could've been so easily avoided if Kevin was willing to do any inner personal growth.
Well, at least Chace Crawford finally got to do a fight scene...?
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curiousb · 7 months ago
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The Crawford Family Album: Volume XXIV
So many of my 3rd generation are growing up all at once!
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Recently, Cecilia had a birthday - what a beauty!
~ Scorpio 7 / 3 / 10 / 7 / 3
~ Adventurous / Sailor / Loves the Outdoors / Charismatic
~ OTH: Nature
~ Favourite Colour(s): Blue / Yellow
~ Aspiration: Knowledge / Family
~Turn-ons / -off: +Adventurous / +Outdoorsy / -Black Hair
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And of course, so did her twin brother Jonathan. He's a good-looking lad too!
~ Scorpio 7 / 6 / 8 / 3 / 3
~ Dog Person / Equestrian / Genius / Vehicle Enthusiast
~ OTH: Cuisine
~ Favourite Colour(s): Blue
~ Aspiration: Family / Pleasure
~Turn-ons / -off: +Foodie / +Tidy / -Occult
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Surprisingly perhaps, Ambrose - who never took life very seriously before - has really taken to his role as a step-dad. Helping with homework...
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...sharing confidences...
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...and utilising his culinary skills to cook nutritious meals for the kids and their friends.
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He is very much a part of the family now.
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Even if Cassandra still can't resist a bit of harmless flirting with other men, when the opportunity arises.
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Perhaps inspired by Ambrose's love of cooking, Jonathan is taking his first tentative steps in the kitchen - it might only be a sandwich, but it's a very well-constructed sandwich!
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Youngest child Matthew is finding his feet at a new school, and getting to know classmate Felix.
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As he also turns 13, Felix seems most impressed with his friend's transformation!
~ Sagittarius 3 / 10 / 10 / 8 / 3
~ Dog Person / Anxious / Coward / Schmoozer
~ OTH: Nature
~ Favourite Colour(s): Pink
~ Aspiration: Family / Popularity
~Turn-ons / -off: +Animal Lover / +Outdoorsy / -Reserved
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dailycass-cain · 1 year ago
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Cassandra Cain in Video Game Media
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Tonight, I'm going to cover the various appearances Cassandra Cain has in video game media. Some might surprise you, even startle you, and even might get you interested in said game (that are available).
Now her first appearance in video game media is a rather infamous one, Batman Dark Tomorrow released for the Game Cube and X-Box. The game is rather infamous for being quite awful for its atrocious controls and camera angles.
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Cass (along with Tim Drake Robin) show up after you defeat Stage 3 after beating Scarface & the Ventriloquist. And that's about it. Just a random appearance. 🙃
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A fun little note is the game's story was written by Scott Peterson, who had a slight hand in Cass's Vol. 1 ongoing throughout the Puckett/Scott run.  So it's highly probable he snuck her in for this scene.
The second appearance of Cass in a video game is one usually forgotten but released a few months after the first, Batman: Toxic Chill (2003).  An educational game where you as Batman would solve various puzzles to progress.
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The game's character design is HEAVILY influenced by BTAS. However, with a KEY difference, the Batgirl is Cass (and voiced by Christiane Crawford).
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Later that same year, we'd get the game's sequel, Batman: Justice Unbalanced, and again Cass would be in the game (voiced again by Christiane Crawford).
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Her roles in both games are relatively minor just showing up, and the vocal performance by Crawford is quite good.
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After that three-prone assault in 2003, we'd have to wait until 2011 for the next time Cass as Batgirl would show up in a video game. This time in DC Universe Online.
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Yeah, you read that date right in 2011, several years after she had abandoned the role (and would soon be wiped away with the New 52).
She appears in the game as a vendor for hero characters. Mindy Raymond voices her in the game.
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There's just so great irony in the fact that this game has Cass walking around as Batgirl when DC was shoving Barbara Gordon everywhere else as THE Batgirl at this time.
Not only that, but when Cass was reintroduced as Orphan in 2016, she was still Batgirl here. And the game still exists to this day and she’s still the Batgirl in it!
Scribblenauts Unmasked: A DC Comics Adventure is our next surprising Cass appearance which came out in 2013 (at the HEIGHT of her being labeled "toxic" by DC).
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Cass is one of MANY DC characters in the game. She's not just Batgirl in the game, but also her Black Bat persona is here too!
Fun little Easter Egg, if you type in Kasumi you'll get Cass instead (go figure 😝).
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2013 would see the release of the mobile version of "Injustice Gods Amongst Us" a vastly different version of the fighting game on consoles and pcs.
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However, Cass (a reskinned Babs Batgirl) is among the unlockables in the game.  If I recall right from friends who played the game she's highly difficult to fully unlock.
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As I said in my Alternate Universe reading guide not much is known about this version of Cass. But she was name-dropped in the last comic released (a prequel to the series, Injustice: Year Zero #2),
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2020 would see Cass appear in another mobile game, DC Legends.
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This would technically have her appear in her Orphan identity but it's never explicitly listed. In the game she's listed as "Cassandra Cain: The One Who is All".
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Much like Injustice, she's hard to unlock buuuuut a bit easier to attain than that game. Once fully geared up and evolved into the game's "Rebirth" mode, she can be an absolute beast and bane to many players.
There is one tiny bits of note. In last year's Gotham Knights video game, it was revealed one of Barbara Gordon's rejected concept costumes was heavily inspired by Cassandra's Batgirl look.
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In Batman: Arkham Origins (2013), Cass's pop is amongst the files of rejected assassins Black Mask was pondering to hire to kill Batman.
He's also listed in the game as an acquaintance of Lady Shiva (who does appear in it). Sadly, nothing ever comes of these little bits.
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There you have it. Every single video game appearance of Cass.  SO FAR...
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hevanderson · 6 months ago
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playing fuck/marry/kill with jules but we have to lock in our answers blindly :-3
round one – my decision:
first roll: lauren zizes | fuck
second roll: mike chang | marry
third roll: joe hart | kill
round two - jules decision:
first roll: rick the stick nelson | kill
second roll: blaine anderson | marry
third roll: rachel berry | fuck
round three - my turn:
first roll: tina cohen-chang | marry
second roll: cooper anderson | kill
third roll: elliott gilbert | fuck
round four - jules decision:
first roll: beiste | marry
second roll: rick the stick nelson | kill
third roll: stoner brett | fuck
round five - my decision:
first roll: jake puckerman | marry
second roll: adam crawford | KILL
third roll: carole hudson-hummel | fuck
round six - jules decision:
first roll: sugar motta | fuck
second roll: adam crawford | kill
third roll: finn hudson | marry
round seven - my decision:
first roll: april rhodes | kill
second roll: principal figgins | marry
third roll: ryder lynn | fuck
round eight - jules:
first roll: cassandra july | fuck
second roll: santana lopez | marry
third roll: rick the stick nelson | kill
round nine - me:
first roll: holly holliday | kill
second roll: tina cohen-chang | fuck
third roll: mike chang | marry
round ten - jules:
first roll: ryder lynn | kill
second roll: shelby corcoran | fuck
third roll: marley rose | marry
round eleven - me:
first roll: becky jackson | marry
second roll: kitty wilde | kill
april rhodes | fuck
round twelve - jules:
first roll: jake puckerman | fuck
second roll: artie abrams | kill
third roll: quinn fabray | marry
round thirteen - me:
roll one: kurt hummel | fuck but like specifically s4 kurt
roll two: shelby corcoran | kill
roll three: mercedes jones | marry
round fourteen - jules:
roll one: brody weston | kill
roll two: elliott gilbert | fuck
roll three: finn hudson | marry
round fifteen - me:
roll one: tina cohen-chang | marry
roll two: isabelle wright | kill
roll three: stoner brett | fuck..
round sixteen - jules:
principal figgins | kill
rick the stick nelson | fuck
finn hudson | marry
round seventeen - me:
becky jackson | marry
sebastian smythe | kill
roz washington | fuck
round eighteen - jules:
tina cohen-chang | fuck
sugar motta | marry
quinn fabray | kill
round nineteen - me:
jesse st james | fuck
sam evans | marry
dave karofsky | kill
round twenty - jules:
principal figgins | kill
jacob ben isreal | marry..
joe hart | fuck
round twenty one - me:
brad the piano player | kill
elliott gilbert | marry
sugar motta | fuck
round twenty two - jules:
kurt hummel | marry
isabelle wright | kill
terri schuester | fuck
round twenty three - me:
emma pillsbury | marry
tina cohen-chang | fuck
curt mega warbler | kill
round twenty four - jules:
rod remington | kill
jake puckerman | fuck
elliott gilbert | marry
round twenty five - me:
mercedes jones | marry
shelby corcoran | kill
becky jackson | fuck
round twenty six - jules:
hunter clarington | kill
beiste | marry
marley rose | fuck
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diiisplxced-a · 3 months ago
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TEST MUSES
THE 100
Bellamy Blake (Bob Morley)
Clarke Griffin (Eliza Taylor)
Jasper Jordan (Devon Bostick)
John Murphy (Richard Harmon)
Lexa (Alycia Debnam-Carey)
Monty Green (Christopher Larkin)
Octavia Blake (Marie Avgeropoulos)
Raven Reyes (Lindsey Morgan)
THE COVENANT
Tyler Simms (Chace Crawford)
DC
Arthur Fleck || Joker (Joaquin Phoenix)
Barbara Gordon || Batgirl
Cassandra Cain || Batgirl
Freddy Freeman
Joker (Miyavi)
Pamela Isley || Poison Ivy (Jessica Chastain)
GREEK MYTHOLOGY
Aphrodite (Nyané Lebajoa)
Apollo
Dionysus (Cody Fern)
Hermes (Alex Pettyfer)
Icarus (Alessandro  Bedetti)
Persephone (Gugu Mbatha Raw)
THE HAUNTING OF HILL HOUSE
Eleanor "Nell" Crain (Victoria Pedretti)
Luke Crain (Oliver Jackson-Cohen)
Steven Crain
Theodora Crain (Kate Siegel)
IT
Avery Hockstetter (Paul Dano / Felix Mallard)
Beverly Marsh (Bryce Dallas Howard)
Bill Denbrough (James McAvoy)
Greta Keene (Renee Rapp)
Henry Bowers (Nicholas Hamilton)
Mike Hanlon (Isaiah Mustafa)
Stanley Uris (Andy Bean)
LUCIFER
Ella Lopez (Aimee Garcia)
Lucifer (Tom Ellis)
Mazikeen (Leslie Ann Brandt)
Trixie Espinosa (Scarlett Esteves)
MARVEL
Darcy Lewis (Kat Dennings)
Johnny Storm (Michael B Jordan)
THE OUTSIDERS
Ponyboy Curtis (Jake T Austin)
THE PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN
Jack Sparrow (Luke Arnold)
THE VAMPIRE CHRONICLES (has not seen the show)
Lestat de Lioncourt (Cody Fern)
Louis de Pointe du Lac (Freddy Carter)
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wyntersecret-a · 1 year ago
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Main muse
Landon Bartholomew Wynter. journalist. het. fc: penn badgley 30-34 main. 32-36 film. 22-26 college. nights poet verse. beast boi verse. vamp verse. paranormal investigator verse. royal au. twin au.
Secondary Muse
Lance Tyberius Wynter. architect. het. fc: penn badgley 30-34 twin au.
Hub + Connection Muses
Veronica Allen. model. 33. bi. fc: teyonah parris
Daniel Baker. adult flm star. 32. gay. fc: david anders - @stvrlyte
Dawn Black. adult film star. former model. 31. gay. fc: kristen stewart
Kurt Burrows. historian & genealogist. 33. bi. fc: andrew west unknown half brother of Landon Wynter
Claudia Chen. actress. 32. het. fc: gemma chan
Lavinia Cortez. horror host. producer of toxic talk. actress. 27. bi. fc: sofia carson
Esmeralda Domingo. executive of diamond casino. 33. bi. fc: shay mitchell default gf of Landon in non ship verses
Emeline Entwistle. actress. 31. het. fc: blake lively
Tobias Fairchild. producer. majestic studios. 38. bi. fc: ed speleers
Holland Frost. dr of tech sciences, robotics & dna engineering. frost synthetics. 46. bi. fc: sarah paulson
Harold Graves. psychiatrist. 41. demi. fc: hugh dancy. Landon Wynter's therapist
Natalie Hill. lipstick gossip. tabloid journalist. 31. bi. fc: zoe kravitz former best friend of Jade Winthrope.
Susan Horowitz. ruby casino. businesswoman. 31. bi. fc: carlson young
Ophelia Keal. aspiring actress. socialite. 26. het. fc: tilly keeper
Mark Lansing. news anchor. film agent (hollywood verse only) 31. het. fc: chace crawford
Gloria Mancini. assistant exec. lipstick gossip. 30. het. fc: dakota johnson close friend of Natalie Hill
Cassandra Porter. boutique fresh cosmetics. influencer. yt beauty guru. 36. bi. fc: zazie beetz
Maxwell Rainier. town council. Rainier Farm. 54. bi. fc: michael sheen. father of Marley Jane Rainier Cypress Falls Resident @xwildheart
Miranda Royce. fashion designer. 29. bi. fc: nicola peltz daughter of Holland Frost - @godccmplex
Marigold Sinclaire. failed starlet. waitress. 34. bicurious. fc: amanda seyfried - american money plot @xwildheart
Brooke Stevens. kroq radio station. 24. bi. fc: joey king Cypress Falls Resident
Brett Sutton. radio dj. true crime podcaster. 31. bi. fc: jack quaid
Maya Tran. production assistant. cosmic vault. 35-40. bi. fc: maggie q
Jade Winthrope. forensic tech. 30. het. fc: shailene woodley
Florence Anton Wynter. novelist. freelance web writer. 56. bi. fc: michelle gomez
Request Muses
Joe Goldberg. bookstore manager. 31. het. fc: penn badgley - canon divergent in areas
Camilla Luna. oceanographer. ocean ways institute. 28. fc: lindsey morgan fiancée of Lance Wynter in twin au. (all interactions take place prior to her accidental drowning )
Hub & Connection muses are for established importance to Landon in his particular verses and/or have established things with other writers. Request muses are low activity but would love to see interaction. Only one is a canon but I write it my way and diverge. The other is deceased but still available for prior plots involving Lance.
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