#plastic molding near me

[plasticinjectionmolds]

plastic injection molders near me | plastic molding near me

Find local plastic injection molders near me for precision manufacturing. Get high-quality, custom plastic parts from nearby experts, ensuring efficiency and quick turnaround for your projects.

Search no further for plastic molding near me. Our company, Plastic Injection Molds, is your dedicated partner in delivering high-quality solutions, ensuring your manufacturing needs are met with excellence.

[swiftplasticpallets-blog]

Roto-Molded Pallets: A Modern Solution for Stronger, Safer, and Ease of Material Handling

The Modern Roto Molded Plastic Pallets are efficient and reliable for material handling solutions and more crucial than ever in the new industrial scenario. At all times, warehouses, factories and distribution centers are in need of the finest and quality pallets in place to help streamline their operations.

For those, roto-molded pallets are possibly the strongest answer as they can provide both the durability and safety that one wants and stay active for a long time compared to regular traditional pallet options.

1. Strength and Durability for Heavy-Duty Applications One of the best characteristics about roto-molded pallets is that they are excellent in dealing with heavy-duty loads. Even assembled pallets can be prone to weak points—between many points of attachment—however due to rotational molding the pallets are being created in one piece structure, and these pallets avoid those problems. This makes them ideal for purpose applications such as holding heavy weights in storage or to be transported.

2. Custom Design for Load-Bearing Efficiency Roto-molded pallets offer the flexibility of custom design to meet specific load-bearing capacities. This customization ensures that businesses can choose the perfect pallet size and strength for their unique operations, maximizing efficiency while maintaining safety. Whether you have to handle lower loads or severe weights, roto-molded pallets can be designed to accommodate your exact requirements, making them a truly modern solution for varying industrial needs.

3. Sturdy, One-Piece Construction for Longevity The one-piece construction of roto-molded pallets significantly contributes to their long-lasting nature. Since they are molded as a single unit, there are no joints or seams that could weaken over time or under stress. It leads in an extremely durable product that needs minimum maintenance, providing long-term cost savings. For companies seeking a solution that reduces replacement frequency and improves overall efficiency, roto-molded pallets are the ideal choice.

4. Enhanced Safety with Anti-Skid Design Safety is always a concern in material handling, and roto-molded pallets are designed with this in mind. They often come with specially designed anti-skid tops, reducing the risk of goods slipping during transport or storage. This feature not only enhances the safety of workers but also protects valuable cargo from damage, Ensuring seamless and secure operations.

5. Compatibility with Modern Material Handling Equipment In today’s highly mechanized environments, seamless integration with material handling equipment is crucial. Roto-molded pallets are suitable for most standard equipment, like forklifts, pallet jacks, and automated conveyor systems. This compatibility means that businesses can upgrade their material handling without having to question if their pallets will fit into their current infrastructure or not. 

Conclusion

As industries continue to evolve, finding reliable and innovative material-handling solutions is essential for maintaining operational efficiency. Roto-molded pallets are an obvious choice for a modern solution to meet the demanding industrial setting under one roof. Their superior strength, customizability, and safety features make them a valuable asset for any business seeking to improve its material handling processes.

For reliable, durable pallet solutions, Swift Technoplast offers quality and customization tailored to your material handling needs.

[morriscatesk51]

Exploring Plastic Injection Molding Companies in China: A Focus on Acrylic Injection Molding and Quality Manufacturing

Plastic injection molding is a manufacturing process that involves injecting molten plastic into a mold cavity, where it cools and solidifies into the desired shape. This process is highly efficient, allowing for the mass production of complex and durable plastic parts with minimal waste.

Keywords : plastic injection molding companies in China

acrylic injection molding

Injection Mold China

Overmolding

plastic mold

plastic injection molding companies near me

[leonmartinweb]

Driving Automotive Innovation Forward with Advanced Rapid Injection Molding Techniques

In the ever-evolving landscape of automotive manufacturing, staying ahead of the curve is paramount. With the demand for lightweight, durable, and cost-effective components, plastic injection molding has emerged as a cornerstone technology in the industry. As pioneers in the field, RPWORLD is leading the charge in driving automotive innovation forward through advanced rapid injection molding techniques.

Plastic Injection Molders play a pivotal role in the automotive supply chain, producing a diverse array of components ranging from interior trims to exterior panels. With the relentless pursuit of efficiency and precision, manufacturers are continually seeking ways to enhance their processes. This is where advanced rapid injection molding techniques come into play, revolutionizing the way automotive parts are produced.

At RPWORLD, we leverage cutting-edge technologies and extensive expertise to deliver unparalleled solutions to our clients. Our state-of-the-art facilities are equipped with advanced machinery and automated systems, allowing for high-speed production without compromising on quality. Through meticulous process optimization and stringent quality control measures, we ensure that each component meets the exacting standards of the automotive industry.

Plastic Molding is not just about producing parts; it's about pushing the boundaries of what's possible. With innovative materials and design concepts, we empower automotive manufacturers to unlock new possibilities in vehicle design and performance. From lightweight thermoplastics to high-strength composites, our comprehensive range of materials caters to diverse applications, providing the flexibility and versatility needed to realize ambitious design visions.

Innovation is at the heart of everything we do at RPWORLD. Our dedicated team of engineers and designers work closely with clients to develop customized solutions tailored to their specific requirements. Through collaborative partnerships and a relentless commitment to excellence, we strive to push the boundaries of what's possible in automotive manufacturing.

One of the key advantages of rapid injection molding is its ability to accelerate the product development cycle. With traditional manufacturing methods, prototyping and tooling can be time-consuming and cost-prohibitive. However, with rapid injection molding, we can quickly iterate designs and produce functional prototypes in a fraction of the time, enabling faster time-to-market and greater agility in response to changing market demands.

Furthermore, rapid injection molding offers cost efficiencies that are unparalleled in the industry. By streamlining the production process and minimizing material waste, we help automotive manufacturers optimize their manufacturing costs without compromising on quality or performance. This cost-effectiveness is particularly crucial in today's competitive market environment, where margins are constantly under pressure.

In conclusion, advanced rapid injection molding techniques are driving automotive innovation forward, empowering manufacturers to push the boundaries of design, performance, and efficiency. As a leading provider of plastic injection molding solutions, RPWORLD is committed to pushing the envelope of what's possible, helping our clients stay ahead of the curve in the fast-paced world of automotive manufacturing. With our cutting-edge technologies, unrivaled expertise, and unwavering dedication to excellence, we are shaping the future of mobility, one injection at a time.

[gutsby]

Cry, Baby

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: Joel fucks you to the point of tears. That’s all.

Warnings: 18+. Dacryphilia (kinda). Unprotected p-in-v. Girthy, unspecified age gap. Daddy kink. Jealous Joel.

Notes: Sorry for using pussy pronouns. It will happen again.

Joel Miller was a man of few words in most every place except the one where he found himself about to beat the brakes off your pussy. Then he never shut the fuck up.

“Uh-huh…just a little more…I know, sweet girl, I know.”

You had your hands at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel of his ‘71 Ford F-100, but rather than driving anywhere, your ass was comfortably parked on the front of his jeans—straddling his lap backwards while you rubbed your half-clad cunt over stonewashed denim. It was hell.

You’d been grinding against the bulge beneath those jeans so hard, and for so long, your white cotton undies had parted to the side, and your pleasure was nearly stretched commensurate with just how pathetic you felt.

Your head dropped between your two hands on the black molded plastic of the wheel, and you let out a whine.

“Joel—”

“Keep goin’.”

“This ain’t fair!”

Without hesitation, the hands that were holding your hips tightened their grip, and now Joel was raking your lower half over his. Rutting your core back and forth.

“You wanna know what ain’t fair?” he seethed.

He didn’t wait for you to answer.

“How much she’s been droolin’ over me all night.”

‘She’ meaning your unfucked cunt, of course.

Joel then punctuated his sentence with a particularly hard press of his palm—forcing you to lay flat on the steering wheel, hips tilted back to him. With just one callused finger of his other hand, he found you soaked between your folds. He dragged it from your clit to your aching hole, and you heard him sigh, as though sad.

“It’s a cryin’ shame,” Joel said. Lamenting.

You were almost lost to the sensation of his finger rubbing you up and down, but somehow, you managed, ‘W-W-What is, Joel?’ in between soft, plaintive sounds.

Sometimes you forgot how much older he was than you. Sometimes you said he was just like the boys your age. Other times he had you pinned like this, breaths calm and cruelly measured while you damn near came apart beneath his hand, and then you remembered everything.

“You just couldn’t wait ‘til we got home,” he grumbled.

Using the same hand he’d been stroking you with, Joel laid a quick slap to your cunt, and you jumped. Your head narrowly missed the roof of his truck; still, you groaned.

“‘M’sorry, Joel,” you keened.

You weren’t. The old man knew you weren’t.

The hand that had been splayed over your back sank in. The force of that push pressed your belly to the chipped Ford logo at the center of the steering wheel, and with the added pressure went the blare of the car’s horn.

The sound might’ve lasted two seconds before you scrambled back, desperate, into Joel’s broad chest. A couple old-timers making their way from the bar to their cars in the parking lot cocked their heads curiously in your direction a couple yards away. Seeing nothing of note, they lost interest just as quick and kept walking.

“Sorry for what?” Joel said.

At the moment, he didn’t seem to notice, or care, that his truck was parked a mere stone’s throw away from the Tipsy Bison, and bar-goers were milling freely between the building and the cars all around you. His belt unbuckled all the same, zip came down in a blink, and his thick, veiny, throbbing, and angry cock came to rest between your cheeks. He started to push you forward.

“Sorry for— for flirtin’ with Tommy,” you stammered, sucking in a breath when you felt him run the head of his cock between your lips. You could hear a soft squelch.

“And Lucien?”

“And Lucien.”

“And—”

“And Dieter, and Frankie, and Javi, and Marcus.”

Rattling off the names of all the men you’d been flirting with at the bar to make Joel jealous and take you back home to fuck you became an embarrassing chant.

“And?”

“…and Mayor Garcia,” you completed, sheepishly.

Back in there, you hadn’t been too proud to stoop to a politician’s level, even. That was how needy you’d been to get attention, and now Joel was giving it to you.

As hard as he could—he didn’t wait for the ‘OK’ before seating you on his cock. You were simply pulled back from the wheel and into his lap, onto his stiff erection, and before you could steady yourself, he started drilling.

“Even through these panties—” Joel tugged at the cream-colored cotton he’d easily slipped past, “—even through that slutty little skirt, I could feel how wet she was.”

Your eyes squeezed shut, and your hands found purchase in the torn-up leather of the seat, fisting strings and patches of fabric in a helpless sort of plea as Joel took over. With the buttons of his dark green flannel searing a stripe down your spine and his grey-speckled chin coming to nudge between your neck and your shoulder as he fucked you, you felt content. Secure.

Spilling more for him, then. Seeping rivers down the length of his shaft as he breached your walls and made you his all over again. And again. Leaving trails of arousal with every thrust, and rolling your head, limply, into his.

“She cryin’ for me?” Joel breathed, “Or somebody else?”

As if on cue, his cock hit the most sensitive ridge inside you, and you felt yourself gush even more. Dripping now.

“You.” Your voice was raw.

“Me?” Joel’s degradingly sweet.

Before you could answer ‘you’ once more, the driver’s door cracked open beside you both. For one panicked, terrifying second, you thought someone from the bar might’ve caught you two—then you were stunned to look over and see it was Joel’s own tough, steel-toed boot that had propped the door open to the cool night air.

The truck was facing the bar’s front door, shielded only by some foliage and a hatchback car about half its size. Other than that, you were exposed to whoever happened to pass by the big, bay window and take a look inside.

Joel felt you tense, and he pressed a kiss to you neck. Then he slid you carefully, almost tenderly, to the left until you were perched over the side of the seat with your legs dangling out of the truck—still filled to the hilt with his cock and pressed tight to the front of his chest.

“Cry a little more,” he urged.

Then, when your pussy gave an involuntary clench and drenched him some more, he slipped a hand around your front and started toying with your clit. Your gaze was wide, almost frightened as you stared ahead at the bar and saw patrons making rounds about the tiny place, fearing one might see you and Joel, but it felt so good. And wrong. And reckless, having this man who was easily decades your senior bouncing you up and down on his cock and letting you soil the front of his Wranglers.

“Pussy’s fuckin’ soakin’ me, pretty girl,” Joel let out a chuckle and gave your shoulder a playful bite when you pulsed around him again, “Squeezin’ me real tight, too.”

It was like your body was beyond your own control. You scarcely even realized your cunt had him gripped with such force, much less made a mess of his old denim. He just held you to him and kept pressing rough, stubbled kisses to your shoulder, reminding you over and over how sweet you were, how well you were taking him, how nice and tight and goddamn pretty that pussy must’ve looked gushing around daddy’s cock—maybe we can fuck in front’a the mirror so we can see it later, huh, baby?

You would’ve said yes to anything he said, you reckoned.

Especially when his arms moved over your front and you felt him grin, and he hugged you while he fucked you—nobody made you feel quite as special while they were splitting you open. Nobody’s balls felt quite as heavy and firm and full while hitting your ass by turns, and certainly no one but Joel could make you cum just as quick when he leaned into your ear and said, ‘Let go for me, darlin’.’

You did, and you felt his warmth follow inside you with the friction of just two more thrusts. Your head fell back on his shoulder, a moan clawed out of your throat, and the warm, euphoric feeling of release washed over your senses in waves, one trembling sensation after the next. Joel’s groans were quick to spill into your own, and, likewise emptying himself, he held your hips to his and made sure every drop stayed right where he wanted it.

His spend was always heavy, but this load felt larger than usual—like he’d been aching to fuck you full of his cum. Just as you both were coming down from your highs, you couldn’t help but key in on that soft, sticky warmth, likely to come oozing as soon as Joel pulled out of you.

In fact, you got to be so focused that you jumped when you felt something press to your cheek a second later.

It took another moment to register it as a kiss from Joel.

Then his tongue, dragging softly up the side of your face.

You started to laugh, about to ask him what the hell he was doing, when you felt a tear slip out of your other eye. With the sudden, sharp influx of pleasure, the moisture had leaked out without you even feeling it. Joel grinned.

He gave your cheek a light squeeze, wiped the other tear with the pad of his thumb, and kissed you again before mumbling in your ear, almost teasing as he said it:

“Crybaby.”

[nonotnolan]

This Happens all the Time, It's Detachable

When I took this job at Port Atilis, I moved into the area without doing a lot of research about the area. I have no one else to blame but myself for the fact that I live four blocks away from the biggest tourism strip in town. I thought being close to the beach would be relaxing, but anytime I try to take advantage of it, I'm having to deal with all of the crowds.

That being said, the constant stream of tourists does have one unexpected benefit. The eye candy is top notch, especially for a guy like me who has a hard time finding dates. I don't even have to head down to the beach-- Grindr is filled with hot guys trying to score a one night stand while they're out on vacation, and their profiles make window shopping that much easier. Sadly, window shopping is all I'm usually able to do-- I'm not looking for a quick hookup, so the odds are stacked against me. Outside of the occasional online date that never goes anywhere, I spend most of my nights alone.

I've started meeting guys downtown so that if I get ghosted, at least I can have a nice meal alone somewhere. It's frustrating how often this sort of shit happens, but... that's just how online dating works, I guess.

I was walking along the shore as I headed back to my car when I saw it. There, flopped across the sidewalk, was a limp cock and balls. I nudged it with my foot at first-- I thought maybe it was a plastic mold or something at first, but it definitely moved like real flesh. I bent down and scooped it up. Sure enough, it was warm to the touch. I slipped it into my pocket and headed back to my apartment.

My hand kept stroking the shaft as I walked-- I couldn't believe I had such a realistic cock in my pocket. It was starting to grow erect, as if it was really someone's detached manhood. How was that even possible? By the time I arrived home, it was about seven or eight inches long, and enough girth that I could barely wrap my fingers around it. If it was someone's real cock, he was certainly a lucky guy. But what does one do with a detached cock and balls?

Well, I was already planning to take a shower after spending the afternoon out in the summer heat. I may as well take the cock in there with me. It probably needs at least a quick rinse after being in the dirt like that. I was also going to have to wash these khakis-- the damn thing had started leaking precum in my pocket.

It really was an impressive cock. Perfectly straight, and the glans had a beautiful shape and color-- I would have sworn it was a dildo if I hadn't felt it harden in my pocket. A bead of precum started to form at the slit, and my own manhood started to stir. Should I do it? It was almost certainly a bad idea, but weeks of pent up frustration and the smell of jizz overrode any concerns. I started to deep throat the strange cock, holding it in my fingertips so I could consume as much of the shaft as possible.

Pretty soon I was rewarded with its cum. I could feel the cock jump as it shot rope after rope into my throat. I damn near started choking on the sudden flood of jizz, but I was able to swallow most of it down. It was weird enough making a detached cock orgasm... but why did I feel warm all of a sudden? The cock was softening, in case I had any doubt it was alive somehow.

I didn't notice until I started rinsing the slime off my chin and chest when I realized what had changed. My smooth, twink stomach had developed abs. The cock had to be magical, somehow. I gently set it down on the shower floor as I started to give my body a thorough examination. My own cock was still the same size, but my arms and legs were starting to gain definition-- and my stomach was ripped, somehow.

Nothing about this day made sense. Plus I was starting to feel dizzy, so I quickly toweled off and climbed into bed. The cock would be fine on the tile floor of the shower. I didn't know if it could piss, and I didn't want to deal with cleaning it up if it did. Maybe the world would make sense when I woke up.

-----------------------------------

The world did not make sense when I woke up. The first thing I noticed was that my body had gotten even larger overnight, and it was all muscle mass. It felt... well, honestly, it felt amazing. But it made no damn sense. The detached cock was sitting in the shower where I'd left it. Maybe if I could find its owner, I could get some clues about what was happening to me? I threw on some gym clothes-- no sense in ruining my good shirts in case my body grew even more. I also took a selfie, so that if my body changed any more, at least I would have some sort of reference to compare it with.

I headed back down to the shore where I'd first found the mystery meat. My shoulders were wide enough that I found myself swaying them as I walked. The old me would have been far too embarrassed to walk with such a swagger-- was this transformation starting to affect my personality, too?

I wasn't really sure how I was going to find the cock's owner. I hadn't thought that far ahead. It's not like he could go up to someone and ask if anyone had handed over a penis to the Lost and Found. Maybe I'd see a guy anxiously searching the area? Would he still be here the next morning? Well, I was already here. I grabbed a smoothie from one of the shacks on the shoreline and started people watching.

Most of the pedestrians were walking with purpose, so it was fairly easy to spot the few people who were lagging behind for whatever reason. Most of those people were probably meeting up with friends or something, based on the way they were checking their phones. But there was one man, a handsome guy flashing a lot of chest, who kept staring at the ground as he roamed the area near the marina. His facial expressions ranged from pure sorrow to forlorn fear, which was certainly how I'd react if my dick suddenly went missing. Only one way to find out for sure.

"Hey bro, what's wrong? You keep looking around like you lost something."

"You don't know the half of it," he said, shaking his head. "But... yeah, man. I lost my... something really fucking important. Something, uhh... wooden."

Bingo. "Was it this?" I said, giving the cock in my pocket a tight squeeze. If he could still feel it, there would be no mistaking my intent. And based on the look of relief that washed over his face, I had guessed correctly.

"You're the person who found my dick? Oh, thank fuck!" He leapt to his feet and grappled me in a bear hug. "All I could think about was a tourist taking it home with them, or tossing it into the water, or... fuck, man, I don't even know. I like to carry around with me, I wear tight briefs to hold it in place, but... it slipped out last night and I was too drunk to notice."

We started walking over to the side of the street, where things were slightly more private. He was close enough for me to smell him-- a mixture of sweat, citrus, and sandalwood. "Well, I'm glad I can return this massive cock back to its owner," I said, looking side to side for any gawkers before pulling it out of my pocket. I grabbed his waistband, pulled it outward, and jammed my hand into his pants. I gave his hardening cock one last pat before I pulled my hand back.

"Someone's feeling confident," he said, flashing a wide smile. He leaned back on the stairs. "It's a good thing you're as sexy as fuck, or I'd be offended." He sized up my physique, and his face started to grow concerned as he did so. "You... I think I remember cuming last night. Did you... did you give me a blowjob?"

I scratched the back of my neck. "I did, yeah. Sorry, bro. Didn't mean to offend you. I was still trying to figure out if your cock was even real, or... honestly, that's part of why I was hoping to find you. I wanted to return your dick, of course, but I'm also... growing? Do you know why?"

He placed a firm hand on my shoulder. "You should take me back to your place. We've got a lot to discuss. If you swallowed my cum, there's no way you didn't catch my condition. The muscle growth is a sweet side effect, but... well, you've seen how it ends."

"You mean my dick is going to fall off?"

"It's really not all that bad," he said, giving my shoulder a comforting squeeze. "And I give you some pointers to help you live with it. Mind if I stay at your place for a few days?"

Blake was as good as his word. I'm glad he told me to wait before shopping for new clothes-- It took a few more days for my body to stop growing, and I went up three shirt sizes by the time I was done. We've started dating. It turns out there are some experiences you just can't have without growing really close to a guy, and we do have a few hobbies in common.

I took a few sick days so I could be at home when my dick finally fell off. I was walking around naked and everything-- your dick only falls off once, after all, and I wanted to see it happen. And Blake was right there at my side, eager to give me my first detached blowjob.

We usually leave our dicks at home for safekeeping, at my insistence. Blake has a voyeurism streak, though, so sometimes I'll be out running errands when I suddenly feel him applying lube to my cock. Have you ever tried to shop for groceries mid-orgasm? It's a hell of an experience. Other times, we'll go out on a date with the other's cock tucked in our briefs. Feeling his arousal against my skin never gets old. My favorite, though, are the Detachable Male Support Meetings. We all get together, put our dicks in a large bowl, and then just shoot the breeze for a few hours.

I never could have guessed that finding an errant cock on the ground would change my life so completely, but I wouldn't change it for the world.

[killeromanoff]

I KNOW YOUR GHOST | prologue

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

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

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

w.c: 9.8k

notes: would you want me to continue the series

[here], [chapter one], [chapter two]

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 chestnut hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, though a few stray strands framed her face. She wore a plain navy blouse and slacks that were practical but pressed, betraying her effort to maintain a professional appearance in an environment that hardly seemed to care.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But what about her?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But instead, she was here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But tonight? Tonight, it felt empty.

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

Cheerier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She wanted to be more than this.

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

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

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

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

“Take care of yourself, Cass.”

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

But that didn’t make the choice any easier.

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

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

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

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

The radio filling the background quietly.

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

The lights above were dimmed just enough to give the room a cozy, intimate feel, casting shadows across the shelves stocked with bottles that had seen more than their fair share of nights like this one. Behind the bar, 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.

[thorougly-melted-brains]

Ghost keeps a clean house. Soap knows this is true for his pack, his office, his room, and—to all assumptions—his apartment.

The circumstances of how Soap got there are too jumbled with the high of a mission and the drop of mandated time off. He didn’t want to take time off, neither did Ghost.

He can’t quite remember which one of them fumbled through the offer to stick together- only to maintain their schedules, of course. They still had additional reports and inventory to do, it was only tactical.

So now here he stands, in Ghost’s wholly spartan apartment. It’s been stripped of all charm and frivolity not painted on the walls or molded into the quaintly patterned glass by the front door. It’s not intentionally devoid of comfort- Ghost may be many things, but even he didn’t go out of his way to live without small comforts. There’s an old but soft couch, rugs and mats placed around the doors, and even lamps to offset the harsh over-heads.

The most curious thing, the one that really catches Soaps eyes, is the only visible adornment, quilts.

Great, sprawling tiled blankets (tapestries?) are hung from most of the walls. There’s one draped over the back of the sofa, tucked into the seat of the solitary plush chair. There’s smaller, flat pillows on the few chairs in the kitchen. There’s even placemats on the table. All colored with swirls of vibrant linen in dazzling patterns.

Ghost catches him staring as he leads them through his space (They decided on his apartment, given Soap’s was a bachelor pad, while Ghost had a guest room).

“My mum used to quilt.” Ghost says cryptically, and snags the pack off Soap’s shoulder while he’s still too busy gawking to protest.

Later, after they’ve showered off their travel and eaten something not wrapped in plastic and some amount of mud, Soap tries to breach the topic. Ghost replies as vaguely as ever,

“She tried to make me a baby blanket, never finished it.” Which takes Soap for a spin because based on what Ghost had previously (not) said, he’d assumed his mom had made them. He leaves it be.

Much later, after they’ve settled back into some semblance of their normal routine, Soap finally figures it out. It’s late at night, later than he should be awake after running himself ragged in the gym.

He’s stuck in a state of un-anxiety, which is in itself anxiety inducing, when he hears something next door. It’s rhythmic, mechanical, sharp, but in a way that’s distinctly well milled.

It’s coming from Ghost’s room, and if it were earlier in the night he might’ve just let it be, but he’s curious and without anything better to do.

He drags himself out of bed, slips on a shirt, and makes his way to Ghost’s room. It had been excluded from the gruff house tour he’d been giving on arrival, and right as he creaks the door open he understands why.

There are shelves covering the whole wall opposite to the door, obviously custom built, filled with bat upon bat of colorful fabric. The same colorful fabric, Soap realizes, that makes up the sole decoration in Ghost’s apartment. Sat at a desk, hunched slightly over a near-antique sewing machine, is Ghost.

Soap stares.

Ghost stares back at him, deceptively warm in the light of the machine. Soap can only imagine what he looks like, half awake and face cavernous in the dark of the hallway. There’s a momentary stand-off, Soap inanimate, Ghost giving him a look of challenge.

Soap breaks it first, glancing away and to Ghost’s project. It’s half-way finished, colored with calming blues and grays. Ghost seems satisfied and turns back to his work, ignoring him entirely.

Soap, sleep addled and out of his depth, takes the dismissal for all it could be. He shuts the door behind him, for both their sanities, and sits down on Ghost’s bed. It’s covered in a thick quilt, made of reds and golds and the occasional maroon hexagon. It’s unlike anything he’s thought of Ghost as, but he’s beginning to think this is the most raw he’ll ever see him.

The hum of the machine, combined with his tiredness, or maybe with the air of safety that curled around him with Ghost in his sights, starts to lull Soap to sleep.

He blinks himself an awake every time, waiting for the cozy haze to lift and Ghost to kick him out. But it never does, and the time between his eyes closing and opening slowly becomes longer and longer.

He must’ve properly fallen asleep when he’s jolted awake by the sound of plastic on plastic. Ghost had switched off his machine and was clamping closed a large, sorted box of pins. He glances back at Soap,

“Go to sleep, Mactavish.”

And Soap is nothing if not trusting of Ghost, so he does as he’s told. He’s woken again, briefly, by Ghost pulling the quilt out from underneath where he’d laid on top of it. There’s a rush of cold air, a dip in the bed beside him, and then the warm blanket being draped over him.

He makes a slight noise of alarm as he realizes it’s Ghost crawling into bed with him. Ghost huffs and grabs him by the arm, stopping him from sitting up and pulling his head to rest on a pillow in one motion. He lets go, then, and turns away from Soap.

“You can go if you want.” He rasps. Soap belatedly realizes he hadn’t talked to the other man much the previous day. He hums in clumsy thanks before finally falling asleep.

Later, Soap asks (he doesn’t beg, he’s a grown adult) Ghost to make him a quilt. He doesn’t expect him to say yes, or to have him pick the patterns, or to let him intrude on his room again almost nightly, but Ghost does.

They both know it’s not about the quilt.

[eetherealgoddess]

ꨄNo Room For Prayerꨄ

Oneshot - Demon Apocalypse/Soulmate Au

❦Y/n gets captured by demons❦

Sano Manjiro, Hanemiya Kazutora, Sanzu Haruchiyo, & Haitani Brothers x Reader

Not fully proofread

MY TR FANDOM WORKS ARE ONLY ON TUMBLR, AO3, AND WATTPAD UNDER EETHEREALGODDESS! REPORT IF YOU SEE IT POSTED UNDER ANYONE ELSE BUT ME!!!

Demon language is red

I apologize if I get any Japanese etiquette or culture wrong, I literally have to research the culture for some of my fandom stories so if anything is wrong, please excuse my ignorance.

Notice:

✩Y/n is 18+. I picture her as a black female but you can see her however.

✩Some parts of the story may not be realistic or factual. After all, this is a work of fiction.

✩Although it's a dark 'romance,' I do not condone any of the behavior displayed.

✩Dark content such as: gore, violence, triggering topics, graphic scenes, vulgar language, explicit sexual content, etc.

✩There may be scenes that involve non con and/ or dubcon so don’t read if that makes you uncomfortable

✩That being said, this story is for 18+ only.

Enjoy!

No Room For Prayer

Y/n breathed heavily as she managed to catch her breath, sweat falling down her skin as the hairs on her limbs stood. Adrenaline pumped through her veins as she held her chest, feeling the sensation of her heart beating fast. Finally getting her breath steady, she calmed her heart rate, bottom against the dirty floor of the abandoned house.

Ever since the demons took over a couple years back, she’s had to fend for herself, moving from house to abandoned building, and so on. She resides in the part of the city where the lower class demons roam for the scraps and stranded humans that were not chosen by upper class, high ranked demons.

Food is minimal and she can’t catch a break whether it be by a demon or feral human. She has a deep hatred for the demonic race considering it turned her life upside down. Sure, life before could’ve been better but the past beats the present by a long shot. Eyeing her surroundings, she stands from her position crouched on the floor and walks through the house with her flash light.

She glances around the kitchen she walked into, wincing at the blood stained on the wall, a mixture of dried and fresh. She ignores the smell of rotting food and opens the pantry for any canned greens or meat. She swung her back pack around to open it and set some of the cans inside of her bag.

Honestly, she’d rather be here than with the upper class demons because they preserve their human alive or not, slicing or tearing what they want and maybe saving the torso or other body parts for another day. You either become a slave, maid, servant, or meal. There’s really no warning sign, you’re just snatched and that’s it. At least she has a chance of survival with no responsibility to serve or be served unless by accident.

She opens the fridge, covering her nose as the grimy stench reaches her nostrils. She sees nothing but rotting fruit and meat. Mold infested the inside, the milk that was left had no sign of liquid. She shuts the door after noticing maggots, preventing herself from feeling sicker. No matter how long it’s been, the rotting sign of humanity that was left disgusted her to the point of gagging.

She checks for any water bottles in the cabinets and finds a few hidden behind other boxed food. She didn’t bother to check the freezer knowing that she hasn’t found a place to stay long term and never will. Considering the doors of every place she’s been at has been kicked down, she can’t cook in peace. The smell of food would attract the demons, knowing a human is near by their cooking.

She sighs as she opens the can of peas, tossing the top to the side as she uses one of the remaining plastic spoons she stole from the local deserted grocery store. She recollects the events that brought her to this day.

“What is that?” Her close friend asks.

The sound of banging continued on the door of their apartment.

“The police?” Y/n suggests as she sets the blunt to the side, a nervous wreck as she’s never experienced being caught with flower before.

“They would’ve announced that by now.”

The banging accelerates as well as growing louder before it completely stops.

“What the fuck?” Y/n whispers, her knees pulled to her chest as she sits next to her friend on the couch.

The only thing that could be heard was their shaky breathing. Before they know it, the door is shoved off of its hinges, hitting the wall as a large creature steps in. The girls scream as they run in the opposite direction of the monster. Unfortunately, Y/n’s friend’s ankle was yanked, stopping her from running and causing her to fall on her stomach.

“Run! R-Run!” Her friend desperately cries. “Don’t let me die in vain! Survive, Y/n!”

“I-I’m so sorry!”

Y/n turns on her heel and makes an escape through the back door, the door slamming shut right after she hears a shred of skin along with her former friend’s scream.

She shuts her eyes before grabbing her bag and swinging it on her shoulder, taking a bite out of the peas. She lives in regret for not even attempting to help her friend escape. Her only excuses being she was scared, caught off guard, and high. Especially with the break in being from an unknown monster and not a human. She shakes her head, pushing the thoughts out of her mind to focus on her situation at hand. She continues eating until finished.

Y/n pauses when she hears rustling and footsteps. Her eyes widen as she holds her breath, slowly stepping to the opposite direction from where the noise is coming from. She looked at her surroundings to find another exit to the kitchen.

The window!

She sets the empty can down and quietly moves to the window, unlocking it before sliding it open. She climbs through and falls on the ground with a thud. Cursing herself for the noise she begins to make her way around the house, ready to make a run for it until she’s grabbed from her bag.

“Human! Kneel.” She’s yanked to the ground, her backpack being her support. Her eyebrows furrow as she makes an attempt to escape before a foot pressed in between her breasts, forcing her to lie down.

“Comply or we’ll take you by force.” The demon guard states. She shakes her head.

“Fuck you!” She says before pulling out her knife and stabbing it in his ankle causing his foot to lift off of her body. She jumps up and drops her back pack to make it easier for her to run, though the other guard snatches her back and grips her arms. He pulls his arm back before punching her face, causing her head to drop unconscious.

Eyelids shoot open as Y/n immediately sits up, sweat falling down her head as she breathes heavily, the memory of running from the guards stuck in her brain. Feeling weightless she notices her bag out of her sight, turning abruptly to the side to see it settled beside her. She yelps in pain as her hand goes straight to her face where she was punched, memories collecting from before she was unconscious.

“You should take it easy there.”

She gasps as she sees the newcomer, immediately shooting up from her spot on the mattress and standing across the small room at a potential threat.

“Woah there. Everything is fine, alright? Name’s Rin. I saved you.”

She stood in attack mode, her body tense as her eyebrows furrowed.

“Saved me?” She eyes his figure, mullet pulled into a messy ponytail with a few strands loose. His casual attire dirty from what she assumes to be survival. His hands are held up in surrender. He nods in response.

“I saw you fighting that demon when I snuck into the house. Once he knocked you out, I fought him off and brought you here.”

She relaxes her arms as they drop to her sides, though still suspicious of the guy known as Rin.

“Y/n.” She states. He runs his fingers through his bangs.

“We should get goin. The sun’s out so that means there’s less monsters are around.”

“We? I barely know you. Where would we go anyway?” He sighs.

“Well, you don’t have to come with me but I thought you’d like to find the refuge of people on the other side of the city.”

“What refuge of people?” He looked at her with a surprised expression.

“You don’t know about the group of survivors? That’s where my brother is. I’m surprised you didn’t know about it.”

“Oh.” She replies, conflicted on whether or not she should follow.

“I’m going to leave soon so if you need time to think, you have about five minutes.” He says before walking out of the door.

She sighs, “Wait! I’ll come with you.”

He turns his head to give her a side eye, smirking in the process.

“Let’s go then.”

It takes them a total of seven days to make it across the city. She followed him as he knew where to go. They had a couple demon attacks, but nothing that couldn’t be beat, the perks of dealing with the lower class demons that range from weak to strong. They stopped at different houses and buildings for food and shelter, along with releasing their waste. It was eerie not seeing any other humans during their journey. She was used to coming across at least one or two a day whether they be feral or normal. It brings her temporary comfort. Unfortunately, she hadn’t got to experience that besides Rin being around which brought her some security.

They conversed along the way and she learned some things about him as well as vice versa. He told her about his brother, Ran, and their friends. All in all, they’ve become closer, especially with him fitting as her protector in a way when fighting off the creatures. It felt good to have someone help her along this tough voyage. Finally reaching the top of the hill, he holds his arm out to stop her from walking.

She gazes at the dark castle, searching for the humans they spent so long talking about. She looks around in confusion until she noticed the dreadful creatures in uniform.

“R-Rin. What’s going on? Where’s the village?”

“Well the village is here, Y/n.”

“What do you mean? Why are there demons? Where did you bring me?” She asks as goosebumps form. Her stomach drops when he walks toward her, palm on her cheek.

“I guess I can go ahead and tell you, Y/n. You’re our destined sixth.” She eyes him with confusion. He rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, I know. Who’d want a weak human as a sixth mate? Instead of grabbing you, I wanted to test the waters and really get to know you out of boredom. It was fun playing human and all, but I really missed life here.”

Her eyebrows furrow as she snatched his hand away from her face.

“Y-you’re a demon.” She states, angry for being such a fool.

“To answer your question from earlier, I’ve brought you home.”

“No, no, no!” She exclaims, backing away from him. Her arms are caught by tight grips as she’s held up by the guards holding her limbs. Rin chuckles at the display of distress on her face.

“Yeah, it was easier than I thought it’d be. We’ll explain more later. You should rest, Y/n. You don’t look so good.”

Before she could respond, he motioned for the guard to shoot her with a tranquilizer.

She groans as her eyes open, blurred out vision revealing a ceiling as she wakes up. She slowly moves to rub her eyes, her ear perks when she hears a clunking sound. Pulling herself to sit up she notices her wrist cuffed to the wall of the cell, as well as the white gown on her figure.

She gazes at her clean skin, the dirt and grime from minimal showering completely gone. She gently rubs her skin as well as checking her body for any marks or injuries. She sighs in despair, remembering how she heard from somewhere that they clean their victims before serving the dish.

She turns her head to the guard who opens her gate, walking towards her with a set of keys. Getting ready to attack, her body tenses as she waits for him to unchain her. Once she’s unchained, she immediately punches his face and kicks his stomach, causing him to fall to the side.

Normally, he would’ve been able to fight her off and block her attack by using his own strength, but she caught him off guard, therefore he wasn’t expecting the attack. She snatches the keys that fell to the ground and runs out of the cell, locking him in just in time as he grabs the bars, stretching his arm to reach after her as he growls.

“Shit, shit, shit!” She hissed as she ran out of the door and through the hall.

My dumbass has no plan, no direction. Absolutely nothing to go off of but my legs. How the hell am I going to get out of here?

She pushes through servants and maids unapologetically as she ignores the pain in her legs and tightness forming in her chest as her breathing becomes ragged. She keeps her eyes straight ahead as she hears commotion from behind, guards gathering as they run after the human. Holding her hands up, she pushes through the random pair of black doors, entering a dining room.

Wide eyed, she ignores the demons eyeing her as she grabs a large knife. She stands beside the table, glancing at the content. A raw human’s body lays at the middle of the table, the head completely decapitated and nowhere to be found as the limbs have been cut off, different pieces of meat on everyone’s plate. She turns her head in disgust and gags.

“Oh my fucking god!” She exclaims. “Sick beasts!”

“I deeply apologize for this interruption, your highnesses.” The lead guard bows.

“This is quite entertaining.” The purple, short haired demon says as he takes a sip from his alcoholic beverage.

“Indeed, brother. I don’t ever recall a human creating such a commotion. Told you she was interesting.” Rin states, fiddling with the half eaten finger on his plate.

“Get back!” She exclaims, pointing the large knife at the guards who stalk closer. Scared out of her mind, she acts on impulse and grabs the black haired short man by the arm, pulling him out of his seat as she puts him in a chokehold with the knife pointed at his head. Demons' weak point is an impact to the head. If they get shot or stabbed in their brain, it will kill them. Anywhere else is child’s play considering they can heal themselves.

The pink haired demon almost stood up from the table to grab his lover from the arm of the human, though the golden eyed man set his hand on his thigh causing him to halt and look back at him with his piercing blue eyes.

“I’d be more worried for the human than Mikey, Haru.” He smiles, showing his fangs.

Mikey kept his eyes straight with a stoic expression, not bothering to struggle considering he could easily remove himself from her hold. The only thing keeping him from shredding her right now is the familiar tingling from their skin on skin contact. Pulling his head back he makes eye contact with her for a split second, causing her to release him from the intense shock she felt through her body.

“Leave her.” He states. His mates furrow their brows in confusion as well as the guards.

“B-but your Highness…” His dark eyes narrow at the guard.

“Are you questioning your King?”

The guard bows with a ‘no, your Highness,’ and guides his men out, shutting the door behind them.

Y/n could only stare in horror as she got a good look at her surroundings, realizing she’s in a room full of high class royals. She looks for any windows, desperate for an escape. When her eyes meet the familiar purple, a scowl forms on her face as she aims and throws the knife at Rin’s head, in which he dodges with ease causing the weapon to penetrate the wall behind him.

“This is your fucking fault!” She exclaims.

“Sit down.” Mikey states calmly, fed up with the situation at hand.

“I’m not sitting dow-!” She was cut off by a sudden force picking her up and shoving her in one of the seats, a pressure preventing her from getting up. Mikey sits back in his seat which is at the end of the table across from hers. She stares at them with disgust as they study her.

“She’s so…plain looking. How could she be our sixth?” Sanzu asks, rolling his eyes as he rests his hand on his palm.

“What did you expect from a human?” Rin takes a sip of his own beverage.

“I think she’s cute.” The golden eyed man states, chuckling at his mates conversation.

“You think everyone is cute, Kazu.” Mikey states with a tired eyed smile.

“Hey, that’s not true!”

“Don’t be in denial. It’s okay to admit that you’re a little slut.” Ran smiles widely.

“You certainly don’t mind admitting it in the bedroom.” Rin says.

“EXCUSE ME! What the fuck is going on?” Y/n, sick of the playful banter that she can’t understand, exclaims. She subconsciously backs away as different eyes bore into her.

“Somehow, you are our sixth destined soulmate.” Kazutora explains before taking a bite out of the forearm causing Y/n to look away.

“Humans don’t have soulmates.” She responds with confusion.

“You do now.” Sanzu scoffs. She glares at him before turning her attention back to her own empty plate, not wanting to see the view of the eaten human body.

“This seems to be a new thing for us all. Considering we knew of your arrival, we have everything planned out.” Ran states. Her eyebrows furrow at the word ‘planned.’

“Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re going to be a good girl and follow all the rules.” Rin says.

“Fuck your rules, I’m not staying here!” She slams her hands on the table.

“Fine, you don’t have to follow the rules.” Mikey shrugs.

Her throat closes as her arms and legs are bound by an invisible force. Her nostrils feel blocked as she struggles to gain some air, failing as her mouth was forced shut. Her eyes tear up as she becomes light headed.

“You can just die.” Mikey says with a bored look.

“Poor little human. Such a waste of a pretty face.” Ran states mockingly, shaking his head.

“Is this your fate or will you listen?” Rin questions.

She shuts her wet eyes and nods frantically, desperate to breathe again. Finally, the hold is released before she coughs and breathes heavily.

“Glad we’re on the same page. Let’s begin.”

[sakuraryomen01]

Valentino /Sukuna Ryomen x Reader/ .10

warnings: asshole sukuna, college prep. school (aka bitch u at an expensive ass school), former friends to lovers, slow burned love, yuji is sukuna's little brother, smut/nsfw, hook ups, sexual fantasies and masturbation

reader: female reader; 23 years of age, college prep.

plot: It's been years since you've moved from country life, since you've forgotten about all the things you used to love about your hometown and where you grew up from... you didn't think it'd chase you to college in the city after almost a decade..

words: 1.761k

fanfic masterlist: .o1 .o2 .o3 .o4 .o5 .o6 .o7 .o8 .o9 .10 .11 .12 .13 .14 .15 .16 .17 .18 .19 .20

a/n:: before u guys read i hope that y'all r doing well and that the beginning of this chapter isn't as traumatic as it seems (to me anyways lmao XD). my life is crazy, but i wanted to get this next chapter out asap!! i love u guys!!

. . .

Thank you for reading this! Enjoy!

. . .

“A-Ahh, fuck.. Shit~“

Dirty and whiny moaning, harsh slaps of skin on skin. The bed rocking hard, creating dents into the headboard, knocking against the wall. Nails dug into the skin of Sukuna’s biceps, his groaning and panting masked by the girl beneath him. Her cries louder than his ever were, the lewd mewls elicited from her throat as he continued to ram his cock deep into her cunny.

“Dammit, haa..” Sukuna’s brows pressed tighter together, his eyes glazing over as his edge neared. “Fuckk..”

The lady blushed, her gazed foggy but her cheeks flushed as she reached up to grab a hold of Sukuna’s face. Her fingers grazed the edges of his jawline as she squeezed harshly around his aching cock. He was so close.

“S-Sukuna.. I’m gonna cum again,” Her sultry voice echoed through his foggy head. The distraction he wanted to keep creating for himself wasn’t helping. Nothing was helping.

At this point, Sukuna didn’t know what to do anymore.

“Raise your damn ass, woman,” He said, his rough voice making the girl’s blush go from a slight heat to an almost feverish touch. Sukuna slipped himself from her heat– lifting her hips and flipped her onto her stomach– before slipping himself back into her warmth, beginning to feel his edge nearing, truly. “Fuck, ‘m close, girl.”

While Sukuna’s soft groans start to grow louder, even if only slightly, while the woman’s wails beneath him began to break. Her cries of pleasure and almost pain echoed with the bed’s creaking, only to be covered by the boom box downstairs and thirty other seniors and junior college students. The loud music, the booze, it was all a dangerous combo Sukuna had taken a liking to since attending this college. 

Since seeing you, and the moment he was forced to have you as a tutor.

He wasn’t so used to the common hustle and bustle, but seeing you among it. Seeing how well you were already molded into the society of the city, it disturbed him deeply. He didn’t understand, nor did he want to know why. All he knew was that it upset him, and he wanted to beat you at whatever this sad game was. This heart-to-heart shit wasn’t in the cards, neither was that “promise” he made. 

Sukuna was foolish when he was young, he didn’t want a broken heart. 

He didn’t have a broken heart.

“Call me sometime, hunny?” The drunk girl he had just destroyed giggled, slipping her pink and lacy thong over her plush thighs, a droopy smile on her face. “This was really, really fun.”

Sukuna, who was busy with his thoughts and belt, didn’t take a second glance. He just fixed his leather jacket up and grabbed his shoes, unlocking the door and leaving the room. “Not interested.”

While the woman was left frazzled and somewhat hurt, Sukuna fixed up his shirt and slipped on his shoes, glancing around the hallways before heading to the main living area. Grabbing another drink from the table, he chugged it down quickly despite the numb stink he got from the weird mixes. He crushed the plastic cup and turned away from all the grinding women and men that were swaying to the music that was playing outside, heading to the door as his mind began to fog up.

It was like an addiction, to remove all worry and annoyance from his mind.

Taking a second look around the party room, he pulled a small box from his back pocket and headed outside. Getting a lighter from his other pocket, he opened the small box, and lifted a cig from it. Bringing the stick to his lips, Sukuna lights the end of it as he climbs into his truck and starts the engine. While he said very few words on the way back to his dorm, he was lost in thought.

Thinking about the last month, seeing you near daily.

Seeing that skittish smile, and your nervous glances towards him. Even just recently, seeing you straight from the shower, it brought a small warmth to his cheeks. Although he’s seen tits before, it was shameful that he was wondering often what was hidden under that damned towel. What was covered that he didn’t want to think about after so long.

He had thought at first that you were truly the most annoying thing on the face of the planet, but a very small and dark part of him thought you had grown well. That your looks were down right gorgeous and adorable at the same time.

You looked so soft, but toned. Eyes pretty but they didn’t sparkle as bright as any attention whore he crossed paths with. You were perfectly imperfect to him.

Poetic.. Gross.

Once parked and out of the car, Sukuna walked from the parking lot to the male’s dormitory. His eyes found themselves looking towards the girl’s area, tracing each darkened or lit window they came across. Unable to spot which one probably belonged to you, he took a breath of the cold night air and a puff from his cancer stick. Wondering if your dorm was still as messy as it seemed last time. If it still smelled like cum and perfume. If your gaming system was all sorted like you used to keep your books in the Stix. 

The very thought of back then made him shiver and stiffen, pulling the now burned out end of the cigarette from his pinkish lips and pressing the lit end to a brick wall.

Tossing the bit over to the sidewalk, he stepped up to the building and headed to his dorn. Stepping passed the socks on knobs, the laughs of friends playing games in their rooms, the quiet murmurs and somewhat opened doors of people studying for their semi-finals and upcoming midterms. Sukuna passed them all to the third floor where his door sat at the very end of a quiet hallway, the silence almost too loud as he unlocked the door and pushed it open. 

Taking one step inside and feeling a sense of slight dread. A sense that something inside him wanted to stir.

Whatever it was, he was going to have to do it by hand.

Closing the door, he went to shower before going to make a breakfast burrito that he had saved from that morning. There wasn’t much on TV other than some news that didn’t interest him, so he got finished with his dinner and ended up watching some of the cartoons that he, you, and Gojo had watched prior. 

It didn’t matter if it made him kinda smile at the thought of you sitting on the floor with a blanket wrapped around your waist and thighs. It didn’t upset him to think about how cute you had grown up to be, that your features weren’t as bad as he wished they could. It was hard that he had to ignore this shitty clench of his chest and the throb in his pants.

Not a day in his life did Sukuna ever feel anything but rage or anger, but today, it was a feeling he despised. That he never wanted to feel again since his childhood, it was a stupid feeling he had squashed the second he left the Stix.

“..Fuck me,” He muttered to himself, letting his head rest back on the head of the couch. Pulling a blanket over his lap as Sukuna’s hand found its way underneath the cloth and rubbed at his crotch.

With very little effort, he could tell that he was rock hard. And even littler effort to free himself and start pumping his shaft, feeling all the pre that had collected in his pants. Sukuna lets out a groan, pressing his brows together as his mind wanders back to when he had walked in on you.

In my own room, you weirdo. At least you could’ve hung up a sock or some shit.

The cartoons continued to play, although the childish music and jokes on the screen didn’t make it to Sukuna’s ears. All he could think about was his new release, and about that damned towel. Wondering what would’ve happened if he had just snatched that rag and saw what was underneath for himself. Sukuna’s eyes lidded and his breath became ragged, thinking about what your tits felt like against his chest, wanting to grind his girth between them.

“Shit.. fuckk..”

The image of your small hips in his hands, letting him glide them over the fat or your ass until you yelped. Sukuna had wondered plenty about what your lips felt like against his, if you were a good or bad kisser. Whatever you were, he was willing to teach you. 

Returning the favor right?

Imagining the feeling of your lips between his teeth as he tugged and nibbled, wanting to watch them slightly swell from the kisses and breathless moans.

Sukuna felt his tummy and thighs clench, wanting to savor his orgasm. His hand went faster, the sounds of his fist pumping and shaking as pre slipped through his fingers became louder. Completely drowning out the sounds of the TV, Sukuna’s face scrunched up and he grabbed at the blanket.

His imagination brought him to his bed, your body under his. Your face flushed red, hands against his chest as if to attempt to push him away.

“Ryo.. It's embarrassing!”

Sukuna smirked as his fist squeezed his shaft, groaning under the intense pleasure. Wondering what your whimpers and moans sounded like, if your pussy was tight enough to make him finish early.

The thought of what lay between your thighs sent a jolt up Sukuna's spine, a sudden urge to cum overcame him.

He pulled the blanket from over his cock and glanced down at his naughty member. Seeing it become an angry looking red, it made him upset. How could you of all people make him so hard?

Why was it you? Your soft looking lips, your huggable waist and chest? Why of everyone he's fucked, everyone he's come across it was you that toppled over all?

Whatever his mind wanted, he wished he didn't.

As he released all over his pants, even kicking at his coffee table from the powerful climax, Sukuna's heart wasn't fulfilled.

He could feel a ping of guilt in his chest.

He really, really shouldn't have done that.

Worst part about it all was that he was going to be seeing you in class again, after the third time he played with his cock to thoughts of you.

“..Really.. Fuck my life.”

. . .

a/n: finally got the chapter out guys!! I'll be quick on here since there's little to say but I hope y'all r doing good!!><

Chapter Song Theme:

— Varsity Fanclub - Zero [Lyrics] | 7Vibes Lyrics

taglist: @mageyboo, @mzladyd , @mysticwonderlandangel, @sukunaspersonalflashlight, @kawaiipenguin20, @k-indie, @okkotsufav, @cafeinthemoon93, @pulchritxde, @bontenbunny, @deepinballs, @kleeboomed, @fiierytearzx, @wo-ming-bai, @instantgalaxysheep, @watyousayin, @z3r0art, @sukunaobsessed, @lik0, @sukunasfirstlove, @princesstiti14, @nemoyr, @ladywolf44005, @cat-mak20, @coffee-on-a-rainyautumn, @hxlalokidottir, @domainofmarie, @the-moongoddess, @dark-n-dirty-duchess, @agentdedf1sh, @sukunastoy, @lyn-soso, @bao-yu-sarah-morningstar-wang-9, @heyitstacy, @lost-in-tokyo, @marksassybanana, @bozos-r-us , @p-3-4-c-h, @chaoticqueen33, @dxxny-loves-u, @l0tus-in-l0ve , @jiordeci, @opossum0-0, @gumisgirl, @mommasbigd, @heyitstacy

last chapter || next chapter

[hearted-anon]

Christmas love

Words: 1, 068 Note: they make me explode Requested by: @itzsana-kiddingmenow T/w: none, fluffy Taglist: @reginald-stay09 @itzsana-kiddingmenow @hetashi-takashimaya @soap143 @jungwon-is-the-one @minnielvrr Lee: Channie Ler: Minho

"Ah, the snow falls so fast, doesn't it?" Chan sighs dreamily, reaching his hand out to catch one of the snowflakes that dropped in front of the setting sun. Minho nodded slowly in agreement, laying his head on Changbin's thigh while his hands drew tiny hearts into the thin layer of snow that was beginning to pile up. Their phones laid turned off on the nearby picnic blanket, needing to rid themselves of any distractions that could potentially interrupt the sweet moment between the trio. They sat atop a small hill, fairy lights illuminating their path while the sun's setting glow bathed them in the warm light.

They had organised a small outing for the three of them behind the member's back, desperate for a break just for the Hyung line to be one, their hearts molding with their eyes glued onto each snowflake that fell onto the blades of grass. It had been long since they got a break from their respective young ins, taking in shallow breaths that created tiny puffs of hair in the warm air. Guess they had been out for a little longer than expected. But what could they say, rays of orange captivating their gaze, and in the blink of an eye, an afternoon meant for catching up turned into stargazing into the night.

As clouds began to settle as a comfortable blanket around the moon, its spotlight shining down on them and illustrating a Cosmo of stars for their eyes to feast on, Chan crawled down onto the grass as well, his thick hoodie that seemed to be made of the woolly materials ever shielding him from the wetness of the snow. His arm lazily curled around Minho's and Changbin's shoulder, tugging them impossibly closer. They laid in silence snuggly for what felt like hours, fingers gently pointing and tracing out the stars that guided them near home, weak smiles plastered on their faces after letting the day's exhaustion seep into their bones.

"I'll get that, I think Hyunjin's concerned that I haven't said anything the entire day," Changbin mumbles, hearing his phone vibrate against the plastic of the picnic blanket, shuffling himself out of the sandwich that he was the filling of. With lots of struggles, giggles and pleading to be let go, Chan and Minho let him go reluctantly with pouts on their faces, though the dancer's was less obvious, delivering a loud smack to the rapper's behind which he shrieked and glared daggers into the bunny's soul for doing so. Wincing at the sound of Hyunjin's whiny voice over the speaker demanding Changbin be home right this instant for sneaking out, Chan slowly shifted himself closer to Lee Know, who pulled him closer instantly despite the scowl on his face.

"I don't think he'll ever hear the end of Hyunjin, ever since they started living together all I hear is poor Binnie being nagged at or begging us to let him in after Jinnie tried to snuggle him to death…" Chan said fondly, seeing how the younger struggled to come up with an explanation to his disappearance, only able to reassure the ferret that he was safe with his Hyungs.

"Hmm, I think it explains why, Hyunjin's always been the type to switch up real fast, seeing how they act on camera," Minho replied without thought, the Aussie assuming they were none behind his blank eyes anyway, only following the contours of the stars. Suddenly, the fingers that laid still against the elder's waist began to spider up and down gently, pulling a surprised squeal.

"Ehehe! Wahahait!" Chan babbled on, trying to keep himself quiet knowing that Changbin was right next to them, and on a call too! Although Minho too knew this, he kept silent, the corners of his lips tugging ever so slightly in a knowing smirk, continuing his ministrations almost nonchalantly.

"Aren't you just the cutest? Keep yourself quiet now, don't want Jinnie to hear you right~?" Lee Know whispered tauntingly into the leader's ear, earning a flustered squeak. The reaction was instant, the elder burying his head into the dancer's chest, shaking his head desperately with the sweetest melody of giggles stringing his heart along to continue. They just had to put the most smiley and adorable members in the same dorm, Minho thought, which wasn't at all obvious favoritism to his favourite Hyung and the maknae; he wouldn't ever do such a thing!

"Minhoho! H-Hahahave some mehehercy!" Chan pleaded uselessly, thrashing around on the snow, creating ghostly snow angels against the white powdery surface, the cat following along smoothly. His fingers wouldn't let up no matter where the leader went, fingers scribbling lazily over his stomach now, drawing hiccups and kicks of his legs. His warm breath ghosted the elder's cold ears, turning red from the freezing temperatures and from embarrassment. It felt like snowflakes were prickling against his skin, his gloves feeling useless against the cat's bare fingers, knowing that he was used to these environments from lone camping.

"Aha- Plehehehease! Ehehe!" Lee Know's heart melted away when he heard the weak giggles emitting from below him. Despite the snow that was threatening to turn all the ground around them into rainy puddles, his insides felt completely warmed up, not even noticing he was shivering. He was completely hypnotised by the leader's giggles, reminding him of a certain fox back home. As if on cue, his eyes glimmered at the red and green lights that began to flicker along the streets, slowing down his fingers on the Aussie to just soft pokes, still relishing in the flinches and squeaks he got.

"C'mon guys, the members are beginning to become worried," Changbin meekly admitted, finally having ended the call. He looked awkward, shuffling his feet in place as if he knew he had interrupted something. Tutting in sync, the duo rushed up to their favourable Hyung line maknae, cooing at him all the way through for being babied by Hyunjin, giggling together when they managed to see the rapper's ears turn a cherry red, hiding his face in his jacket sleeves like it'll rid their voices if he couldn't see them. Dropping Lee Know off at his dorm's front door, he gave a teasing wink to Changbin, leaning up to Chan one last time before letting him go.

"Merry 'early' Christmas Hyung, I better get lots of laughter from everyone on Christmas Day~"

[plasticinjectionmolds]

Ability to halt mid process and make design modifications

The cost of getting started with plastic injection molders near me is inexpensive. A desktop 3D printer and material supply are less expensive than injection moulding equipment. The spread of open-source software and hardware can also give low-cost or no-cost continuing maintenance. The design of plastic molding near me adjustments are simple. Because the plastic Injection molds 3D printing is an additive process, you may make design modifications even during manufacturing, saving time and money on a run of components that may have a fault. The ability to halt mid-process and make design modifications eliminates the need to restart the entire manufacturing run from the beginning.

[party-hearses]

pairing: dieter bravo x f!oc x f!reader (no use of y/n)

rating: explicit, MDNI 18+

word count: 6.6k

summary: your girlfriend and her close friend want to give you everything, and more.

warnings/tags: explicit smut, threesome, porn with some plot, breeding kink (heavy emphasis), pet names (baby a million times), alcohol consumption, dom/sub dynamics, sub!dieter, fingering, oral (f receiving), pegging, unprotected piv, squirting, creampie, painful sex (but it’s very consensual), overstimulation, very brief mention of drug use, cliff beasts 6 jumpscare. please let me know if i’m forgetting anything!

a/n: this fic belongs to @nostalxgic and @bastardmandennis; i cannot thank y’all enough for beta reading, letting me bounce ideas around, and allowing me to be depraved about this in general.

“It won’t be weird. I promise.”

You pause, toothbrush in your mouth, turning to face your girlfriend. “Em, I don’t know how it won’t be weird. The whole circumstance is weird.”

She tuts, sliding her hands across your hips from behind, fingers coming to rest at the soft place just below your stomach. “But worth it?”

“Worth it,” you confirm around the flimsy plastic between your lips. She pulls her hands away as you lean to spit toothpaste in the sink, mewling in protest.

“Sorry, baby,” she responds off-handedly, wrist curved, eyes on her watch. “I’m already running late — but I’ll see you tonight?” Her gaze meets yours again, reassuring and tender. “Everything will be fine. He already knows, he already agreed, this is just…a formality.” You watch in the mirror as she waves her hand around the word in the air, the confidence of the action settling the nervous needling in your belly.

You wipe the remnants of toothpaste off your mouth with the back of your hand before turning and stretching upwards to press a quick, chaste kiss to her lips. She’s out of the bathroom and down the hallway before you can make it more, the anxious excitement of it all making your fingertips buzz with desire.

“Worth it, baby! Just remember that!” she calls over her shoulder, the front door clicking closed behind her.

Your Lyft runs late, which you’re sure is a bad omen. Emily chalks it up to shitty traffic in a metropolitan city. You settle on both being right, neither wanting to spoil the night before it even starts. Not with so much on the line.

The restaurant you arrive at is casually upscale, all dark wood, gold flourishes, and the richest emerald green upholstery you’ve ever seen. The hostess leads you away from the bustling room in the front, to a more secluded area in the back, her bored smile not reaching her eyes.

Emily is tucked away in the large, nearly-empty room, alone in one of the grand booths. Relief rolls through your limbs, loosening them — you may be late, but you still manage to arrive before him.

Him — the mysterious entity that holds your future in the very palm of his hands. Emily hasn’t divulged much about him, meeting your questions with shrugs and ‘you’ll just have to meet him’s.

It doesn’t instill much confidence in you, which is why you’ve been so keyed up about the dinner date she’s set.

She anticipates your anxiety, handing you a glass of chilled white wine as soon as you crawl in the booth next to her. Just being near her reins you in, her pressed white button-up molded to the contours of her body, black blazer puddled in a heap next to her.

“You’re looking very corporate-sexy tonight,” you observe, lips pressed together in a slight frown as you pick up the glass. “How was work?”

Glancing up at the ceiling, she lets out a long, slow breath. “Let’s just say I’m happy to be here with you now.”

A smile pulls at the corners of your mouth, the reminder of exactly why you’re here settling low in your belly.

“Hey,” you whisper, tipping your glass in her direction, “cheers to having a baby put in me.”

“That’s my girl,” she grins, throwing back what’s left of her own wine.

You’re on your second glass of wine when a distinct buzz erupts from the front of the restaurant, as if all the energy in the building had burst at once. The same hostess, previously dead-faced and slouched over, pushes her shoulders back and wrings her hands nervously on the surface of the podium.

Knitting your brows together, you crane your neck to see exactly what — or whom — the commotion is all about. You can’t see much, just a pair of hands making animated gestures, multitude of rings catching the light of the foyer.

When the owner of the hands finally moves into view, it’s impossible to miss how devastatingly handsome he is — unkempt, overgrown brown curls framing the golden glow of his skin, a strong, masculine nose and hard lined jaw covered in dark scruff, broad frame under a wrinkled black t-shirt with Siouxsie and the Banshees scribbled across it. Elegantly disheveled, like he’d rolled out of bed hungover to show up at a red carpet event.

And a pair of sunglasses, no doubt designer, obscuring his eyes.

He dips his chin slightly to peer over them, gaze sweeping past the hostess to lock directly onto you. It startles you, the assuredness with which he does it. As though he’s looking for you. A dazzling grin splits across his features, his cheeks rounding with the size of it, never breaking eye contact.

But you do.

“Oh shit, Em! It’s Dieter Bravo!” you hiss, snapping your head back to stare wide-eyed at Emily. She’s watching him, too, but with a different expression — a knowing expression. Her eyes flit to yours for the briefest of moments, her plump lips curled into a shy smile.

“So it is.”

It takes you all but two seconds to put the pieces together, your mouth popping open in surprise when you do. Anxiety builds in your chest, the thought of letting a movie star impregnate you never having crossed your mind.

“Why didn’t you tell me that it was Dieter fucking Bravo? Why didn’t you tell me that you know Dieter fucking Bravo?” You keep your voice low, but sharp. Pulse quickening, panic spreading through your limbs once again, you grab at Emily’s arm.

“Didn’t want you to freak out more than you already were,” she replies, turning to you to brush a tangle of hair behind your ear. It’s gentle, more gentle than you deserve at this moment, allowing the boiling of your blood to settle to a low simmer. You chew your lip, dropping your hand into Emily’s lap to intertwine her fingers with yours.

Your eyes track between the two of them, Dieter’s approach to the table slowed by the hostess and a handful of patrons wanting autographs, pictures, handshakes — some moment of intimacy with a celebrity, some story to tell their friends.

But he keeps his eyes fixed on you, a tender smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth all the while.

When he does eventually reach the table, onlookers in his wake, Emily stands to greet him, but he extends his hands to you, picking your own up from its place on the table.

“Hello, gorgeous.”

His voice is strawberry ice cream with sticky cherries on top. You’ve only ever heard it on movie screens, and hearing it spoken directly to you sends waves of electricity up the column of your spine.

Your hand still in his, he brings it to his mouth, pressing the most delicate of kisses to your knuckles.

“Fucking corny,” Emily mumbles, shoving into his shoulder with the flat of her palm.

He laughs smoothly at the impact, finally removing his sunglasses to expose the warm amber of his irises.

“I’m Dieter.”

“I kn-…I…I’m…” you stutter, caught off guard not only by how much more handsome he is up close, but by how charming he is right off the bat.

“I know exactly who you are, sweet girl.” He kisses your knuckles once more for good measure, placing your hand gently back on the table before turning his attention to Emily.

“Em,” he grins, adoration seeping through the way he says her name. She matches his expression before they air kiss each other’s cheeks, his hands on her shoulders, and you’re all at once taken aback at how intimate it feels.

That same intimacy envelopes you as he slides into the booth, immediately beckoning the server over with two fingers in the air.

“What are you drinking?” His gaze is burning through you again, voice low. Like you’re the only two people in the room. You’re marginally aware of Emily’s fingers stroking the flesh of your inner thigh, too entranced with Dieter to pay attention.

You’ve always been aware of him as an enigma — celebrity tabloids capitalizing on his very public drug problems, interviews labeling him an eccentric artist. Not to mention the infamy of the Cliff Beasts 6-turned-scathing-documentary and his subsequent marriage.

The question falls out of your mouth before you can stop it, some strange combination of star-struck and anxious-enough-to-vomit knocking the sense out of you.

“Aren’t you married?”

He runs a palm over his mouth, failing to conceal the playful smile therein.

The server materializes right then, but Dieter keeps his eyes on you, even as he orders.

“Champagne. A bottle. We’re celebrating.”

Wicked curiosity flickers in the pool of his gaze, waiting to see your next move. The way a predator watches prey.

The only move you make is to look up at him through your lashes expectantly, hands folded in front of you. It’s Emily who quietly thanks the server, sending him on his way. Her own body language is relaxed, back sloped against the tufted material of the booth, thumb tracing aimless circles beneath the hem of your dress.

“So, I get to put a baby in you, hmm?”

Heat blooms across your chest, rising into your cheeks. Emily is as taciturn as you’ve ever seen her, unfazed by how direct the statement is, her fingers crawling higher to ghost the lace of your panties.

You squirm under both her touch and his stare, nodding lamely at the question, heart beating rapidly in your ears.

“I should be so lucky,” he breathes, drawing closer to you, skimming his knuckles over your cheekbone.

It’s sultry, the way he touches you. The way Emily lets him touch you. You’re all doe-eyes and plush parted lips when she tips forward to whisper don’t be nervous, baby, into the shell of your ear.

And you’re not — not anymore.

The champagne comes, nestled cozily into a bucket of ice, at the same time Emily’s work phone buzzes, hard and jarring against the surface of the table.

“Hafta get this,” she grumbles, eyes falling to the screen, voice edged with irritation. Dieter acknowledges her with a tip of his head as she excuses herself from the table, already barking orders at the person on the other end of the line.

The server pops the cork, pouring the bubbly liquid into three glasses, and you feel the vibration of it in your bones.

In any other circumstance, you’d be self-consciously fidgeting with your dress, or reaching for the champagne too quickly, or avoiding eye contact completely. But it feels different with Dieter, natural. Like you’d been here a million times before — like he’d touched you a million times before.

“So,” he prompts, fingers brushing yours as he hands you one of the glasses, “Emily tells me you’re an artist?”

You sip the drink, the bubbles tickling your belly as they settle.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

He gives a sly half-smile, eyes sparking with humor as he leans back to tip his own drink into his mouth. He extends an arm over the back of the booth, and you notice for the first time the solid black triangle tattooed there. He doesn’t say anything when you reach out to glide your fingers over it, just notches his head to watch it happen.

“I’m not married.”

“Oh?” You raise a brow, glancing back in his direction.

He shakes his head slowly, studying you. “Didn’t quite work out that way.”

You say nothing, just sip your drink again coyly without breaking eye contact. It keys him up, you can tell, by the way he downs the rest of the champagne in his glass.

“Figure I deserve to know, if we’re gonna be…involved, in whatever capacity.”

His eyes flash then, pupils nearly swallowing the color around them. Unbeckoned, the server returns to fill your glasses, but Dieter doesn’t even look his way.

“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know,” he breathes, leaning in to diminish the space between your bodies.

You wave your hand in the air in front of you, an invitation. He knows what you’re asking — what everyone asks. He sucks in a deep breath.

“Covid really fucked me up, if I’m being totally honest. Not that I didn’t have issues before…but quarantine really…exacerbated them. And lucky for me, it’s all on tape.” He grins.

Bringing your glass back up to your lips, you consider this. It’s endearing, the way he’s at ease with himself. How he can make a joke of it, but still feel entirely authentic.

“Isn’t it kind of weird, us asking you to do this?” It’s a genuine question, playful pretense dropped.

He shrugs, sipping his champagne again. “I’m kind of a weird guy.”

You giggle, mind made up. Adrenaline surges through you, and you’re almost surprised when you recognize the depth of your desire with it.

Emily makes her way back to the table, shaking her head and typing out of a message on her phone. She stops next to you, finally looking up, eyes darting between you and Dieter.

“I want Dieter to come home with us tonight.”

You don’t need to look at him to know that he wants it, too. That he’s wanted it since the moment he sat down. You drop your hand to his thigh, squeezing suggestively.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Emily grins in response.

Dieter familiarizes himself with the living room as Emily opens another bottle of champagne in the kitchen. The quick popfizz of the cork excites you, makes you clench your thighs in anticipation. You’re so aware of your body in this moment — the curves and swells, the scorching heat rolling through your veins. The arousal you’ve felt all night is on the very tip of your tongue, threatening to spill over.

He’s looking at your framed photos on the mantle, hands nonchalantly buried in his pockets. He looks so competent, you think, standing on the precipice of this. It’s endearing. It’s sexy.

“Dieter.” His name leaves your lips as a purr, low and sultry. There’s a smirk pulled across his mouth as he turns to face you, as his eyes rove over your flushed form, as he closes the distance between the two of you.

The atmosphere in the room is thick, a heady electricity buzzing in your ears as he drops next to you on the couch, solid thigh pressing into yours. It doesn’t take more than a moment for him to take your chin between his thumb and pointer finger, angling your face to him. His lips ghost yours, a barely-there kiss that makes you pout and chase his touch.

He laughs, a sweet, gentle laugh that makes your blood spike, and you press your mouth to his hard enough to bruise. He reciprocates by running his hand down your body to grasp your thigh, dragging you over top of him. He nips at your bottom lip, begging for entrance, and you let him devour you, kissing you like he’s waited too long to do so.

There are fingers at your neck, sliding up into your hair to fist at the root and tip your head backwards. You mewl, lips abruptly torn from Dieter’s, but Emily’s quickly replaces them, licking into you attentively while Dieter laves kisses across your collarbones.

You can feel how hard he is beneath you, and you grind down onto him, searching for friction — for relief. He catches on quickly, canting his hips up into you, wordlessly encouraging you to take, take, take.

“Let’s get you out of this dress, baby,” he groans when it’s too much, cradling your ass with his hands tight enough to him that he can stand, to carry you into the bedroom.

It’s hard to keep up with who belongs to which touch — Dieter’s calloused fingers grip your thighs from beneath, wrenching them apart, your dripping sex on display. He’s on his knees, wedged between your splayed legs, while Emily’s deft maneuvering of the hard peaks of your nipples is familiar, her tongue against the column of your neck keeping you grounded, present.

She’s sat back on her haunches, muscular thighs making a home against your hips, allowing you to slope back against her body. Her head is dipped to the hollow of your neck, but you know her eyes are on Dieter — on the way he kisses the soft space just below the round fullness of your tits, the way he nips at the tender flesh of your ribs and belly.

You can’t help but reach out and card your hands through the length of his hair as he kisses further down your body, pulling back just slightly when he gets to your glistening cunt. You feel Emily grin against your skin, still watching.

“She wet, D?”

“Soaking,” he mumbles, before licking a broad stripe through your folds, eyes hazy. His arms hook beneath you, fingers curling so his rings press indents into the softest parts of you. He holds you to his mouth, the thick chain around his neck and coarse mustache scratching against your silk skin.

It’s overwhelming.

Dieter circles your clit with his tongue expertly, drawing it down every few strokes to taste the salt of your slick. Your head falls back against Emily’s shoulder, quiet moans punctuating the sound of his mouth against you.

His tongue snakes into you, the sudden intrusion making you gasp and grind down against the lower half of his face. He hums in approval, arm stretching across your body to pin you down, to hold you still. You tug on a handful of messy curls, fingertips catching deliciously against his scalp.

His hums take the languid shape of groans, and you feel him rocking his hips down into the mattress, searching for some sense of relief with the friction.

“Use your fingers, D,” Emily growls, in a voice you’ve never heard before. A different kind of thrill winds up your limbs, digging its tendrils into you as her mouth moves down to meet her fingers, drawing your nipple taut between her teeth.

At her command, he unwraps his hand from your thigh to nudge a thick finger against your opening, still lapping at your wetness with his broad tongue. You’re nodding and mewling and clenching — please D, please — so when he grants you an extra finger, stars burst behind your eyes. He presses them all the way in, crooking at an angle that makes your hips cant upwards desperately.

“So tight,” he mutters, dragging the rough tips against your velvet walls again, finding that place deep within you that makes everything feel fizzy and hot.

“Good boy,” Emily purrs around your pebbled nipple, and Dieter moans against you, eyes fluttering shut.

“Say it again, Em.” His words are mangled, lips suctioning to your clit, gently toying with the sensitive bundle of nerves.

Emily giggles darkly, a taunt if you’ve ever heard one.

“Not until you make baby cum all over your fingers.”

Dieter’s eyes flash open, locking onto yours from his place between your legs. The warm amber of them is alight with lust, eclipsed by the blown-out black of his pupils.

The urgent need rolling off his skin turns you inside out, makes the muscles in your abdomen pull taught. You feel as wrecked as he looks, the soft edges of an orgasm swirling into focus in your core.

“Gonna cum,” you manage, the words edged out by your quickening breath.

“Cum for D, baby,” Emily implores. “Cum for us.”

Dieter can feel how close you are, too, given the way he pumps his fingers into you with a new ferver, one final suck of his mouth tipping you over into oblivion.

Your cunt clenches around his massive digits, head lolling into the crook of Emily’s neck as the waves of pleasure overwhelm you. She skates her fingers up the delicate line of your neck to grasp your jaw, wrenching it up to press your lips to hers, swallowing every moan that you emit.

Dieter fucks you through it, flattening his hand against your abdomen to prolong his ability to gather the slick that pours out of you on his tongue.

“Good boy, Dieter,” Emily repeats the praise between kisses, “very, very good boy.”

He draws his fingers out of you, growling as he raises his body and sucks them into his mouth. You watch, Emily’s tongue massaging hot against yours, as he savors the taste of you on his skin. Your slick shines wet on his cheeks, glitters in his facial hair.

You rove your gaze over the entirety of his hulking form, hard muscles and soft belly, kneeling at your altar. Ready and willing to give you the one thing you so badly want, without hesitation.

Emily peppers kisses down your cheek and jaw, allowing you to turn your full attention to Dieter. The lingering aftershocks of your orgasm intensify as he drops his hand to the base of his cock, the head flushed dark and dripping pre-cum when he squeezes.

He looks like heaven.

There’s a smirk pulled across his mouth as he bears his weight back down on his arms, crawling up the bed to hover over your pliant body. He ghosts his knuckles across your womb, dipping his head to press kisses down the other side of you.

“Can’t wait to see you round with our baby, baby.” Emily murmurs, her gaze flitting up to Dieter’s hand on the place below your stomach, the reality of it settling into your bones.

It’s all consuming, the sudden need to have Dieter buried to the hilt inside of you — to give you a baby. You mewl, a pathetic, broken sound, grasping his wrist to drag his hand back down to your aching sex.

“Mmm, needy little thing, aren’t you?”

Emily hums in agreement, hands grasping at your hips from behind.

Dieter cups your mound in his large hand, raising his head to meet Emily’s eyes.

“Can I fuck her, Em?”

She tips her head to the side, pressing a final kiss to the sensitive skin of your throat.

“Hmm, I don’t know, D,” she teases, nosing the soft cut of your jaw. “What do you think, baby? Has he earned it?”

You nod enthusiastically, needing, needing, needing, elevating your hips to rock your core in Dieter’s hand.

“Okay, baby.” She turns her gaze to Dieter again, reaching out to trace his plush bottom lip with her thumb. His eyes are glassy, chest rising and falling raggedly. “Can’t cum til I say, right, D?”

“Yes, Em.”

She pushes her thumb into his mouth, his lips wrapping around it obediently. She bites down on her bottom lip, and you can feel her pulse pick up from where you lie.

“Sit up, baby,” she suddenly directs, easing you forward. Dieter follows, backing up onto his knees, wrapping his arms around your form to keep you pressed against his chest. He smells like sex and smoke and you, and it’s intoxicating.

Before you can fully process what you’re doing, you’re wrapping your fist into the curls at the nape of his neck, dragging his face down so you can taste yourself on his lips. He reciprocates immediately, licking into you with such intensity that you both nearly stumble over.

You wrap your other arm around his neck, his own tightening in their embrace around you. It’s secure — so secure that you don’t feel Emily slip out from her place behind you.

Dieter’s mouth doesn’t leave yours as he guides you down onto your back, nudging your legs apart with his knee. He only pulls away to glance down as he grasps the base of his cock, notching himself against your slick entrance.

“Wait, D,” you whine, pushing feebly against the solid plane of his chest. “Wanna be on top.”

He draws back, eyes searching yours.

“Are you sure? It’s…I’m…I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“She can take it,” Emily cuts sternly from somewhere behind him. “She’s a good girl. She’ll take whatever you give her.”

He knows better than to question further.

Reaching backwards, he pulls one of your legs around his abdomen, and you follow by doing the same with the other. He slips a massive arm behind your back, and in one swift motion, he’s flipping you both over.

He settles his mussed halo of curls on the pillow, maneuvering your abdomen to situate your cunt just over the length of his cock. You roll your hips forward, catching his tip against your swollen clit. A ribbon of light unfurls down your spine, tightening around it when he groans from low in his throat.

You flatten your palms against his chest, anchoring yourself as you rock against him a second time.

“C’mere sweet girl,” he rasps, planting a thick hand against your hip to poise his leaking head against your entrance.

A tangled pant escapes your lips as you finally sink down onto him, the sumptuous sting of the initial stretch waning into an insistent throb.

“Fuu-uuck, baby,” he gasps, “you’re so tight.”

Neither of you move for a moment, each adjusting to the other, the walls of your pussy clenching around him.

Emily drops behind you, kneeling between Dieter’s legs. Her hands slide down your sides, one grasping at your waist to encourage you forward, to make you move, the other stroking wicked ministrations at your throbbing clit.

Dieter grunts out a strangled noise, his fists balled in the sheets beneath him. Emily tuts, removing her hand from your side to grip his wrist, placing his palm over your breast. She pushes her fingers over his, a silent direction to squeeze.

He obeys, lifting his other hand to caress the full roundness of your tits, drawing his fingernails over the peaks of your nipples. You shiver, goosebumps rising over the span of your arms and thighs.

You’re moving against him faster now, his cock hitting athe deepest parts of you. It’s so much, you’re so full, and the tight circles that Emily rubs across your clit send you spiraling to the edge.

Emily can feel it in the way your back arches against her, can see it in the way you tremble over Dieter’s cock, can hear it in the way your breath hitches and soft, breathy moans punch the air between you.

“Baby’s gonna cum, D. Look how good you’re doing,” she coos. “What a good boy you are.”

He clenches his eyes closed, focusing on anything but how your tits feel in his palms, on the heavy drag of his cock in your soaked folds.

“D,” Emily directs, leaning across you to dig her fingers into his cheeks. “You know better than to close your eyes.”

His fluttering lids pop back open, expression pleading, jaw slack. But Emily angles his head so he’s forced to look at the way he’s splitting you open, how the soft pads of her fingers are undoing you.

And you break, then, throwing your head back and bearing down on Dieter’s cock, fast and hard. Your orgasm washes over you, stars bursting behind your eyelids. Dieter growls, low and animalistic — primal.

“Again.” Emily’s voice is gruff in your ear, her fingers relentless at the apex of your thighs.

“I…I don’t think…” you start to stammer, but she hushes you by leaning in and pressing her tongue into your open mouth.

“Again,” she repeats when she pulls back.

Your moans shift into broken pleas, high-pitched and desperate. Dieter pulls at your hard nipples, rolling them between his skilled fingers. He’s groaning, too, eyes half-lidded and chest flushed.

It’s all so much, your body tightening more, more, more, hypersensitive from not having come down yet.

“You like it, baby? Like bouncing up and down on his cock? Like knowing he’s gonna cum so deep inside you?”

“L-like it, Em. Like it.” You mumble, vision deliciously blurred, words meaning nothing to you.

“Love seeing you cock drunk and babbling. It’s the only way I’ll let him give you a baby, baby. If you let him fuck you stupid.”

Dieter’s fucking up into you now, your own body no longer capable of being in control. His movements are sloppy, erratic, arms wrapped around your waist for leverage, but hitting every part that you need him to. Emily’s pace on your clit is grueling, tears pricking at the backs of your eyes.

But you’re cumming again, strangling Dieter’s cock with your convulsions, slick streaming out of you, pooling in the cradle of his hips. Fat, salty tears roll down your cheeks.

Emily finally drags her fingers back, smearing slick across your hip, skating them up your body to deposit them in your mouth. You suck obediently, obscenely, eyes closed. She laughs lowly, delighted at your capitulation.

And then she’s gone, her footsteps receding across the bedroom floor.

It takes everything in you to stay upright, Dieter’s weighty arms and warm chest an alluring invitation. But you know you’re not done, the grand finale within tasting distance.

Dieter shifts, loosening his grip, slowing his movements. Allowing you both some reprieve from the overstimulation, a chance to catch your breaths. He doesn’t stop completely, however, rocking up into you deliberately — almost sweetly.

It doesn’t last. You hear Emily return, her steps stopping at the threshold of the door.

“Look at our pretty girl, Em,” Dieter babbles, fingers splayed across the globes of your ass. He drives up into you again, hard, using his hands to spread you apart from behind at the same time. Putting all of you on display — your stretched open cunt, strained against his length, and the delicate ring of muscle just above — for Emily, who smirks from her place in the doorway.

You look over your shoulder at her, eyes hooded and chest heaving, your breath catching when you see what she’s sporting — the black harness and pink strap that you’re so accustomed to. You swallow hard, unprepared.

“O-oh. I didn’t know…”

“S’not for you, baby,” she chuckles, gesturing towards Dieter with her chin. You watch, mesmerized, as she runs her hand over the length of the toy, as commanding as you’ve ever seen her, while striding across the room.

Dieter whines when he sees it, his hips stalling against you, eyes practically rolling back in his head at just the idea of it. It would be pathetic, if it didn’t turn you on to see him so needy.

Emily comes to stand beside you, skating the tips of her fingers up the notches of your spine. The neon toy bobs suggestively between you, and despite your heavy limbs, your mouth waters.

She flattens her palm against the small of your back, effectively crumpling your lithe body against Dieter’s chest with little effort. He whimpers in your ear, cock flexing against your walls at the sudden change in position.

But he’s impatient, and Emily is persistent.

“Up,” she commands, tapping his thigh twice before moving to stand at the end of the bed. He obeys, rolling your both over gently, depositing you on your back, pressing reassuring kisses to your neck and collarbones.

“I got you,” he mumbles knowingly into your sticky skin, before Emily grasps his thighs from behind to drag him down the length of the bed.

You yelp, a giggly, surprised kind of yelp, as his grip pulls you with him, cock still buried in the furthest reach of you.

He’s kissing you again, tasting you with a different kind of urgency, while he hovers above you on all fours.

“You’ve been so good, D, giving baby what she needs,” Emily soothes, voice dripping with lust — with authority. “Now it’s your turn to get what you need.”

His body stills, save for the pounding of his heart against yours, his forehead dropped to rest on the slope of your shoulder. His heavy breath punches near the base of your throat, a hard swallow as you hear the cap on the bottle of lube click open.

You watch Emily through your lashes over the incline of Dieter’s back, his hips raised in perfect alignment to her imposing cock. She squirts the slippery liquid on her hand, and Dieter’s body quivers at the noise — at what he knows is imminent.

The way she jerks her hand up and down over the toy sets a fire in your belly, and you can’t help but arch beneath Dieter, your vigor renewed at the sight of it. You so badly want him to move, to buck back into you, to fuck you until he cums.

Emily smirks from where she stands, dripping the lube over the curves of Dieter’s ass, and you feel his jaw tighten against you when she does. It’s followed by a dark giggle as she trails her fingers through the slick, spreading it over every part of him.

“Ready, D?”

He hums in affirmation, a desperate, splintered noise that rolls across your skin. A plea.

She slips one finger inside him, all the way to the knuckle. He responds in kind, his hips jerking into you, a guttural moan crawling from his throat.

“Enough?” she taunts, pumping in and out of him the same way he’d done to you.

His hips keep rhythm with her, and the relief pooling low in your cunt makes you want to sob.

He shakes his head, mouth moving to capture your nipple, laving his tongue against the peak of it.

“Say it, D.”

“More,” he growls in response, muffled by the flesh of your breast. “More.”

Emily inserts a second finger, and he keens, driving into you with more force than he has all night. You squeak, wrapping your arms around his shoulders to steady yourself, the warm metal of his chain heavy beneath your fingers.

His hips snap against you relentlessly, almost painfully. Your lashes flutter against his sweat-damp curls, and in one swift moment, Emily removes her fingers to be replaced by the toy.

She pushes all the way into him, grinding against the meat of his ass when she reaches the hilt. His body arcs, hammering into your already-used pussy with such power that a choked sob catches in your throat.

Tears swim in your eyes again, streaming down your cheeks only when Dieter hooks his arm under your thigh to press it up into your ribs. Your calf rests on his shoulder, and the position stretches you open more than you ever have been before.

“Mmm, perfect, D,” Emily approves, voice faltering. “If you really want to put a baby in her, you need to cum deep.”

He grunts in agreement, his breathing shattered and sharp. You can feel the way Emily thrusts into him as he thrusts into you, and it’s all at once too much.

Heat swirls in your cunt, tight, tight, tight, snapping as Dieter’s groans grow louder in your ear. Seeing him come undone sends pinpricks of intense pleasure over every part of your body, and you think you brokenly whisper the words gonna cum into his hair.

He pounds into you hungrily, encouraged by the way your pussy pulses around his thick length. It’s all you need — your cunt spasming, devouring, taking, as another orgasm rips through you, stealing the air from your lungs. Everything following is a white static.

Dieter isn’t far behind, his thighs shaking between you and Emily, torn between the push and pull of giving and receiving deliciously.

“Need to cum,” he finally cuts, voice tight. He doesn’t stop, but Emily doesn’t stop either, still slamming into him as hard as he does into you.

Emily doesn’t hesitate in her response.

“No. Not yet. Need to make baby cum one more time.”

Those words cut through, a knife through the fog.

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” you cry, fingernails digging into Dieter’s muscular shoulders, at the same time Dieter cries out.

“Please, Em,” he begs, voice cracking through the air in the room. “Please.”

“One more,” she directs, hands gripping Dieter’s hips, guiding him back onto her length. “You can, baby. You can.”

You’re sobbing now, knee pressed into your chest, spread open, split in two, stuffed full.

“You can, baby, you can,” Dieter echoes in your ear, his own voice just as desperate — strained and thick. “Cum for me. Let me give you a baby.”

And you do, melting beneath his solid body completely, tears dripping down your temples into your hair. It overtakes you entirely, slick gushing from your aching cunt, soaking both Dieter and the sheets beneath you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Dieter spits, and you can taste the urgency in his voice. “I can’t…I need…baby, you’re so fucking tight.”

“Ask for it, D.” Emily smirks, knowing, too, that he’s well past the point of return.

“Pl…please. Need…need… to c-cum,” he chokes, thrusts brutal and frantic.

“Cum, then. Give baby a baby.”

Immediately, Dieter’s entire body tenses, tight as a bow string, before he’s fucking into you with reckless abandon, arms flexing, primal growls ripping from deep in his chest. He presses his open mouth to your shoulder, teeth scraping your buzzing skin, as thick ropes of cum spill inside of you.

Time slows as it happens, your awareness of every pulse and clench of his cock heightened. There’s so much of it — flooding your pussy, gushing out around his still-hard cock, dripping down the curve of your ass.

For what feels like an eternity, the only sounds in the room are three rugged, matching breaths.

“Good boy, D,” Emily finally gasps, leaning forward to ruffle his curls affectionately. “You did so good.”

He mumbles something against your skin that you can’t make out, but sounds a lot like thank you.

Your head is still swimming, the bittersweet throb between your thighs persistent.

Dieter finally pulls out, delicately, easing his frame down next to yours.

“Okay, baby?” he mumbles into your ear, and you think you nod.

Your eyelids are heavy, so heavy, body overwrought and sensitive to the touch. But you don’t pull away when he nuzzles into your neck, lips grazing the tender flesh there. The pads of his fingers slide back and forth over your womb a few times, a mesmerizing movement that lulls you half to sleep.

“Sit up,” Emily whispers, rousing you just enough that you let her guide your malleable body to a sitting position. “Arms.”

You obey, eyes still cloudy, raising your arms over your head so Emily can pull a t-shirt down over your exposed body. It’s too big, and smells too much like Dieter, to be your own. The material puddles in your lap, and Dieter fists the hem to tug you back down to him. He’s all soft sighs and kitten licks when you capitulate, open palm tugging your hips flush to him.

Then the mattress bows, Emily climbing on the other side of you, sandwiching your body between the two of them. She gently clasps your cheeks, angling your face towards her so she can press her mouth to yours reverently.

“Tired, baby?”

“Mmhmm,” is all you can muster, your limbs still liquid.

Dieter presses his forehead to the contour of your shoulder, warm breath fanning your dewy skin when he speaks in a whisper.

“I should go.”

Your eyes fly open, and you’re squirming around to face him, winding your legs into his to cling to him.

“No. I want you to stay. I want you to stay at least until it’s for sure,” you pout.

He cranes his neck to look across you at Emily, unsure how to proceed. She laughs affectionately, brushing away the hairs clinging to your sweat-damp forehead.

“Baby makes the rules, D.”

“Baby makes the rules,” he affirms, dropping his hand between your legs to thumb any stray drips of cum back into you.

[rhaegang]

So, this is going anonymous because I'm a pussy. But I have a very huge size difference kink, I don't know, I love it, and Cattonquick makes it even worse, but something I haven't seen much in fics is exploring Oliver with a size kink. AUHGGG IT'S JUST, Félix is a giant, Oliver looks so tiny next to him, just his hands are huge, now imagine the size of his cock. Idk, it bothers me to think about that and not see people doing something with it

Sorry, I'm cringe

I do think this features in most cattonquick stories. Their size difference is such a main aspect of the pairing!

But as far as it being like, THE central focus of a fic or a scene in one, I don’t know of many. So…

It’s fun to imagine what Oliver is daydreaming about all those times he’s staring at Felix. Longing for Felix. Thinking of Felix (forever thinking of Felix).

So let’s imagine, Oliver is staring at Felix. He’s inching up every last inch of Felix with his eyes. And there are so many. His arms and legs go for miles. His chest and back are broad, even if he’s a bit bony and slim. His neck is long. His fingers are too. His hands — on the fretboard of the guitar, or holding a plastic cup and a beer bottle together in just one hand, or resting on Oliver’s knee and completely covering it — damn. Felix has such big hands.

Oliver absolutely would think about Felix’s hands and consider, okay. Proportionately, that means his cock has to be…

He takes the bus to Reading, which has the closest adult shop outside of Oxford. He has, folded in his pocket, an outline he made of Felix’s hand on a piece of notebook paper by tracing it while Felix slept.

He becomes someone new when he goes into the shop, someone who has no shame, someone who does shit like this all the time. Oliver becomes this someone because that’s the only way he’s going to get what he wants.

He asks one of the shop clerks, “what have you got that’s big enough this hand would barely fit around it?”

The clerk doesn’t give a fuck that it’s a strange question. She’s heard far stranger. And since this guy looks harmless (he’s barely bigger than herself, which, aw) she plays along.

“Did you want something that takes batteries, darling?”

She opens boxes for Oliver so he can feel each one. The weight, the length, the almost anxiety-inducing girth of some of them. The one he chooses is as realistic looking as the come. In fact, it’s apparently molded from a real man’s cock; the little racy blurb on the back of the box has a few sentences about him, including his height and how much he bench presses.

The front of the box doesn’t have sentences. It’s just one word: goliath.

It costs a fortune, wiping out Oliver’s pocket money so he’s actually as broke as he’s been pretending to be, at least for the next two weeks.

Oliver is half hard in his trousers the entire bus ride back to Oxford, clutching his backpack with its passenger on his lap to hide it.

The curtains get closed, the door locked; and fuck it, Oliver sticks his chair under the doorknob for good measure, too. He can’t take any chances. He needs to focus.

There’s a few less than sexy steps between barricading the door and when Oliver finally hovers over the massive silicone cock he’s got stuck to the centuries-old hardwood floor, but they’re done and now he’s here.

He’s here, and he’s going to fit this massive thing inside him (and imagine that it’s bloodwarm, imagine that it’s pulsing, imagine that it’s Felix that he’s straddling because if they did missionary, Felix might crush him—) even if it fucking kills him.

It winds up taking Oliver a lot more work to take the whole thing than he expected. It’s hours later, and he’s sore and swollen and overstimulated, but he gets there in the end. His thighs burn from all the careful squatting and shifting, and when he finally can get down near the base of it, his legs give. It drops him a bit harder down onto Felix, rams Felix’s dick up into his guts in a way that makes him hiccup.

“So big.” It’s a whimper. “God, Felix.”

His hole feels so stretched he worries it’ll never go back to normal. But then, for Felix, Oliver doesn’t care if he has to be broken. He doesn’t care if he’ll feel loose to anyone else, anyone smaller. Oliver knows anyone less than Felix would never satisfy him in any way, so, no. He doesn’t care if he becomes a sloppy, fucked out, loose-holed little slut from how much Felix uses him.

Curious, Oliver presses his fingers against his belly until he thinks he can feel the head. There. He looks down. He flails an arm for his backpack, drags it closer with desperate fingers because he can’t shuffle closer to it to grab the strap properly. He’s fucking impaled where he sits, Felix filling him up and nailing him down.

He uncaps a permanent marker and draws a line on his stomach where the head must be. Permanent marker isn’t permanent enough though. It’ll wash eventually. Maybe he’ll have it tattooed, he thinks.

Yeah. He’ll get a line branded in ink on his skin, a straight line with a few hashmarks, sort of like on a ruler. But more like an F.

He wants to see it every time he looks down at himself. He wants to look at it and think, look how far inside me Felix goes. Look how much of me he fills up.

Felix fills all of Oliver, really. All of his thoughts. All of his dreams. All of his heart. It’s only fitting that he’d be big enough to fill Oliver’s body beyond reason, beyond comfort, the same way he fills up the rest of him.

And when the day comes that Oliver can do this for real, can get Felix’s fucking massive hands holding him down while he fills him up, Oliver will be ready. He won’t have to pant and struggle and bleed and curse, because his body will have already made room for every fucking inch of the man, will have reformed to hold him perfectly, cling to him like a fitted glove.

For now, Oliver can barely rock himself on Felix, just a little careful rolling of his hips, but even that pulverizes his prostate and leaves his cock dribbling precum in semi-clear, stretchy drips. He folds over, bracing himself on his elbows, and works his hips until he’s close to bouncing, until he punches his own orgasm out of himself with Felix buried as far as he can go.

Oliver passes out like that, his puffy hole twitching around Felix like it would pull him in deeper, were there more of him to take.

Which — Oliver hasn’t actually seen Felix’s dick while it’s hard.

What if this goliath isn’t big enough, after all?

[audhdnight]

Btw, if a disabled or mentally ill person (or honestly just anyone who’s really burnt out and exhausted with life, such as caregivers) tells you that they have to use disposables to clean and function in their day to day life, and your response is anything remotely like “well you’re a horrible person because that plastic you just used is killing the planet” I need you to know that you are ableist, classist, and just a shitty person, and I hate you.

Yes, I know that using paper towels and Clorox wipes is not as sustainable or healthy for the ecosystem as just using regular towels and rags. However, I am fucking exhausted all the time, and if I use regular rags, I will not have the energy to clean them. They will sit in my kitchen and get moldy and have to be thrown away anyway. And then my family is living in unsafe conditions because we’re breathing mold spores.

Additionally, we are fucking poor. We don’t have a washer and dryer. If I want to do laundry I have to load it all up in my car, drive across town to the only laundromat, spend most of my day switching things over and waiting for machines to open up, spend about thirty bucks (probably more, because the dryers are shit and never actually dry things on the first cycle), load everything back into the car, drive back home, and then sort and fold and put away everything I just washed.

That is not feasible most of the time, because I am disabled, I don’t have that money to spend, and I am the primary caregiver for our baby who has extreme sensitivities to changes in our routine. I can’t just take him to the laundromat with me, and I don’t have anyone to watch him while I go. Most days I’m not physically capable of carrying baskets of laundry to and from my vehicle. And again, we can not afford the laundromat. Anything that I can do to reduce the amount of laundry we need to wash in a month, I’m going to do.

All of this to say, please for the love of god consider that there are literally thousands of reasons someone might not be doing “clean living” or choosing the most eco-friendly option all the time. We can’t all cut out disposables. I already feel guilty enough that I can’t just function like a normal person, you do not need to butt in and make it worse.

If your activism for the environment and the earth goes so far as to make you apathetic to the struggles and needs of the real actual people around you, you need to reconsider where your morals lie.

(It’s also worth noting that every regular person on the planet together does not generate ANYWHERE NEAR the amount of plastic and toxic waste in a year that mega corporations do in a matter of weeks or months. I’m not saying that the average man doesn’t need to make as many good and healthy choices as they are able, but seriously, most of us are not the real issue here. Go fight the logging and fracking companies killing the ecosystem. Go attack the capitalist mega-corps like Walmart and Amazon and Disney and Apple that discard so much plastic they are almost single-handedly killing the oceans themselves.)

[villruu]

Really nice guy who hates only you Alex x Brian?

Anon, anon... Listen, um. Well, this originally had more of a comedic vibe with timetravel splashed in, but then "the red means I love you" snuck up on me and suddenly this happend. I, um. Well.

Enjoy timetravel doomed brilex??

On AO3

This contains canon-typical violence :)

⸻

Alex woke up slowly, woozy and trembling.

His whole body felt off-putting, numb and cold and not entirely his own. It was dark and humid, damp in the way cement only knew how to be, the slight scent of mold typical of abandoned buildings that Alex had come to learn intimately as he searched locations for his film.

Where… where was he?

Last he remembered he had gone to sleep. And, it had been a good dream. There hadn’t been any weird creature in the distance, he hadn’t felt angry, everyone was working together and, and it was just him and his friends having a good time. Brian had been there too, joking, close to him in a way he hasn’t been since he had fallen sick a few weeks ago.

Alex tried to move, but his body felt too slow, muscles barely twitching even as Alex forced himself as much as he could.

It was cold. Too cold.

Was it still night? Where was he? 

He had his pajamas on, though no socks. He didn’t have his glasses on either. When Alex tried again to move, he found something digging painfully into his wrists. Plastic and hard, almost threatening to cut into his skin with each slight movement.

Where the fuck was he?

Steps. The crushing of glass beneath shoes. The swish of clothes moving.

“Hello?” Alex called, voice thin and fearful, “Who’s there?”

Silence.

“Hello?” He repeated, “I… I need help.”

Silence again.

The darkness was absolute. Was even someone there, or was Alex imagining it? 

Alex trembled.

Steps again, closer and closer until Alex could swear he could feel the warm emanating from another living being. Fear sprang to life inside him as a sudden light turned on, the flash blinding him momentarily, leaving him reeling with a pained yelp.

With watering eyes, Alex slowly adjusted to the harsh white light shining on his face. A figure stood in front of him, obscured in the shadows produced by the strong light. It was a flashlight, Alex noticed distantly somewhere in his panic, a big and clunky one, the kind that hikers like to get.

All Alex could see were the dirty black gloves of the figure, covered in dust and some liquid that looked almost black in the light that reflected on the flashlight.

“Who… Who are you?” Alex rasps, voice gaining confidence the longer he goes on, “Did… Did you take me? Where am I? What is this place? What did you do to me—”

Alex’s is abruptly cut off as something whacks him across the face. He groans, wishing he had his hands free to rub at his face. Something wet dripped from his nose, probably blood since Alex doubted it hadn’t been broken, a deep ache coming from his cheek where he had been struck first.

The flashlight looked scuffed on the edges, now.

He has a million questions to ask, a thousand words to say, but he keeps quiet, now weary, like a dog who suddenly learned its owner is also capable of kicking it and not only petting it.

Why is he here? Why him, why out of anyone, him?

The figure doesn’t move. Alex doubts they are even breathing, so still and silent as they are now. Alex watches in silence as they take something from their pocket, probably, the sound of an object dragging across, the shift of clothes. 

A glint of silver. A metal barrel.

A gun, in front of his face.

Alex stays still, frozen, watching the weapon with wide eyes.

“Are….You…” Alex whispers as the gun gets closer to his face, the hand holding it as steady as a mountain.

His dad taught him how to fire a gun, before coming to college. They had spent an entire day practicing with cans and glass bottles near his grandpa’s, in an empty lot close to the forest. His dad had proclaimed that in a state like Alabama, it was best he knew how to defend himself, and had even given him a gun, which Alex kept locked up and hidden deep beneath mountains of trash in the small shed of the house. 

Alex had never gotten over the shakiness of holding onto a real gun.

He wondered how this figure managed to do so.

He can see the edges of the sleeve now, a faded orange, dirty and scuffed. 

The silence stretches between them, like an eternal graveyard.

“This is for the best,” The figure tells him. The voice is familiar, extremely so, but Alex first processes the movement of the gun.

In a fit of desperation, Alex throws his head forward, the metal of the gun colliding painfully with his temples. There’s the sound of metal falling onto the floor, but any relief is short-lived, as the flashlight is brought down on his face again. He struggles, as the flashlight falls to the ground and rolls a few feet away.

He can see the figure more clearly, a dirty faded hoodie, some dirty jeans, scuffed shoes. They lean down, grabbing their gun, and all the fighting abruptly leaves Alex’s body as the figure stands up and the light is finally shining on their face.

Hazel eyes, deep bags, pale face, brown hair. It’s a familiar face. It’s a face that Alex has seen for almost 5 years, it’s a face Alex trusts, it’s the face of his friend.

It 's Brian.

(It’s Brian, Brian his best friend, Brian who he knows from highschool, Brian who he spent countless nights studying with for midterms, Brian who was with him when he adopted Rocky, Brian who joined his film when nobody else would, Brian who found other actors for him.

Brian who everyone loves. Brian who’s the social butterfly of their college. Brian, who Alex trusts with his life. Brian, who has a million friends and yet always makes time for him. Brian, who makes Alex feel like he is seeing the world again. Brian, who Alex can't never stop admiring. Brian, who he loves.

Brian, who is pointing a gun at him. 

Brian, who is probably the one who dragged him here. 

Brian, who he thought was his friend.)

“...Brian?” Alex yet still dares to say, as if hoping saying the name of the other would stop this nightmare, would make the scowling person in front of him transform back into his friend.

Brian stares at him and looks briefly at the flashlight, before simply moving until they’re staring at each other. Alex stares into the sunken gaze of his friend, and wonders what happened. 

“Brian…?” He repeats.

All he gets is a kick to the side, leaving him dropped on his side, curled up like a dying larvae, wheezing.

Brian steps closer. He is standing right above him, gun steady as it points directly at Alex’s head. His eyes are hard and dark.

“Brian,” Alex breathes out, breathing noisily in and out to try and ignore the pain radiating from their side, “Brian, I don’t understand…”

“You know,” Brian says absently, voice light, “It’s a good thing I got dropped back now rather than later.”

Brian smiles. It is not a nice smile.

“After all, who would believe that sweet, naive Brian would ever do anything to hurt his friend? Everyone knows he would die for them,” He gives a bitter laugh, and Alex swears that in the dim lightning his eyes shine almost red, “No, people will just assume whatever else. And after I take care of a few more things, that thing will never hurt another, and neither will you.”

“...You see it too?” Alex said, confused and hurt and unsure, “That, that guy, the one in the—”

“Shut up,” Brian spits, after he kicks him again, “I don’t need it coming to look into what’s happening now.”

Brian gives a brief look around, and Alex shudders, staring at the tall figure in the back, but Brian doesn’t see it, or if he sees it, he doesn’t react.

“I don’t understand…” Alex repeats, voice thin and unsure, “Brian you, you know how to stop this? how to, how do I stop seeing it—?”

Another kick.

“I said, Shut. Up.” Brian snarls, voice dripping hatred in a way Alex had never thought possible, “You don’t deserve help, Kralie. You, you fucked everything up before… If it weren’t for you…”

Brian shakes his head.

“It doesn’t matter,” He says, “With you gone, the group will not stay together. Tim will clearly not keep contact except with me, maybe, and will not spread it anymore. I’ll have to make sure Jay keeps his distance, permanently if necessary, but, right now, the only thing I need to do is get rid of you.”

The gun clicks, safety finally off.

Alex whimpers, static building up in the back of his head as he stares up at the barrel of the gun.

“Goodbye, Kralie.”

The static builds up into a screech, a high pitched screaming that builds up and up and up, and Alex Kralie knows no more.