#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]

Why Plastic Pallets Are in High Demand Across Industries in India

In today’s fast-paced and competitive industry environment, efficient logistics and safe product handling are critical to success. One such invention that has made a significant difference is Plastic pallets. 

For businesses across India, where diverse industries operate in varying climates and conditions, plastic pallets are proving to be the ultimate choice. Here’s why:

1. Durability That Outlasts Traditional Options

Plastic pallets are designed to withstand significant weight and rigidity. Though classic pallets are susceptible to splitting, decaying or breaking completely, plastic pallets keep their basic shape and changes storage structure for years at a time. 

For instance, Swift’s Roto Molded Plastic Pallets, made from 100% virgin material, provide  superior strength and longevity, making them an ideal solution for heavy-duty applications.

2. Hygiene and Cleanliness: Perfect for Food and Pharma

High hygiene selectivity is imperative for the Food, Pharmaceutical and Chemical industries. Being non-porous, moisture resistant and easy to clean plastic pallets are an ideal choice where hygiene is the utmost concern. Swift’s Food-Grade Pallets, specifically designed for these industries, not only guarantee that hygiene requirements are fulfilled but also provide durability.

3. Weather-Resistant for India’s Diverse Climates

From the humid shores of Kerala to arid Rajasthan, India’s varied climates can be punishing on traditional pallets. On the other hand, plastic pallets are significantly impervious to climatic conditions ensuring reliability while sending products through ruthless summers or monsoon showers.

4. Lightweight Yet Strong

Plastic pallets are much lighter than traditional pallets, even though they are quite popular. Plastic pallets offer the best strength against breakage. Not only does this reduce shipping costs, but it’s also easier and safer for workers to handle. For Industries managing high volumes of logistics across India, Swift’s Rackable Pallets offer a perfect combination of lightweight design and heavy load-bearing capacity.

5. Eco-Friendly and Sustainable

As sustainability becomes more significant, plastic pallets are also a responsible choice. Most are created with recyclable materials to limit the environmental footprint. Plus their longevity also means fewer replacements, leading to less landfill waste. Swift’s Recyclable Pallets help Industries align with their green goals without compromising on quality.

6. Safety First

Plastic pallets do not have nails protruding at any point, making them safe to use; there are no sharp edges or splinters. This becomes particularly important in high handling applications like warehousing and distribution centers. Swift’s Safety Pallets, for instance, are designed with smooth edges and robust construction to prevent workplace injuries.

7. Customization for Specific Needs

Indian industries are as diverse, and their logistics requirements vary correspondingly. Plastic pallets can be customized for specific requirements whether it is for printed materials, electronic products or agricultural produce. For instance, Swift’s Printing and Packaging Pallets are designed specifically to meet the specialized needs of the printing industry.

8. Compliance with Global Standards

You have to fall in line with international shipping laws if your industry deals with export. Plastic pallets also comply with these standards, for example ISPM-15 legislation prohibits untreated conventional pallets in international trade. Swift’s Export Pallets are developed as per these regulations hence are a no-hassles choice for industries that seek to go global.

Case Study: A Leading Indian FMCG Company

A renowned FMCG company in India recently switched to Swift’s Food-Grade Plastic Pallets for transporting its packaged food products. The result? A significant reduction in product damage during transit and improved warehouse efficiency. The lightweight yet sturdy design of the pallets also led to a 15% decrease in shipping costs.

Conclusion

Plastic pallets have started revolutionizing the manner in which Indian industries operate their logistics and warehousing. They offer several benefits, including resistivity, cleanliness and sustainability as well as cost efficiency; things that are needed in varying degrees by various sectors of the Indian industry. Ultimately, transitioning to plastic pallets is investing in durability and future strength no matter your industry, whether manufacturing, warehousing or retail.

Upgrade your operations today with Swift’s Plastic Pallets—India’s choice for smarter, safer, and more sustainable industry solutions!

[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.”

[theonion]

Hoping to have all his holiday decorations up by the weekend, His Holiness Pope Francis has spent the past two hours rummaging through the basement of the papal apartments in search of the Vatican’s plastic nativity scene figures, sources confirmed Friday.

After climbing over dusty cases of sacramental wine and bins filled with mothballed vestments, the pope reportedly found the set’s plywood manger in a corner of the room near the sump pump, though sources noted he has yet to locate all the blow-molded polyethylene representations of the Holy Family and their Christmas visitors.

“Oh, come on, where’s the third wise man?” the spiritual leader of 1.2 billion Roman Catholics said as he pushed aside several priceless Raphael and Fra Angelico paintings to peer into a cardboard box, aided by the dim light of a bare bulb hanging overhead. “I could’ve sworn I put him away with everybody else. There’s a ton of donkeys and sheep in here, but a lot of good that does me with only two wise men. Jeez.”

“I don’t have time for this,” he added. “I’ve still got an epistle that needs to be finished.” Full Story

[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], [chapter three]

oo. You know what your words can mean

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But what about her?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But instead, she was here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But tonight? Tonight, it felt empty.

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

Cheerier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She wanted to be more than this.

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

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

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

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

“Take care of yourself, Cass.”

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

But that didn’t make the choice any easier.

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

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

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

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

The radio filling the background quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She hated it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cassie paused for a moment, weighing her words carefully.

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

Bas raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued now.

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

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

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

“I already have a job, Bas.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cass? What’s wrong?”  

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

“Turn. That. Up .”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cass, think about this—”

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

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

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

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

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

The line clicked after a few rings.  

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

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

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

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

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

Bas exhaled sharply, gripping the phone tighter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cassie’s hands curled into fists at her sides.

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

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

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

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

Dan chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair.

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

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

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

Crawford straightened, his expression hardening.

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

That was all the time Cassie needed.  

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

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

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

Behind the glass, Crawford was screaming at the technicians.

“Get her off the air! Now!”

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

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

Her voice filled the airwaves, clear and commanding.

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

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

“Cut the feed!”

The lead technician hesitated, sweat beading on his brow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get her off the air!”

“That’s enough!”

“Someone call the police!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Declan inhaled sharply, breaking his stillness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s not,” he said simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Declan shot him a look, more amused than irritated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Interesting,” Rupert murmured.

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

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

Talent , he corrected himself silently.

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

Declan tilted his head slightly, considering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[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

[doomtrooper77]

The door down the hall was also made of heavy steel and was built almost like a bank vault. It was cracked open, and I could see the glow of fluorescent light coming through the crack. Although the door was heavy, it opened smoothly. I walked into another vaulting warehouse space. This one was full of rows upon rows upon rows of weapons. It was like walking into a Costco, but just for guns and weapons of every sort. Racks going all the way up to the ceiling of crates made of wood, some of molded plastic, and others of metal lined each level of racking around me.

The racking was configured so that a path led into the back of the warehouse. I followed it. When I reached the end of the path, there was an area of worktables, machinery, and tools. Sitting beside the table was a massive man with a buzz-cut and thick beard. His arms were covered in tattoos, and he was the size of a fucking Mac truck. The other guys he had met were huge, but this man was massive. His eyes looked at me from under heavy brows. Bright like steel, they looked right through me.  In his hand was a machine gun of some type I had never seen before. Well, that told me I was in the right place. It wasn’t pointed at me, but something told me it could be in a microsecond if I said or did the wrong thing.

I walked over to him and said, “I guess you are the guy I am looking for, Mr.” He said nothing and kept looking at me. “Okay, I was told that you were the guy who could provide me with some specialty equipment that I need,” I continued. He still didn’t say anything and just kept looking at me. I was getting nervous now. My hand twitched to move toward the button, but I pushed that feeling down. I needed more evidence.  I needed to get him to talk. We both stood there in silence for another 30 seconds, and I said, “Listen, if you guys don’t want to do business, show me the door, and I can get out of here. If you are turning away money, then that’s cool with me. I will find someone else who can give me what I need. I just heard you were the man to talk to for things like this. Professional with quality goods.”

Again, silence until he said, “Who sent you, and what are you looking for?”  I gave him the name of the informant gave us and just enough background on the guy to make it seem legitimate. I hoped. He nodded slowly and said, “What are you looking for?”  Ice broken, I ran off a list of things we “needed”.  There were some esoteric things on the list that we hoped he had because it would put him and the rest of them in prison for the rest of their lives.  Again, he nodded and said, “I’ve got that. But ah, what do you need all that for?” 

Okay, this is not an unusual question, but “Listen, Mr.?? Like you, we have our own need for discretion. I’m told that all the gear you sell is untraceable, which is part of why you get paid extra. It’s why I am here, your rep is that you can desperately supply damn near anything a man can need from a weapons standpoint.” I said. He nodded sagely again. It was when I heard footsteps coming down one of the isles of the racking.

A middle-aged man came into view with a tablet in his hands. He was beefy but not like these guys. He stood around 6’1" and had a belly, but his shoulders were broad, and his arms were thick and hard. He looked like your office type of guy who worked out—a guy who wrestled in high school but got a bit soft around the middle. He looked at me as he walked over to the “Boss,” leaned over, and whispered in his ear.  I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I could see the Bosses eyes. Those hard eyes did two things: they went ice cold, and an evil glint twinkled in them. His bearded mouth smirked. The guy with the tablet reached into his back pocket and pulled out a clear bag wrapped around a mesh of wire. Oh shit. I could see my phone in the bag, a Faraday bag. My hand went to the 4th button on my shirt and started tapping It discretely.

“How long do you think it will take them to get here?” the Boss asked. He looked at me with a smile that did not reach his eyes. My finger was pressing against the button now, not trying to hide it. “What are you talking about? “I said, trying to keep my voice even. He stood up then, and I could see he was about 6’6” and seemed to be damn near that wide. I took an involuntary step back and bumped into something, make that someone. I started to turn when two massive pairs of hands grabbed my arms and held me in place—the two guards from out front were behind me and holding me in their vice-like grip. The Boss's smile became a grin as he walked toward me.

I sputtered and said a bunch of things that did nothing in the long run. When he stood in front of me, it was like being in the shadow of a giant monolith. Everything seemed small around him—insignificant.  He simply said, “Shhhhhh!” to me, and I quieted.

Turning to the guy with the tablet, he said, “Which one is it?” The tablet tech guy stepped in front, looked me up and down, and stopped at the buttons on the shirt. From somewhere, the tech guy pulled out a big folding knife and snapped it open. I jumped and tried to pull back. The hands holding me tightened painfully on my arms, shoulder, and neck, lifting me to my toes. The beefy tech expertly moves the knife to slide under the 3rd and 4th buttons on my shirt, slicing them off into his hand. Looking at them closely, he turned to the Boss and said, “Camera and emergency transmitter. They look like something Mossad made last year. It's pretty good tech. Not as good as ours, but pretty damn good. We’ve been blocking the signals since he got in the van. The camera is running on local storage since he came into the bar.  As far as they can tell, he disappeared when he left the bar. I’ve been retransmitting a false signal west of the city; they should be trailing him out past Naperville and Westmont about now. “

The massive man smiled genuinely and clapped the tech on his shoulder. “Good job as per usual Al. Lead the signal out toward the compound in western Iowa. You know, those wingnut survivalists the FBI is always looking at. Make it end there for now.”  The tech guy started to walk away, and the Boss said, “Wait, keep this with those.” He lifted the Faraday bag my phone was in, and I watched his gloved hand crumple the metal like it was a beer can. He crushed it once, then casually twisting it in his hand, crushed it again until it resembled a ragged ball of steel and glass.  He handed the bag and demolished phone to Al the tech.

Turning back to me, he leaned over and said, “Listen, I don’t have time to listen to your lies and denials. Then threats. Not only does nobody know you’re here, but they don’t even know who took you. Al will lead them on a nice little electronic goose chase through western Iowa, where they will raid that right-wing survivalist fuckers. When they don’t find you there, your handlers will be at a dead in.”

His big, gloved hand engulfed my chin, and he moved closer, “Right now, my boys here are going to have some fun. They like to pay with their food. Eventually you’ll tell them what I need to know.”  He said. The massive men holding him grunted in agreement. He pulled back with a dangerous smirk, and his big gloved hand patted my face roughly as he turned and walked back over to the bench.

The guy holding me shifted and the one on my left quickly slid his arms under mine and put me in a full nelson. The other guy walked around in front of me and, after rolling his shoulders, slammed his fist into my gut. Then again and again. The guy holding me pulled me up, and I could see the Boss back at his worktable and the Tech guy looking at me. His eyes were watching with lust and need as those guys were working me over. The Boss absently looked up and said, “Fellas, take your fun elsewhere. I’ve got work to do. They replied, “Sure thing, Boss.”  They started dragging me away when the Boss said, “Boys, it’s been a while, so, take your time and enjoy yourselves. Also, take Al with you; you know he likes to watch.”  All three of them said, “Thanks, Boss,” in unison as they dragged me away.

[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.

[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.

[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~"

[bigprettygothgf]

I was thinking that if I ever bought at least one giant slab of plastic, I would just get a Metroplex, but I dunno now seeing your fort max pics I'm reconsidering

i would still wait, tbh TR fortress maximus isnt that good. hes missing like half the features he should have since he himself is just a half hearted metroplex retool, his city mode is especially a whole lot of nothing. i still like it for what it is, he has a nice presence, but i wouldnt have paid full price for this. i got it cuz it was half off and the fact they reissued it at all tells me we arent getting a better update any time soon

as for metroplex given that hasbro is reissuing all their titans, theres a good chance metroplex is either getting reissued or an entire new mold in the near future so id wait and see

[the-recluse666]

HEAR ME OUT

idc whether you like housewives or not, but i need to say this (i also need to shake up my writing skills, 've been in hibernation for too long).

Mommy and Daddy raised me so well, dressed me in cute little pink dresses, surrounded me with the most expensive toys that were in the fucking pants, no, country. Do you want a new barbie? We'll buy you one. Do you want a tamagotchi? Okay, we'll buy that too. They spoiled me too much. Made me out to be a little pretty girl. A sweet wife for some big magnate who couldn't keep up with his bank accounts.

All the girls envied me because they wanted the same curls, the same eyes, the same figure, but it was too far. They would never catch up with my perfection. They could beg their boyfriends on their knees for attention, but it would not be enough to stop them from looking at me.

But that was until a certain time...

Of course, i was still that socialite beauty, still wearing those short skirts that used to drive dozens of guys crazy. But 'm not a cute 16 or 18 year old girl anymore. I'm older. Maybe the first wrinkles have appeared on my face, the first gray hairs. No!! shut up, shut up, shut up. The thoughts kept playing in my head like a broken record, convincing me over and over again that i was nowhere near the diva i used to be. It was something obsessive... something unpleasant, something that made me puke in the morning. I needed someone who needed me.

Until i met you. You were my savior, my hope, my whatever. And i was ready to give you everything, just so you would stroke me or tell me you love me.

As fate had intended for me, i cooked, cleaned, washed, just so that my master was happy, just so that he was with me and wanted me to be with him. I was too obsessed with you. Even when you were angry, even when you hit me to relieve stress and turn adrenaline into energy, i was there. All dressed up, all made up, knowing that you would ruin me. And I'm ready to be ruined, i wanna be ruined

My parents wanted to make me a good housewife, and i became one :))))

(haven't reread it and idc anyway 😝😝)

it's funny, your parents sound very similar to mine. they always tried to buy my love. i was raised middle-upper class, in a plastic suburban hellscape that i could only assume was much like your own. they tried to mold me into a person that i was never meant to be. and it fucked me up, bad.

they fucked you up too, didn't they? did they toy with your head and convince you that you were nothing more but a pretty trophy, to be paraded around? celebrated? look at her, loved for her looks and her "accolades." so much handed to you on a silver platter. born beautiful and into a family tree that was (and maybe still is) alive and well.

but then it hit you one day: this isn't who you are. and you can't always be this pretty. not only have you been repressing some very dark thoughts for a very long time, but you also know that you'll grow old. more and more men will start to drift away from you towards younger girls, it's unfortunately inevitable for every woman. but you're still young at heart. and you crave that attention in a different way now.

you no longer wanna be JUST eye candy, to be stared at on the streets the same way everyone else did wherever your parents took you. you wanna be taken by someone else now. you wanna be owned, trained, given the same guidance and praise as your parents gave you, but in a new light now; firmer, harder, more punishing. you crave discipline because you lacked it in your youth. you were lead to believe that just because you have the looks, you get your way all the time. but you needed a reality check. you needed someone that could make you a whore out of you. someone strong, someone mean, someone who won't waver in the face of your stubbornness or place you on a pedestal just because you have a cute face and some curves. one that'll always remind you that without him in your life, you might as well not have one of your own.

you needed a real fucking daddy.