#this just seemed like a self defense strategy in the moment

[shoku-and-awe]

Always wondered if there was a way to engage Full Wild Boy mode in my mild-mannered, antisocial, stoic, middle-aged cat-dog, and apparently the answer is red hibiscus and coconut melon pan.

Who knew??? Spice melange eyes and all.

[alygator77]

༻behind the screen༺

♡ pairing. gojo x fem! reader (au you're coworkers)

♡ summary. when a late-night swipe on an anonymous dating app leads to a sultry phone call, you think it’s the perfect way to escape your work stress—especially your infuriatingly smug coworker Gojo Satoru. but when the man on the other end starts sounding eerily familiar, secrets slip out.

♡ contents. 18+ MDNI, smut, phone sex, mutual masturbation, praise kink, dirty talk, satoru is pining over you.

♡ wc. 3k

♡ a/n this was a request! it became longer than i anticipated hehe. but i had fun writing it nonetheless 💕

Gojo Satoru was used to being in control. Whether it was at work, in social settings, or just walking into a room, he was the guy who turned heads, the one who made people laugh, the one everyone gravitated toward.

Confidence was his currency, and he spent it lavishly. But around you? His brain seemed to malfunction entirely.

It was infuriating, really. He could charm anyone with a single smile, yet you—you—barely spared him a glance. And when you did, it was usually accompanied by a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

But you didn’t hate Gojo Satoru—hate was too strong a word for someone as maddeningly smug as him.

What you felt for him was more akin to the annoyance of stepping in gum on a hot summer day or spilling coffee on your favorite blouse. He was a constant presence in your life, always hovering with his stupidly perfect grin and those ridiculous quips that made your eye twitch.

And yet, to him, you were an enigma. You didn’t fall for his charm, his playful teasing, or his self-proclaimed ‘devastatingly good looks,’ and that made you a puzzle he was desperate to solve.

At first, he chalked it up to frustration. No one had ever resisted him the way you did, and it had to be a fluke. Then, the realization hit him like a freight train: he didn’t just want your attention—he wanted you.

It was a big, messy crush, and he had no idea what to do about it. Gojo Satoru didn’t pine, for god’s sake. So, he acted indifferent.

Unfortunately, his strategy was… suboptimal.

Relentless teasing. Sarcastic remarks. Even the occasional ‘accidental’ brush of his hand against yours. None of it worked. Instead of pulling you closer, it only seemed to cement your belief that he was a certified pain in the ass.

Case in point: last Friday in the break room.

“Still no boyfriend, huh?” he’d asked with a smirk, leaning casually against the door frame as if he hadn’t been plotting that line all day. “Guess guys just don’t appreciate all that… sarcasm. Or is it the constant glaring?”

The flash of irritation in your eyes was immediate and searing. He regretted it the moment the words left his mouth, but instead of apologizing, he doubled down with a cocky grin. That was his defense mechanism—smugness as a shield.

You didn’t even bother to dignify him with a response. You stormed off, brushing his shoulder while your heels clicked against the floor as he stood there, internally kicking himself.

Now, as you lay in bed on a random Tuesday night, those words played on repeat in your head. It wasn’t because they hurt—of course not. But they lingered, burrowing into your thoughts like an itch you couldn’t scratch.

Was that cocky ass, right? No… you could get a boyfriend… if you wanted to.

The thought made you scowl, your finger aimlessly scrolling through your phone as the glow of the screen illuminated your face.

“God, who cares what he thinks…” you groan, tossing your phone aside. But the moment you did, it buzzed, and the glow of an ad caught your attention.

A dating app. Anonymous. Discreet. Perfect for someone who wanted validation… without the strings.

“Why not?” you mutter, tapping the download button.

You didn’t expect much. Maybe a few shallow conversations, something to pass the time and make you feel less… undesirable.

Fuck it.

༻♡༺

Gojo Satoru slouched on his couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest while his other hand flicked mindlessly through his phone.

The TV was on, some senseless drama he couldn’t care less about playing in the background. It was just noise, really—something to drown out the thoughts he didn’t want to entertain. Thoughts of you.

“You’re sulking,” Suguru’s voice cut through the haze, casual and smug as always. Satoru barely looked up as his best friend wandered in from the kitchen, a beer in hand.

“I don’t sulk,” his thumb swipes with more force than necessary, and the pout tugging at his lips, said otherwise.

Suguru snorted, plopping down beside him and cracking his beer open.

“Sure,” he said, leisurely taking a sip. “So, what’s your deal this time? Another tragic failure to get her attention?”

Satoru’s eyes flick up to glare at his friend, but the effect was less menacing and more petulant. He looks back at his phone, refusing to dignify that with a response. Still, his pout said everything Suguru needed to know.

“It wasn’t a failed attempt…” he grumbles after a moment. “She reacts… just… the wrong way…”

Suguru’s brow arches is amusement as he takes another sip of his beer.

“Lemme guess… she glared at you. Again.”

Satoru was silent, staring at his phone like it might provide him with a more dignified answer, but eventually, the admission slipped out, quiet and begrudging.

“Her glare is cute…”

Suguru doesn’t miss the soft pink dusting Satoru’s cheeks, and his eyes roll so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of his head. He sets his beer down with a sigh, leaning back to rest an arm along the back of the couch.

“You’ve got it bad, man. Just confess already.”

“I can’t,” Satoru’s sigh is so dramatic it could’ve won him an award. He drops his phone onto his chest, staring up at the ceiling like it holds the secrets of the universe. “She totally hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Suguru counters. “She just thinks you’re an idiot, which—let’s be real—you kinda are.”

“Wow. Thanks,” Satoru said flatly. “Your support is truly heartwarming.”

Suguru shrugs, unbothered as always. He grabs his beer and takes another sip, eyeing Satoru like he’s both a lost cause and an endless source of entertainment.

“Y’know what your problem is?”

“Oh, please. Enlighten me,” Satoru stretches his legs out on the coffee table.

Suguru sets his can back down with a decisive clink.

“You overthink things with this girl. Maybe you need a distraction. You oughta download one of those dating apps everyone’s obsessed with. Blow off some steam.”

“A dating app?” Satoru’s nose scrunches in disgust, like Suguru had suggested he take up competitive bird watching or something.

Suguru, unperturbed, reaches over and snatches the phone off Satoru’s chest with zero hesitation. “Yep,” his fingers fly over the screen. “You’re clearly incapable of doing this on your own, so I’m doing it for you.”

“Wait, what—”

“There.” Suguru shoves the phone back into Satoru’s hands, grinning like a man who’d just solved world hunger. “All set.”

༻♡༺

That was how Satoru found himself lying in bed, staring at the app now loaded onto his phone—the bright interface practically mocking him.

A dating app? Seriously?

He was Gojo fucking Satoru. He didn’t need help in that department—if anything, people practically threw themselves at him.

And yet, here he was, thumb hovering over the ‘Get Started’ button like it was some kind of nuclear launch code.

“This is so dumb…” he mutters to himself, running a hand through his snow-white hair. But the alternative—sitting here alone and thinking about you—was worse. Much worse.

With a resigned sigh, he taps the button. The setup was painless enough, and he will admit that the app’s anonymity piqued his interest. No names, no faces, no preconceived notions—just bios and conversation. A refreshing change from his usual routine.

But once he started swiping, reality set in.

The profiles were… bland. Painfully so. If he had to read one more line about someone who ‘loves hiking and tacos,’ he was going to throw his phone across the room. Plus, the conversations he’d had were dull at best and unbearable at worst. Small talk wasn’t his thing, and most people just couldn’t seem to keep up with his wit.

Satoru was about five minutes away from deleting the app when your profile popped up. It was short, clever, and witty—his kind of humor. Intrigued, he swiped right and shot you a message.

Hours slipped away like water through his fingers. The conversation flowed so easily it was almost surreal. You didn’t tiptoe around him or try to impress him—you met his sarcasm with your own, and every jab you threw only made him want to know more.

The two of you talked about everything—movies, terrible music recommendations, the absurdity of office politics. The way you called out corporate nonsense had him laughing so hard he had to put the phone down to catch his breath. He couldn’t remember the last time someone made him laugh like that.

God—you were funny, sharp, and quick on your feet in a way that reminded him of—

Nah…

It wasn’t you. It couldn’t be. The universe wasn’t that cruel—or that kind.

He groans, tossing his phone onto the bed and rubbing a hand over his face. His mind was betraying him again, spiraling back to you like it always does.

‘You need a distraction. Blow off some steam.’

Maybe Suguru was right. Maybe he needed a distraction. Something—anything—to get you out of his head.

As his phone buzzes with a new message, his gaze drifts back to the screen.

still there, or did I scare you off?

A slow grin spreads across his face. Whatever. Whoever you were, you had his attention. For tonight, that was enough.

Still here. Hey, can I be honest for a sec?

mmm… depends. how honest?

He smirked, typing quickly.

Well, tbh I’ve been having a tough time. Got it bad for this coworker. Total knockout, but I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m an idiot.

He hits send before he can talk himself out of it, watching the little ‘delivered’ icon appear. Your reply comes after a brief pause.

yikes… sounds complicated.

He chuckles, already typing again.

You have no idea... anyway, I figured I could use a distraction. And if I’m gonna distract myself, I’d rather do it with someone who can actually keep my interest.

There was a beat of hesitation, and then he boldly added:

Wanna have phone sex?

This time, the pause stretched longer. Long enough for him to wonder if he’d blown it. But then, his phone buzzes again.

fuck it... why not?

Grinning like a kid on Christmas morning, he hit the call button through the app. The line rang once, twice, before clicking.

“Hi…” your voice greeted him softly.

“Hey princess,” he drawled. “Thought I might’ve scared you off.”

“Oh… no,” you said, a soft laugh escaping you. “But I will admit, you’re straight to the point, aren’t you?”

“Always.” He leans back further, his free hand trailing lazily over his stomach. “Why waste time, right? Life’s too short for tiptoeing around.”

Ironic, considering how he seemed to do nothing but tiptoe around you—his coworker—at work. You—who always had him second-guessing himself in ways no one else ever could.

However, this wasn’t about you. This was a stranger—right? A voice on the other end of the line. That was all.

But as you laugh through the phone, he closes his eyes, letting the sound settle over him. It was nice… and familiar. Too familiar.

No.

He was imagining things. Again. His brain was playing tricks on him, twisting your voice into something it wasn’t. There was no way it was you.

“So,” he said, steering the conversation back on track. “You’ve done this before?”

“Not really,” you admit, voice dipping slightly. “Actually… no. Honestly, I haven’t. This is my first time.”

His grin widens—the cocky edge returning to his tone.

“First time, huh? Well, you’re in luck. I’m an excellent teacher.”

You let out another soft laugh, nervous but sweet, and it sends a jolt of heat straight through him. What the hell is wrong with him tonight? Your voice—soft, familiar—it feels like a melody he’s heard before.

“Is that so?” you ask, breaking his train of thought.

“Hmm? Oh… absolutely,” he said, shaking his head with a smirk. His fingers drummed against his thigh as he forced himself to focus. “Just relax, princess. Let me guide you.”

“…okay,” you whisper.

He exhales slowly, letting the tension drain from his shoulders as he shifts lower on the bed.

“Now… are you laying in your bed for me?”

“mhmm…” you hum softly.

“Mm, good girl,” he murmurs. “Alright, tell me—what are you wearing?”

“Just… an oversized shirt,” the hesitation in your voice makes him grin. “Nothing else.”

“Yeah?” his hand trails down to the waistband of his sweatpants as he closes his eyes. “That’s perfect. Makes it easy to imagine my hands slipping underneath, right up to that pretty pussy of yours...”

Your sharp inhale crackles through the receiver, and the sound sends a thrill straight to his cock.

“Do something for me,” he begins palming his growing bulge. “Run your hands down your thighs… nice and slow. Tease yourself the way I would.”

There was a beat of silence, and he held his breath, waiting. Then, he heard it—a faint shift in your breathing, followed by a soft, shaky exhale. It was subtle, but it was enough to tell him you were doing exactly as he asked.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his own hand slipping beneath his waistband to wrap around his cock. It twitched eagerly in his palm, already hard and aching as he imagines you following his instructions.

“…you touching yourself, sweetheart?”

“Y-yeah.”

The word trembles on your lips like a secret only he’s allowed to hear, and his grip tightens on his cock as he begins to stroke himself slowly—matching the rhythm he imagines your hand moving in.

“Good girl,” he purrs, the sheets rustling beneath him as his hand glides across his length. “Now slide your fingers inside that tight little cunt… nice and slow.”

Your soft moan spills through the line, and his hips buck involuntarily at the sound—his hand moving faster.

“Fuck… love hearing those pretty little sounds” he groans as his thumb swipes over his tip, slick with pre-cum. “How many fingers are you using?”

“Two,” you gasp as the word breaks into a moan.

“Add another,” he commands, almost a growl.

You hesitate for just a moment, but then your breathy whimper crackles through the line, and he hisses through clenched teeth, his dick twitching eagerly at the sound. But somehow, without meaning to, his imagination betrays him.

He pictures you—his coworker. Fuck, why couldn’t he stop thinking about you?

You—head tipped back; lips parted as your fingers work you open—his cock throbbed eagerly at the mental image.

Fuck… this was supposed to be a distraction, not fuel for his already out-of-control infatuation. He groaned, annoyed at himself but powerless to stop, and his strokes grew faster, more desperate as he surrendered to the fantasy.

“Haa… that’s my girl,” he praises, eyes fluttering shut as his hips buck into his hand desperately. “Stretch yourself for me. Make yourself nice and ready for my cock… nngh… wanna fucking fill you up, princess. Make you take every inch.”

Your soft, choked moan crackles through the phone, and it unravels him further. His strokes grow faster, more erratic—his free hand gripping the sheets as he chases his release.

“Bet you’d look so pretty,” his hand becomes a frantic blur as he loses himself to his fantasy. “All spread out and dripping for me. Taking my cock like a good girl… haaa… gonna fucking stuff you full as you cum all over m’ dick.”

“Fuck… m’ cumming,” you gasp, and as your broken cry crackles through the receiver, it sends him careening over the edge.

“Fuck… yes, good fucking girl… haaa—m’ cumming too.”

He pumps his cock, hips jerking as thick, hot streams of cum spill over his hand and onto the sheets below. His breath hitches in his throat, and before he can stop himself, your name rips from his lips, raw and guttural, a desperate cry he couldn’t contain.

Through the phone, your own gasping breaths mingle with his—the faint sound of your release trembling through the line. Then, for a brief moment, the world was quiet, save for the shared rhythm of your breathing as the two of you come down from the high.

Until, reality set in.

Fuck.

He blinked up at the ceiling, his free hand raking through his hair as his brain scrambled to process what just happened.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He felt like a goddamn asshole. He’d just moaned someone else’s name—your name—while he was supposed to be with someone else.

What the hell was wrong with him?

But then, you laughed—a soft, breathless sound that broke through his spiraling thoughts.

“That was… fun,” you said warmly, slightly teasing. “But, um… how do you know my name?”

His stomach dropped.

“I… what?” his voice cracked slightly as panic clawed its way up his throat.

“You said my name,” you reply, a curious lilt to your tone now. “I don’t remember telling you my name. And, you know, the app is supposed to be anonymous…”

It hit him all at once.

The voice that had been haunting him, the one that felt so painfully familiar, the one he’d convinced himself couldn’t possibly be yours—it was yours.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, his heart pounding in his chest as realization washed over him.

“Wait…” your tone shifts from amused to sharp. “You sound familiar. Like… Gojo?”

His stomach flips, dread pooling in his chest like ice water.

“Uh…” He froze, his mind scrambling for something, anything, that could salvage this disaster. “…hi, princess?” His tone was a weak attempt at his usual cocky charm—it fell flat. “Didn’t expect to find you on this app…”

There was a beat of silence, and then, like the idiot he was, his mouth moved faster than his brain.

“Sooo… still no boyfriend then, huh?”

[catofadifferentcolor]

Terrible Fic Idea #92: Percy/Apollo, but make it The Trojan War

Into every fandom, a time travel fic must fall - or in this case a second one, because I somehow got to thinking about the delightful PJO trope of Percy being thrown back in time to The Trojan War and realized that doing so misses out on a fantastic opportunity.

Or: What if post-TOA Percy Jackson and Apollo time travel to shortly before The Trojan War?

aka the Tried To Change The Ending fic

Just imagine it:

Everything follows canon through TOA, with one exception: rather than struggle to catch up in the mortal world following the Second Gigantomachy, Percy elects to stay at Camp Half-Blood. There he can homeschool at his own place with programs tailored towards ADHD children and still visit his family on the weekends - and not get into any more ridiculous situations in the mortal world when one of the gods kidnaps him or sends him on a quest to find their sneakers.

This, naturally, stresses his relationship with Annabeth - who, now that she's no longer living at camp full time, calls it the easy way out. But Percy is tired and struggling in mortal high school where everyone thinks he's a delinquent idiot when another option exists seems foolish. Percy and Annabeth break up and drift apart.

Enter Apollo, fresh from his latest stint as a mortal. He's trying to do his best by his children, which includes popping by camp as often as he can get away with - which in turn means spending a lot of time with Percy, who at this point is unofficially running CHB because it's not like Dionysus or even Chiron have done a brilliant job of it in recent times.

(First aid, strategy, and mythology classes are made mandatory. Percy personally ensures every demigod knows enough about self-defense to be able to survive long enough to run away or for help to arrive. Bullying is cracked down on so hard that it's this, not Percy's generally parental nature, that has people calling him Camp Mom.)

Percy and Apollo become friendly. Enough so that some of Apollo's kids assume they're dating and keeping it on the down-low so as not to draw Zeus' ire. Or Poseidon's. Or anyone else's. It's on one of their not-dates that they're yeeted into the past, without warning or explanation.

And so 19-year-old Percy Jackson and post-TOA Apollo find themselves in Ancient Greece c. 1220 BCE, roughly thirty-five years before the destruction of Troy.

The time travel is immediately obvious, as Apollo becomes the closest thing a god might experience to being high the moment they land in the past - being a powerful god in modern times is nothing like being a powerful god at the height of his power in ancient times. It's overwhelming (and somewhat alarming from Percy's POV, but kind of funny in retrospect.)

The specific date is harder to determine, but made clear when Hermes shows up and starts going on about you'll never believe what father's done now: he seduced the Spartan queen as a swan and she's laid an egg. Hera is furious - especially as they're saying the girl that hatched from it is the most beautiful in the world, even though she's only a few days old. It's nuts. By the way, where have you been? You missed the last two council meetings. Do you want Dad to punish you?

Apollo at this stage is very high. He's also been USTing over Percy for quite some time and is worried what the gods of this era might do to Percy without divine protection (smiting or seduction, it's all on the table). But mostly he's very high, and so to keep Percy close and safe he declares he's been off having the dirtiest of dirty weekends with his latest lover and that Hermes' presence is ruining the mood. So if he would kindly leave, please and thank you, he'd really rather get back to it without an audience.

This, naturally, is a surprise to Percy, but he rolls with it because 1) he doesn't have any better ideas on how to get rid of Ancient Greek Hermes so they can figure out what the hades is going on and 2) he's been USTing over Apollo ever since he recovered enough from Tartarus to start feeling attraction again.

Fueled by mutual UST, they put together a cover story that should hold the next time a god with too much prurient interest shows: Percy is now Prince Persē of Gadir - a Phoenician colony that will grow into the future Cadiz - well past the edge of the Greek world at this stage but not beyond belief for Poseidon to have visited, as it's obvious who his father is. They claim his mother is the King of Gadir's youngest sister and as such Persē had a royal upbringing, but was far enough down the line of succession that he was free to chose to sail east and explore his father's homeland. Apollo caught sight of him on his journey, one thing led to another, and here they are.

(Are there easier, more sensible cover stories? Possibly. But the UST refuses to let them consider any of them now that a fake relationship is on the table.)

Deciding what to do about The Trojan War is much harder. On the one hand, it's a lot of senseless death and destruction. On the other, without it we don't get The Iliad and The Odyssey - two of the most influential works of literature in western civilization - and Aeneas doesn't go off to Italy (leading to the founding of Rome, which would change the history of western civilization a lot). In the end, they decide to let the war happen but do their best to mitigate the worst parts of it.

And so Percy goes off and becomes a hero of Ancient Greece while pretending to be in a relationship with Apollo.

This stage of things is filed with angst from both parties, as both Percy and Apollo want a real relationship with each other but think they're abusing the other's trust by eagerly faking their relationship. There's a lot of PDA, a lot of feelings, and limited communication. It goes on for quite a while and would probably exasperate quite a few people if everyone in the know didn't think they were already in a relationship.

It's also filled with modern day Percy being confronted by realties of life in Ancient Greece. It's not just mortals knowing about - and interacting with - the gods: it's everything. It's food and clothes and language and culture and housing and travel. He can play a lot off it as being a traveler from the edge of the known world, but some of it has him asking Apollo if he's being rick rolled.

Apollo, meanwhile, is having troubles of his own. He is not the god he used to be and it's hard pretending otherwise. He tries to walk the line of doing enough to be believable and holding back enough not to despise himself, but it's a fine line, he fails often, and he spends a not insignificant amount of time worried he's backsliding.

And so it goes until 7-year-old Helen of Troy is kidnapped by Theseus to be his wife.

This, naturally, does not fly with Percy, who by this time has built up something of a reputation as a hero. He teams up with the Dioscuri to rescue Helen.

One would think this would earn him Zeus' favor. It doesn't. Instead, Zeus sends monsters to harry him for refusing to let Castor and Pollux take Helen's captors' loved ones captive and raze Aphidna for Theseus' crime. Percy manages to hold his own for quite a while but eventually, exhausted from the near-constant fighting, is gored and left for dead by the reformed Minotaur.

...and when Apollo arrives, frantic, to heal him, Percy ascends instead, becoming the greek version of Saint Sebastian - a minor god of heroes, strength in the face of adversity, and athleticism; sort of halfway between Hercules and Chiron.

Then and only then do Percy and Apollo finally get their act together, confessing to each other how much they care for the other and how much they don't want this to be fake any longer.

History proceeds apace - albeit with Persē being a second immortal trainer of heroes.

24 years after their arrival in the past, 16 years after Percy's ascension, The Trojan War begins. Despite their best efforts, there's only so much they can do - war is war and gods are gods. They are able to stop some of the worst excesses on both sides, but in the end Apollo still sends the plague that causes Agamemnon to take Briseis for his own, which caused Achilles' departure from the field, Patroclus' death, &c - not because Apollo was trying to maintain the timeline, but because in the instant he sent it he was angry and reverted to his old ways.

Troy falls...

...but when Zeus tries to use this as an excuse to ban gods from interacting with their demigod children, Apollo is able to say that's a bit extreme isn't it? with enough backing from the rest of the council that Zeus is forced to amend his ruling so that the gods are only allowed to freely visit their children on the "cross quarter days" that fall between each solstice and equinox (1 February, 1 May, 1 August, and 1 November).

This changes everything and nothing.

Time continues its inevitable march. Greece has its golden age before being conquered by Rome, which splits apart under its own weight and forms several smaller countries, which eventually spread their cultures around the world...

Apollo and Percy are there for it all. Persē is a minor figure in mythology, but never forgotten. He is ever-present in Apollo's temples - though the Church will later try to rewrite their myth so that they were merely sworn fighting partners, rather than lovers who eventually had a quite lovely wedding on Olympus (and then, at Poseidon's insistence, an even bigger ceremony on Atlantis). Percy takes over day-to-day operations of CHB from practically the moment the Trojan War ends.

...and so Persē is there the day Sally Jackson tries to get her son to camp, and is able to intervene when the Minotaur attacks on their border. He's able to meet her and her young son, Perseus ("Mom named me after you and the guy that killed Medusa since you're the only two heroes to have happy endings!"), and guide him through the trials that come with being a child of prophecy.

One day that Percy will hand Luke - who was never happy with the limited attention the gods were allowed to give their children - a cursed dagger so that Kronos can be defeated. That child will be offered godhood, turn it down, and go on to have a happy life with his eventual wife, Annabeth. He will never have his memories erased and be sent to Camp Jupiter. Gaia will not rise until long after that Percy's grandchildren are dead, and Zeus will not be quite so bullheaded when the proof of it is brought before him. That Second Gigantomachy is swift, well-coordinated, and fought without another Greek/Roman war brewing in the background.

And when they finally arrive at the day Apollo and Percy were originally sent back in time, Percy admits that while he is happy some version of him was better prepared for the war he was asked to fight in and allowed his peace afterward, he would change nothing about his own life, for it brought him to Apollo. The sunrise the next morning - on the first morning of the rest of their lives - is particularly spectacular.

Bonuses include:

Gaslighting Poseidon into believing that he's met Percy before the first time they're introduced. ("What do you mean you don't remember me, Father? You were present when I came of age! You gifted me this trident! Have I displeased you in some way?") It's an absolute masterclass that eventually manages to convince Poseidon that, yes, of course he knows Percy - and, maybe, he should check in on all his other demigod children to make sure he's not missed someone. (Two. He lost track of two of the others. Maybe he should be more careful about siring children in the future.) Apollo practically has to stuff his fist in his mouth to keep from laughing.

As much historical accuracy as can be crammed into the Percy trying to make sense of Ancient Greece chapters as possible. Think Of a Linear Circle - Part III by flamethrower levels of historical research. As much as can be shoehorned in without bogging down the plot.

Percy and Dionysus bonding over their mutual dislike of Theseus, though Percy generally gets along with his other half-siblings, especially the ones who come to camp young enough to keep from getting big heads over being the children of Poseidon.

Though Percy adores all the children in Cabin 7 (most of whom are born via blessing this time around), he and Apollo have at least one child of their own - maybe a demigod born before Percy's ascension to sell their fake relationship? Maybe a minor god who's later attributed a different parentage by mortals? Dealer's choice on details.

It never being made clear who, or what, or how, Percy and Apollo were sent into the past. All of Percy's oddities are attributed to him being foreign or formerly mortal, all of Apollo's to the fact that he's in love with someone who didn't die before their first anniversary, and no one ever guesses time travel is responsible for their eccentricities. Or that time travel was ever an option.

And that's all I have. As always, feel free to adopt, just link back if you ever decide to do anything with it.

More PJO Ideas | More Terrible Fic Ideas

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

What is this feeling? p.3

Heyy guys, here's part 3, if you've missed part 2 here it is.

I'm sorry for not posting yesterday, but this month I'll be pretty inactive since I have to study for my exams :(

If you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist.

"YN, you're good, but good isn’t enough."

Max’s words echoed in your ears as you sat across from him in the Red Bull hospitality suite. His sharp blue eyes studied you, a mix of determination and mischief glinting behind them.

"Okay, ouch," you muttered, crossing your arms defensively. "I’m working on it."

"You don’t just ‘work’ on being a winner," he said, leaning forward. "You have to become one. And lucky for you, I’ve decided to make you my new project."

"Your project?" you repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes," he said, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. "I’m going to teach you everything I know. Strategy, focus, confidence—everything that makes a champion. By the time I’m done with you, you won’t just be good. You’ll be great."

You hesitated, unsure whether to feel flattered or insulted. "And what if I don’t want to be your ‘project’?"

"You don’t really have a choice," Max replied, leaning back and crossing his arms with a cocky smirk. "Besides, I’m very nice for doing this. You should thank me."

"Wow," you said, rolling your eyes but unable to suppress a small laugh. "How generous of you."

"Exactly," he said, his smirk widening.

Over the following weeks, Max threw himself into his self-appointed role as your mentor. It started with small things: tips on cornering, feedback on your race starts, pointers about tire management. He’d pull up telemetry data, going over it in detail, explaining every nuance of what made him fast.

"You’re not braking late enough into Turn 1," he’d say, tracing a section of data with his finger. "And your exit speed here? Too slow. You’re leaving time on the table."

"You’re insufferable, you know that?" you shot back one day, though secretly you appreciated how much he cared.

"I’m efficient," he corrected with a smug grin.

But it wasn’t all technical. Max started nudging you out of your comfort zone in other ways, too.

"You need to stop eating lunch alone," he told you one afternoon, stealing a fry from your plate.

"I like eating alone," you argued, snatching the fry back.

"No, you think you do," he said. "But winners know how to command a room. You should join us. Be part of the team."

Reluctantly, you let him drag you into more social settings, and while you’d never admit it to him, you began to enjoy it.

Somewhere along the way, things shifted.

It wasn’t just the racing tips or the forced social interactions. It was the way Max would wait for you after sessions, leaning against the wall with an easy smile. It was the way he’d cheer you up after a bad qualifying run, cracking jokes until you couldn’t help but laugh. It was the way his confidence in you began to chip away at your own doubts.

"You’re getting better," he said one evening after a long day of practice. "I can see it."

"Thanks to you, I guess," you teased, nudging him lightly.

"Of course, thanks to me," he said, but there was a softness in his voice that hadn’t been there before.

By the time race day rolled around, you felt different. Lighter, more confident. Max’s faith in you had become your own, and as you lined up on the grid, you could see him watching you from the pit wall, arms crossed, a small smile playing on his lips.

The race was intense. Lap after lap, you pushed yourself harder than ever, channeling everything Max had taught you. The car felt like an extension of yourself, and when you crossed the finish line, the world seemed to erupt around you.

You’d done it. You’d won.

Climbing out of the car, you barely had time to process the cheers before someone was rushing toward you.

Max.

He reached you in seconds, pulling you into a tight hug. His arms wrapped around you, and for a moment, the rest of the world fell away.

"I knew you could do it," he said, his voice low and filled with pride.

"Thanks to you," you whispered, smiling against his shoulder.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you. His eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them, his usual cockiness replaced by something warmer, more genuine.

"You were incredible," he said.

"So, does this mean I’m officially not your project anymore?" you teased, though your voice wavered slightly, the moment feeling too big for jokes.

Max chuckled, shaking his head. "You were never a project to me," he said. "Not really."

Before you could respond, the crowd surged around you—drivers, engineers, reporters. Max stepped back, giving you space, but his eyes never left yours.

Later, as the celebrations wound down and the paddock quieted, you found him leaning against the Red Bull motorhome, sipping a bottle of water.

"Hey," you said, approaching him.

"Hey," he replied, a small smile tugging at his lips.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. Then, almost shyly, you added, "You know, I couldn’t have done this without you."

Max shook his head. "You could have. I just helped you realize it."

You stepped closer, your heart racing. "Still, thank you."

He met your gaze, and for the first time, you saw vulnerability in his eyes. "Anytime," he said softly.

The distance between you felt impossibly small, and as the night stretched on, you realized something had changed—something that couldn’t be undone.

Max hadn’t just made you a winner. He’d made you believe in yourself. And in the process, you’d found something neither of you had been looking for but couldn’t ignore any longer.

Part 4

@justaf1girl, @anamiad00msday

[luvzxr]

Little Pougie

Thank you for the support on my last post! It means a lot.

I will be starting a warning as I totally forgot to put it on my last post so here we go.

Warnings: Abuse, talk of drug use and alcohol. Possible smut in the future.

And incase you're new and coming across this party check out

previous and next chapter

02. Agony

I wake up the next morning in a sea of my own messy sheets. This is exactly how I envisioned my entire summer to go, and I wasn't complaining.

I was able to hear muffled talking on the other end of my door and could only register in my head that it was John B and JJ who seemed to have already started their morning long before I had. I kind of wanted to just slip back into another slumber myself, but I decided against it.

Once I slipped out of my room, they were both slumped up on the couch, deep in conversation but both seemed to halt their words once their attention was drawn to me.

"Good Morning, Pougie."

"Mornin' Little Pouge."

A small, but simple smile creeps up on both of their faces, and I watch as they both sit up to fix their much more horrible posture from moments ago.

"Good morning," I say, placing the palms of my hands over my features to rub out the drowsiness that was still visible.

It's silent between all three of us for a small moment before John B speaks up again.

"(Y/n/n), you scared the hell out of me last night," he sighs.

A part of me wanted to strangle him right then and there, he couldn't have picked a better time to talk about this.

"John B, I'm not a little kid," I say defensively.

"You knew Kooks were around (Y/n/n)," he sighed once again, "you're the only thing I have left of blood family,"

"But I'm nearly sixteen JB," I pout, full-heartedly knowing that sometimes I didn't act like a sixteen year old should.

"Yet you seemed to have forgotten that some of those Kooks would have the balls to follow you home. You could have been severely hurt, Pougie. What would you of done if JJ wasn't the person that came in last night?" I wince, realizing his point. I had no self-defense strategy if the person hadn't been JJ.

"But nothing happened," I say.

"Something could have, Pougie." John B retorts back, his face holding onto a stern expression.

"I'm sorry John B," I say apologetically, And watch as his face softens up.

"Just.." he begins, letting out a slow exhaled breath, "Look for JJ next time to take you back home safely. Especially if I'm being too stubborn to do it myself." JJ raised his hand, two fingers held up lazily to indicate he was willing to do the task at any time.

I nod my head in agreement.

I had no experience of the feeling you have being the older sibling who has to be the one to continue parenting a younger one because neither of you have your parents around anymore. I couldn't imagine the feeling of losing John B but could only imagine the feeling he'd get if he'd lost me under his care.

It wouldn't be so bad if he'd just trust me. But I suppose I haven't done my fair share of giving him the luxury of trusting me either.

Though, sometimes I felt I only was dragging him down when he took it upon himself to make me tag along with him anywhere he went. I felt like I held him back from living the life of an actual teenager and not a parent.

JJ had woken up that same morning in severe agony.

This pain was nowhere near the good kind that you could only wish to experience, the kind that made you feel good about the night prior to getting a lucky hook up and you got to silently pat yourself on the back in the comfort of your own mind. At least then all the pain you would be feeling in that moment was worth it.

This pain was the shitty kind, the kind where you are purposely woken up by none other than your own head practically throbbing and your own body begging you for an extra six hours of pure sleeping bliss. Only then would the pain be tolerable because you couldn't feel it.

There were only bits and pieces that he could make out of the events from last night. Small pieces of his memory, and the rest of him only could hope to regain the other half throughout the day. But that was JJ's morning, every morning.

JJ sat up, slowly. He was fighting every fiber in his body not to let any source of pain-filled groans escape his lips. He leant his elbows on his kneels, tousling up his hair in agitation.

He had returned early back to John B's due to the fact his precious little sister decided to take it upon herself to go home without a warning. The man was absolutely distraught finding the absence of his littler sibling's aura and was frantic to find her. He sent JJ back to his place to see if that's where she'd snuck off to, and she had.

JJ himself often worried about the little pouge but never let that part of him show because to him, the only thing the girl seen him as was her brother's best friend and nothing more to connect himself to her personal life.

He couldn't find it in him to see what others saw and when they tried to show compassion he'd often blow it off. Why would anyone care about a deadbeat? he had nothing going for him other than the acknowledgment that either the pills stashed in the lower compartment of his Gootium would take his life or his liver would finally kick it after one too many drinks.

He stole and pickpocketed when he needed to just to have enough for a burger and he had no way of transportation other than the old beat-up dirtbike he picked out of the trash and fixed up himself. And of course, John B gave him the luxury of using the Twinkie if he needed to.

He sighed, forcing himself to trudge off to the bathroom, and took a good, long look at himself in the mirror.

To some sort of extent, JJ didn't absolutely hate what looked back at him in the mirror. He'd been told numerous times by multiple pouge and then some of kooks that he was good-looking, though most of them ended up in the bedroom with him- tied up in the sheets. And most times, the next mornings would be him finding his belongings and disappearing from their room before they woke up themselves. Nevertheless, it was quite the confidence boost that was well over its deadline.

The thought of (Y/n) trudging home alone last night and a kook picking her up only gave JJ more to put on his well-overstocked plate.

Kooks were pushy and argent, And (Y/n) was a pushover. It doesn't take much to have a pretty, innocent girl like that do whatever you want with just a little push and put a little fear into her to do it.

(Y/n) was the type of girl that if you asked her to do something, she would. She had her quirks, of course and she wasn't experienced in the way most guys wanted but that was all the more reason to have her.

She was a virgin and JJ knew what most guys think when they look at her because he was one and he looked at girls like that all the time. The resemblance of the look an animal gives when they stalk their prey. They were eye-fucking her and it was obvious.

(y/n) was different. He could never look at her and only think of using her for his own sexual enjoyment and that was for obvious reasons. She was his best friend's little sister and John B would probably kick his ass if he knew that his best pal was thinking of completely recking his little sister.

If it was up to him; he'd probably beat the ever loving shit out of most for simply just looking at her in such a way.

She was lucky last night. There were numerous times when JJ had to swoop to her rescue to play stupid knight-in-shining armor and if she hadn't made it home safely he would have had to once again. He would of had to pretend to play the role of a good guy for a good girl.

That thought agitated him.

JJ Maybank was not a good guy. He was born to bus tables, make the money and hand it all over to his father after every paycheck- when it should be the parent busting their ass for a living.

He picked fights whenever he could because it seemed to be the only way of physically feeling something, And he'd take physical over anything emotional.

There was never a moment that he didn't have a busted up lip or a black eye but that never compared to the bruises he left on the other person. Whatever he came back with was ten times worse with what he left.

And when his father asked for a one way ticket out of obx and his life, JJ didn't hesitate. He practically was pushing his own father off the island because he knew he'd be better off. That day was probably in the top ten best moments of his life.

Shaking his head, he opened up the small cabinet above the sink in search for any type of aspirin to dial down this gnarly headache, But once coming up with nothing he let out a long sigh before closing the cabinet shut and stepping back out of the bathroom to head back to (Y/n and John B.

Poor girl got a severe lecture about last night but JJ would be lying if he didn't think she needed it just a little bit for pulling that stunt.

His attention was soon taken for a moment of time when a 'ding' from his phone went off in the left side of his pocket. Slipping out the device he noticed a text message from none other than, Kiara.

Can we talk?

And those three words were all it took to send his mind into a spiral. He began to go into a slight panic, thinking of so many different scenarios that this could go absolutely sideways and completely blow up in his face.

He wouldn't deny that he felt something for Kie, at least in his own mind he wouldn't because if you were to ask him out loud he'd probably sit there and tell you to shut the fuck up and mind your own business or just full on take a swing at you.

JJ despised letting his guard down- hated to know someone knew almost everything about him and had the large opportunity to use that against him- so it was no surprise that as to how much he found himself wanting to pull more away from Kiara.

He didn't want to have a conversation about something he was never good with communicating in the first place, much less try to do so with a girl he had a completely different viewpoint on than most. He'd rather bottle up those emotions and keep a good friendship, at least then there were no extra ties if it falls apart like most things in his life already had.

Maybe another time Kie. I'm gonna be a bit busy with JB today and I got work tomorrow.

Was all he could respond before shutting his phone back off and slipping it back into his pocket, completely ignoring the numerous texts and calls by Kie herself for the entire rest of the day.

[thechanelmuse]

How to Get a Menacing Bully to Spiral & Destroy Their Reputation and Brand 😮‍💨

Back in 2021, I reviewed The 48 Laws of Power. One of my favorites. As stated then, it's a well-researched “handbook on the art of indirection” that’s filled with stories and strategies on how societies, groups and individuals throughout history to the present-day have navigated to obtain and/or maintain power. People consider this book to be evil if you're viewing it from a perspective of offense. But if you're an observant and analytical person like myself, you'll simultaneously view it from a perspective of defense on how to protect yourself from someone else's power.

Megan Thee Stallion's "Hiss" to unbothered silence and Nicki Minaj's 3-day unhinged crash out is a perfect 48 Laws of Power moment.

Megan epitomizes Law 4 and Nicki, who's always viewed herself as untouchable, superior to "her sons," and the self-proclaimed Queen of Rap, destroys Law 5.

Law 4: Always Say Less Than Necessary

When you are trying to impress people with words, the more you say, the more common you appear, and the less in control. Even if you are saying something banal, it will seem original if you make it vague, open-ended, and sphinxlike. Powerful people impress and intimidate by saying less. The more you say, the more likely you are to say something foolish.

"Power is in many ways a game of appearances, and when you say less than necessary, you inevitably appear greater and more powerful than you are. Your silence will make other people uncomfortable. Humans are machines of interpretation and explanation; they have to know what you are thinking. When you carefully control what you reveal, they cannot pierce your intentions or your meaning.

"Your short answers and silences will put them on the defensive and they will jump in, nervously filling the silence with all kinds of comments that will reveal valuable information about them and their weaknesses. [...] In most areas of life, the less you say, the more profound and mysterious you appear. [...] Once the words are out, you cannot take them back. Keep them under control. The momentary satisfaction you gain with your biting words will be outweighed by the price you pay."

Law 5: So Much Depends On Reputation — Guard It With Your Life

Reputation is the cornerstone of power: through reputation alone you can intimidate and win; once it slips however you are vulnerable and will be attacked on all sides. Make your reputation unassailable. Always be alert to potential attacks and thwart them before they happen. Meanwhile learn to destroy your enemies by opening holes in their own reputations. Then stand aside and let public opinion hang them.

Before I continue with more excerpts from this law, I wanna point out that Nicki's behavior and slander felt like a struggling display of an overt narcissist trying to discard their perceived enemy. People with that condition, lack empathy overall, spiral and lash out to end you emotionally and mentally when you publicly embarrass them and/or privately shut them out when you cause their mask to fall. Manic anger. Just keep that in mind.

More excerpts:

"A solid reputation increases your presence and exaggerates your strengths without your having to spend much energy. It can also create an aura around you that will instill respect, even fear.[...]

"Make your reputation simple and base it on one sterling quality. This single quality — efficiency, say, or seductiveness — becomes a kind of calling card that announces your presence and places others under a spell. [...] Perhaps you have already stained your reputation, so that you are prevented from establishing a new one. In such cases it is wise to associate with with someone whose image counteracts your own, using their good name to whitewash and elevate your own.

"Once [your reputation] is solid, do not let yourself get angry or defensive at the slanderous comments of your enemies—that reveals insecurity, not confidence. Take the high road instead, and never appear desperate in your self-defense.

"You must not seem to engage in petty 😏 vengeance. If you do not break your enemy's reputation cleverly, you will inadvertently ruin your own."

Emotions cloud reason while silence is golden.

Nevermind that Nicki emboldened her cult following of fans to dox Erykah Badu, Victoria Monét, Lil Ju (Megan's producer), the resting place of Megan's mother 🪦, and anyone who verbalized or appeared to be on opposition... There's a whole chapter in this book on cults: Law 27.

Checkmate, Megan.

[queuestarter]

diluted

(johanna mason x reader)

cw: panic attacks, crying, mentions of torture

link to the request → reader helping johanna overcome her fear of water

You eye Johanna critically from across the room. It’s been weeks since she’s been rescued from the Capitol and she’s been completely ignoring you since then. Every time you ask her if she’s okay or if you can do anything for her, she brushes you off.

You understand that she’s been through a lot, but as her girlfriend, her indifference upset you. In an effort to keep yourself busy, you spend most of your time with Beetee in the weapons room, helping to design defensive strategies. Ever since you banned Gale from helping, things have been better on that front.

“Stop looking at me like I’m going to collapse at any moment.” Johanna calls out to you. She’s playing with the sheets on her bed, not even looking in your direction.

You sigh. “I just want you to be okay, Jo. I worry about you.”

She sneers down at her sheets. “Worry about me when Snow’s dead.”

So you do. After Katniss kills President Coin, Snow dies, and the underground community of District 13 falls apart, you move to District 7 and begin to worry about Johanna like it’s a full time job.

It starts with weaning her off of her morphling supply. You two live in the middle of the woods, so there’s no easy access to the drug, nor do you want Johanna using it to cope anymore. It takes her weeks to get back to her healthy self, which brings you great relief.

The other issue that you quickly learn about is Johanna’s newfound fear of water. You quickly piece together that when she was held captive by the Capitol, they used water as a form of torture for her. She doesn’t like talking about it, but you can see the truth in the way her face scrunches up in fear whenever she’s confronted with water. 

It breaks your heart.

You decide to take matters into your own hands once again. You helped her with her morphling withdrawals, you think, how much harder can it be to help her overcome her fear of water?

“Come on, Jo,” you plead with her. “I want to go down to the lake.”

You don’t really want to go to the lake- swimming in freshwater scares you a little bit- but you figure this is a good step one.

Johanna eyes you with a look of disdain on her face. “I don’t want to go. I’m sure there’s a hundred other people in District 7 that would love to join you.”

You grab her hand and kiss her palm. “But there’s no one else in this district that I love like I love you.” You know as soon as you say the words that you’ve sufficiently sweet talked her.

Johanna likes to pretend that she’s tough, but she’s really a giant softy.

Once you actually make it down to the lake, three hours later, Johanna grips your hand with all of her strength, it seems. You take it in stride, though, and hold on just as tight.

“It looks beautiful,” you comment, staring at the water. “Reminds me of you.”

It really does. The way the trees cast a shade upon the surface perfectly complements the highlights from the sun. Just like Johanna, there’s darkness and light.

Johanna rolls her eyes and sets your belongings down on the grass. “Go on, have your fun. I’ll be over here.”

You pout. “Oh. I wanted you to join me.”

The pained look that you’re now so familiar with makes its return. “You know that I don’t want to.”

You instantly melt, wrapping your arms around her. She clings back to you just as tight. “You don’t have to, my love. I just want you to be able to let go of what they did to you. I want you to reclaim it.”

Johanna pulls back and looks into your eyes. “Yeah. You’re right.” And with renewed vigor, Johanna grabs your hand and pulls you to the lake, kicking off her shoes along the way. When she gets to the water’s edge, she stops suddenly.

“What’s wrong, baby?” You ask, letting your own toes dip into the water.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” she says in a soft tone. “I don’t think I can reclaim it.”

You frown, standing in front of her. “Jo, if you don’t want to go in you absolutely don’t have to. It was just a stupid idea.”

Now it’s her turn to frown. “It’s not stupid, you were just trying to help me.” With that, she dips her toes in the lake.

Your jaw drops. You were not expecting her to go in the water that easily. “Baby, you did it!” 

Johanna closes her eyes. “Can we eat lunch now?”

You grin. “Of course.”

After that day, you don’t force her to deal with water so boldly for another few weeks. The next time you bring up the exposure therapy is during a rainstorm that has your girlfriend curled up on the couch holding her ears.

“How about,” you say, rubbing her back. “After this has all cleared up, we do something fun.”

“Like what?” Her voice is muffled by a pillow.

“We can jump in the puddles outside.”

Johanna tenses, more than she already was. “And how is that supposed to be fun?”

You lean down and kiss her nose. “I always used to do that when I was a kid. I liked it. And I feel like it’ll help with what we’ve been working on. You’re scared of this rain, but we’ll have fun playing in the puddles it provides afterwards.”

Johanna looks at you, trust in her eyes. “Okay.”

So that’s what you do.

After the rain ends, it barely takes any coaxing to get Johanna out of the house and bounding into puddles. Once she sees you do it, giggles leaving your lips with each jump, she joins in.

“This isn’t so bad,” she admits, wiping some mud that splashed up on her off of her arms. “It’s kind of nice.”

You nod, grabbing both of her hands. “It is what you make it, baby.”

That’s what you repeat to her when it’s time to get in the shower upon your return home. “It is what you make it, baby. You need to clean off.”

Johanna shakes her head. “I can’t. This is too much.” It breaks your heart to see tears flowing freely from her eyes.

“I’ll be there with you the entire time. Holding you, kissing you. This is just going to be another good memory,” you try to convince her.

Without wasting another moment, you strip out of your filthy clothes and throw them in the hamper. You then turn on the shower, heart panging at the sound of another one of Johanna’s sobs.

You turn back to your girlfriend, helping her strip as well. You pepper kisses all over her cheeks and lips, hands running over her back. “Let’s wash off, baby. It’ll be quick.”

You step into the shower, just standing under the stream. You think that maybe if she sees that you’re okay under the flow of water, she will be too.

That hope doesn’t last long- Johanna just stands and watches you with tears in her eyes, hands twisting together.

“Come on,” you plead. “You can’t stay covered in mud forever. And I’m lonely in here. I need you with me, always.”

That seems to do it. Johanna takes a step forward, then another, and then eventually she collapses in your arms, sobs wracking her body.

“That’s my girl,” you say, petting her hair. “I’ve never been so proud of you in my life.” You continue to repeat positive affirmations to her, holding her close to you.

After a few minutes, Johanna is calm enough to agree to you washing her body. You take your time, scrubbing her from top to bottom. She even jokes around with you towards the end while you quickly wash yourself off.

Hours later, wrapped up in your matching robes on your bed, she thanks you. “I never would have done that without you. Thank you, baby.” It’s so uncharacteristic for her to say, even more so when she tucks her head in your neck.

You love that she feels safe enough with you to be soft.

“There’s no need to thank me. I just want you to be the happiest you can be. This is the start of the rest of our life, baby. I don’t want the past to hold us back.”

She nods, kissing your collarbone. A few moments later, she’s asleep. 

You fall asleep shortly after her, a smile on your face.

-

[phaeton-flier]

I often feel that criticism of makeup has become impossible, at least online. Not wearing makeup is kinda like being a vegan in that just mentioning it will make a very specific group of people feel very insecure and thus they will loudly defame you rather than admit that you may have very understandable reasons for doing so. They just don't want to be persuaded because that would mean admitting they were wrong.

I don't know how to talk to these people. I get some decent responses when I focus the conversation on how the makeup industry is built on predatory advertising. There are people who respond fairly well to the capitalist consumption angle and that's not nothing but it doesn't get it as far as I'd like it to go. People's habits are rarely meaningfully changed by pointing out how those habits play directly into huge damaging systems.

I usually think it's still worth talking about despite the difficulties because at the very least you can introduce a new argument to people. They won't be persuaded in the moment but maybe years down the line it will mean something.

Other than that I'm at a loss. Every conversation about the makeup industry has to have 50 caveats about how it's fine to enjoy makeup for self expression so we just never seem to get any further in the conversation.

So the bad news is that there is not One Secret Trick to getting people to not raise their cached responses to these things. The good news is the the general strategy is similar to that for Vegans.

Just living your life, and posting about it occasionally, and not fitting to the stereotypes of the dumbest evilest Vegan people will expect from seeing thirdhand jokes will make a difference.

Most persuasion is slow, and boring, and happens years down the line as people slowly let evidence gather in their mind and let their psychological defense against being wrong wear down. You will not see it happen, but that does not mean it was not worth it.

Take breaks and post about other things. This helps you keep your sanity about the state of the world. Because, you know, this whole posting thing should be fun.

[killeromanoff]

I KNOW YOUR GHOST | ch. 3

summary: Cassie navigates a haze of alcohol and emotions as she confronts the weight of her past and future decisions.

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

warnings: Mild language, Themes of Corruption, Power dynamics, Age-Gap (Cassie is 25 yo), Moral conflict, Slow-burn tension, Alcohol Use, Realism in Media Industry, Self-doubting

w.c: 15.7k

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

o3. Never break the chain

The warmth of Bar Sinister wrapped around Declan the moment he stepped inside, a soft hum of voices and clinking glasses providing the backdrop. The place had a worn-in charm, like an old leather armchair—comfortably familiar yet quietly sophisticated. The light fixtures cast a muted, golden glow, pooling in corners and leaving enough shadows to feel discreet. It was the kind of place where people came to talk, not to be seen.

Declan’s gaze swept the room, scanning for Rupert.

His friend was nowhere to be found, undoubtedly caught up in whatever social entanglement he met in his way. Typical of him. Declan let out a quiet sigh, adjusting his cufflinks—a subconscious habit more than anything.

Then his gaze landed on Bas, comfortably sprawled at a counter near the far corner. The scene was familiar enough: Bas gesturing animatedly, the low light reflecting off the condensation of a half-empty glass at his side. His grin was wide, his loose posture exuding the kind of effortless charm Declan had come to associate with him.

Typical Bas.

At first, Declan had hoped to find Rupert with Bas, since both were joined at the hip.

Where Bas was, usually, Rupert was as well.

However, this time, next to Bas sat a woman, her back to Declan. Again, typical Bas.

At first glance, she didn’t seem remarkable. Dark brown hair, the soft curls catching the light to reveal subtle auburn undertones—spilling over her shoulders, posture relaxed, head tilted backwards as she laughed at something Bas had said to her.

Declan nearly dismissed it as just another encounter for Bas, who had a way of surrounding himself with women who were drawn to his easy humor and magnetic energy. But as the journalist stepped closer, something about the way the woman moved—a slight tilt of her head, a gesture of her hand—nagged at him.

And then her voice reached his ears, carrying over the soft background sound of the bar.

“You know,” she remarked, casually, “you’d make a terrible lawyer. Your evidence is a horse, and your defense strategy is sarcasm.”

Declan halted in his tracks.

That voice.

Recognition struck him like a sudden shock, and everything fell into place. It wasn’t just any woman sitting with Bas—it was Cassie.

Cassie Jones.

The realization sent a strange mix of emotions through him, each one colliding before he could fully process them. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected when he walked in, but it certainly wasn’t this.

Cassie, in this bar, with Bas—her back to him, her shoulders shaking with laughter—felt as unexpected as it was unnerving.

Declan’s gaze tunneled, focusing on her with newfound intent.

Her chestnut locks cascaded around her face in gentle waves, reflecting the soft golden light from above. Even from behind, she exuded a vibrant energy that drew the eye irresistibly. She leaned in gradually, resting her elbow on the table, her fingers loosely holding her glass as if it anchored her to the moment.

The sharp lines of her black blazer stood out against the cozy ambiance of the bar, yet it felt entirely appropriate. It complemented her persona—elegant and poised, yet with a hint of unpredictability that suggested she could burst into laughter at any moment.

He took a breath, but it didn’t quite steady him.

Bas let out a snort, struggling to suppress a laugh. The sound was unrestrained and familiar, waltzing through the bar with an undercurrent of satisfaction. He was clearly enjoying himself, reveling in the shared amusement between them.

This was Bas at his most infuriating—delightfully irreverent, effortlessly magnetic, and undeniably present. He had a knack for disarming people, creating an intimacy that felt both natural and easy.

It was a skill that Declan admired in theory, but witnessing it unfold with a young woman like Cassie left him unsettled in ways he preferred not to explore.

“A lawyer?” Bas said with another incredulous laugh, his voice loud enough to turn heads, “Please. Too much paperwork. I’d rather keep slinging drinks, making people laugh, and playing polo.”

��Ah, the noble profession of bartending again,” Cassie attempted to suppress another fit of giggles, her tone laced with playful sarcasm, “Defender of soy sauce incidents and peddler of questionable anecdotes.”

“Questionable?” Bas echoed, feigning shock as he clutched his chest, “That story was the highlight of my week.”

Cassie’s laughter rang out again—this time softer, almost reflective—and Declan felt its warmth wash over him before he could rein it in.

For a moment, Declan allowed himself to remain in that space, his eyes locked on her. There was something about the way she leaned in, her fingers lightly grazing the rim of her glass as she absorbed Bas’s reply, that felt... Out of place.

Not because she didn’t belong—if anything, she seamlessly blended into the bar's warm, lived-in ambiance—but because he hadn’t anticipated how effortlessly she could adapt to this relaxed environment.

Across from her, Bas lounged with an infuriating charm that seemed to flow from him like a second language. Declan felt a sharp pang grip him—something instinctual and unsettling. It wasn’t exactly anger; he wasn’t angry at Bas.

How could he be? Bas was simply being himself: witty, disarming, and entirely at ease in captivating an audience.

It was just… Complicated.

Declan’s chest tightened as he watched. There was no real justification for the feeling, just the disquieting realization that seeing Cassie and Bas together—sharing effortless laughter and moving in sync—had stirred something deep within him.

“Oh,” he said with a smooth tone, his voice slicing through the warm stillness of the bar as he paused beside the counter, “I thought Rupert would be here already.”

The words flowed easily, yet he couldn't shake the tightening sensation in his chest as he truly focused on her.

Cassie hadn’t even fully turned to acknowledge him, but he could sense her attention, which was more than he anticipated.

Bas leaned back in his chair, clearly entertained by the unfolding scene.

“Rupert’s at Mrs. Spencer’s gala,” he answered, his tone breezy, “Something about giving someone a ride.”

Declan’s thoughts wandered for a moment. Rupert at the gala.

Mrs. Spencer’s gala was the epitome of a high-society affair—too… Perfect for Rupert. The only thing that would pique his interest was the chance to engage in flirtations with anyone present.

That thought was interrupted briefly as Declan recalled his earlier conversation with Taggie about the ride to the Spencer’s residence. She had insisted she already had a ride, that she didn’t want to disturb him and his plans.

He had assumed—perhaps naively—that Mr. Spencer himself would have come to collect her. What kind of man would allow a woman like her to navigate the night alone, especially during such an extravagant gala?

Declan’s brow furrowed, though his expression remained relaxed as he turned his attention back to the conversation. He allowed a thoughtful hum to leave his lips, careful not to let his thoughts show on his face.

“Taggie’s doing their buffet, isn’t she?” His voice was quieter now, as though speaking more to himself than to them.

The casual question floated into the air between them, but Declan’s mind was elsewhere—focused on Cassie. Because why would he be thinking about her when he has Rupert to worry about?

Perhaps the one glass of whiskey he had treated himself when the show finished wasn’t hitting so well.

She was here with Bas, laughing and chatting with an ease that felt foreign to him. This vibrant side of her was a revelation, making the earlier awkwardness of their interactions fade into the background.

Bas nodded to Declan’s inquiry, which reminded him of his earlier question, a hint of satisfaction creeping into Baddingham's expression. Declan couldn't shake the sensation that he was missing out on something significant.

For the moment, he resolved to set this concern aside, leaving it for a future version of himself to figure out.

Cassie hadn’t turned completely yet, but Declan could feel the air shift the moment he entered the scene. Something was different, but he couldn’t quite place it. Perhaps it was the intensity of his thoughts, or maybe it was the realization that he hadn’t anticipated how much he would want her attention at this moment.

Whatever it was, the energy between them felt charged in a way that hadn't existed before.

“Hi, Cassie,” he said, her name rolling off his tongue with an ease that belied the intent behind it, “I imagine you saw my show tonight.”

Only then, she did finally turn, the motion was cautious, almost reluctant, like she was testing each muscle before committing to the full action. For a moment, he saw her uncertainty—unspoken but undeniable—and then her eyes met his, and everything else in the room seemed to still.

Her dark eyes caught the muted glow of the bar’s lighting, making them seem deeper, more guarded than they had earlier in the day. Her expression was unreadable at first, her lips slightly parted as though she was preparing to say something but couldn’t quite find the words.

Declan felt something stir in his chest—a pull, faint but insistent, that made him want to take a step closer. He resisted the urge, instead letting his gaze linger, unhurried, as if taking in every detail of her.

Her blazer was sharper up close, well-fitted but rumpled, suggesting she’d thrown it on in a hurry. The fade flush in her cheeks, still warm from the bar’s heat made her seem almost vulnerable. Almost.

Because if there was something that Cassie Jones wasn’t, that was that: vulnerable. She could show vulnerability, but she wasn’t one to let it define her.

He smiled, just enough to break the edge of the silence between them. It wasn’t a smirk—he knew better than to wield arrogance here—but it was self-assured.

And there it was, that subtle shift in her gaze, the telltale sign of someone trying too hard to appear unaffected. It was temporary, but he caught it, and it sent a flicker of satisfaction through him.

She held his gaze longer than he’d expected, her expression settling into something closer to defiance than uncertainty. Declan found himself appreciating the fire there, the way she refused to back down despite the tension thickening between them.

“Yes, it was… Thorough,” she replied, dismissing the tension that had lingered in her silence until she spoke.

Declan raised an eyebrow, and although he held back his reaction, he felt the sting of her understatement. Thorough? He might have laughed if he weren't slightly offended.

“Thorough,” Declan echoed, his brow lifting as if feigning offense, “I’ll take that as your version of a compliment.”

She shrugged, “Don’t get used to it.”

Bas’s laughter cut through the moment, a snort of genuine amusement as his gaze darted between the two of them. Grinning, he turned back toward the bar and began assembling Declan’s usual drink with the ease of someone who knew the routine by heart.

“Don’t listen to her,” Bas said, handing the glass to Declan with a flourish, “You should have seen her face when you said her name on television.”

Declan raised an eyebrow, intrigued, just as Cassie snapped her head toward Bas, her eyes wide in protest.

“Shut up, will you?” she shot at him, narrowing her gaze as she pointed a finger in warning.

Bas, ever the provocateur, pouted dramatically, though his grin threatened to spill over at any second.

“Sorry, American,” he said with exaggerated politeness, “I just take orders from true British.”

Declan stood silently for a beat, his drink untouched in his hand. Watching them interact, the playful rhythm of their words, the easy way they occupied the space around each other—it struck him in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

“Don’t you dare,” Cassie shot back, leaning closer, her voice sharp with faux outrage, “I was born in London, Bas. We’ve been over this!”

When he had first entered the bar and his gaze landed on them—Cassie laughing, Bas leaning closer with that mischievous grin… Something about their ease, the natural rhythm of their interaction, had snagged in his mind for just a moment.

But now, as he watched Cassie half-climb over the counter in mock outrage, her sharp retort cutting through Bas’s exaggerated pouting, whatever thought he had felt absurd.

They weren’t flirting. It was too careless, too playful—siblings bickering over nothing at all… And anyway, of course, they weren’t. If anything, they were squabbling like siblings over a childhood rivalry, their teasing lighthearted but relentless.

Still, the thought lingered in the back of his mind, refusing to fully dissipate. And even if they were?

Declan’s fingers brushed the edge of his glass, grounding himself as he let the moment play out. Whatever had crossed his mind before, it was irrelevant now. It didn’t matter. And even if it did—well, that wasn’t something he intended to examine further.

“Good to know you’ve sorted out your identity crisis,” he spoke up, trying to soothe the tension off of his shoulders.

Cassie turned her attention to him, her eyes narrowing, though the amusement still lingered in her expression. Bas, meanwhile, sat back in his chair, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Don’t mind Declan,” Bas said to Cassie, raising his glass in an exaggerated toast, “He’s just grumpy because he missed the part where you glared at the television like it owed you money.”

Cassie groaned, dragging a hand down her face, “Bas, I swear to God—”

Bas chuckled to himself, clearly enjoying the scene, but Declan’s attention was still focused on Cassie. Despite the playful banter, something about the way she held herself, the sharpness in her eyes, intrigued him. Her guard was still up, but it felt different now. More like she was sparring with them for sport, her quick wit and retorts keeping everything at arm's length.

Declan let the silence hang for a moment, watching her as she settled back into her seat, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. It wasn’t an easy thing to hold her attention—he knew that much.

He cleared his throat, his voice softer this time, though still with the weight of the question.

“So, what did you think of the show?”

Don’t say thorough again, he almost whispered to himself.

Cassie hesitated, her fingers drumming lightly against the counter, her eyes shifting to her drink before finally meeting his gaze.

“You gave me my story back,” she said quietly, her eyes darting away to the content in her glass. Yet, Declan got a glimpse of the corners of her lips lifting, “My allegations. My accusations. You didn’t just… You credited me.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of Declan’s mouth, though he kept it restrained. He hadn’t expected to feel this... satisfied. There was something about hearing her say it that felt more than just a professional acknowledgment. It felt personal.

The past thirty minutes—Cameron’s scolding for not telling her about the section of the interview that had been planned—seemed far less important at that moment. It was all worth it.

The satisfaction from seeing her smile, from catching the brief flicker of recognition in her eyes when she’d looked at him again? That made the whole thing feel meaningful. Real.

“It was your work, Cassie,” he said simply, “It deserved to be heard the way you intended it. Besides,” he added with a smile, “I told you, I like your work. It’s sharp. Honest. You deserve the credit.”

Cassie blinked, her gaze flickering away again, and for a brief moment, Declan wondered if he had said too much. Her fingers tightened around her glass, and then the quiet stretched out between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly, but it was different—he could feel the space between them heavier than it had been moments before.

Declan watched her, trying to read the change in her, the way she seemed to retreat inward. Her face was still, but there was a tension in her posture, a thought she hadn’t voiced yet but that she was wrestling with all the same.

Bas, ever the disruptor, broke the quiet with a grin and raised his glass in a mock toast.

“Which is exactly why you should join Venturer,” he said with ease, as though it were the most obvious conclusion in the world.

Cassie widened her eyes at Bas, pausing just a moment longer than expected. For a brief second, Declan caught the glint of an unspoken question in her gaze, a hesitation she hadn’t voiced but that was plain to see. And plain it was, it wasn’t difficult to see what was storming her mind again.

Bas leaned in, his voice shifting to a more persuasive tone as he continued, “You’ve got a lot to offer, Cassie. This isn’t about diving in headfirst. It’s about giving you a platform. Venturer is where you could take the next step.”

Declan kept his focus on her as he added, “It’s not about the show or the spotlight. It’s about the stories you’ve been telling—the stories that deserve to be heard. We’re just offering the chance to help amplify them.”

Cassie’s eyes moved from one of them to the other, but she didn’t immediately respond. Declan noticed how her brows furrowed, her focus distant as she turned over their words. She wasn’t sure, not yet, but she was listening.

After a beat, she exhaled, her gaze lifting again, this time fixated on a spot behind Bas, as if she was looking for an answer elsewhere.

“What exactly would you want me to do there?” she asked quietly, as though she had already begun to weigh her options in her mind, “At Venturer?”

Declan didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward just enough to meet her eyes directly.

“I want you as my co-host,” The words slipped out before he had fully considered them.

Had he ever discussed this with anyone? He tried to remember—perhaps Freddie and Rupert, months ago, when the idea of a co-host had first come up.

They had all agreed that it would only make sense if they found someone who could match the dynamic of the show, but no one felt right. They’d searched for weeks, but no name had emerged, not one that made Declan feel this level of certainty.

He remembered Freddie saying something about making calls, but the woman he had thought of already had a job in radio—an obstacle at the time. Who would have guessed that the right person, the one he’d been unknowingly searching for, was sitting right in front of him?

The woman working at a radio, huh?

Declan’s mind shifted as he considered the situation now.

Cameron, of course, would have to sign off on this. They couldn’t move forward without her approval, and there was always the politics to manage.

Still, the thought of Cassie in that role felt more fitting than he had anticipated. Maybe it wasn’t just about the show. Maybe it was about giving her a platform, the one she deserved.

He’d handle Cameron later. He’d manage that as it came.

Declan focused back on Cassie, waiting for her response.

When she finally spoke, it was with a quiet certainty.

“I can’t be a co-host,” she said, shaking her head in a way that seemed to emphasize her decision. Her eyes briefly skimmed over his face, reading his reaction, but she didn’t hold her look too long—just enough to gauge him before continuing, “Not in a show that’s already built on your name. Your brand. That’s not where I fit.”

Declan understood, he had suspected as much, but hearing her articulate it only solidified what he had already sensed. It wasn’t about her not wanting to be a part of the show; it was about not losing herself in something that wasn’t truly hers. He admired that.

Bas, noticing the shift in the conversation, raised an eyebrow but kept quiet, waiting for Declan to respond.

Declan let the silence stretch for a moment, letting Cassie’s words sit between them. He could see the wheels turning behind her eyes, her thoughts still moving beneath the surface. And when she spoke again, her voice was calmer, more considered.

“Let’s say I accept,” she said, the decision still heavy on the tip of her tongue, though she was clearly still pondering, “What I’m offering—” she gave a small pause, underscoring the seriousness of her consideration, “Is to be part of the show, but in a way that makes sense for me. Maybe a segment. A smaller part, where I can bring in the stories I’ve been chasing. The cases I’m working with. That’s where I can make the biggest difference.”

Declan absorbed her words carefully, his expression thoughtful. The idea of a segment, a piece of the show that felt more organic to her… Made sense. It wasn’t about pushing her into something that wasn’t right—it was about finding the right space for her to thrive.

His mind raced for a moment, considering how this could fit.

“A segment. We can do that,” he nodded, a slight smile playing in his lips, “Your stories. Your voice. That’s what this is about.”

Cassie’s fingers resumed their quiet drumming on the glass, her gaze lowering for a moment as she mulled over the next words. Declan observed her closely, watching the way her fingers moved—rhythmic, methodical. It wasn’t a nervous gesture, but something deliberate, as though she was laying the foundation for her next move.

The final pieces of the puzzle were clearly clicking into place in her mind, and Declan could almost hear the thoughts running through her head.

When Cassie spoke again, her voice was more casual, the tension easing from her shoulders. But even in this more relaxed tone, there was an undeniable practicality that struck him.

“And when I’m not on screen,” she said, her eyes meeting him briefly, “I want to be part of the production side. Camera work. Editing. Anything that gives me hands-on experience. I’ve got bills to pay and if I’m going to do this, I want to understand every angle.”

Declan blinked, his lips pressed in a thin line as his mind processed her words quickly. There was no hesitation now, no reluctance in her tone. She knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to ask for it.

Cassie wasn’t interested in just being a figurehead, a talking head for a show. She wanted to be in the trenches, learning the ropes, understanding the mechanics of the industry. The way she expressed it—so grounded, so aware of the realities—made something in Declan click.

Bas grinned, clearly impressed.

“Practical and resourceful,” His tone was light, but Declan could sense the respect in his words, “You always surprise me, Jones.”

Cassie shot Bas a small, pointed look, but it wasn’t one of amusement. The smile that had briefly touched her lips faded quickly, replaced by that same determined expression.

“If I’m doing this, I’m not just here to be a pretty face. I want to learn.”

She wasn’t the type to hide behind vague promises or false humility. She was real, grounded. She wanted to be more than a figure in front of a camera, and that was exactly why she was the right fit for what they were trying to build.

Declan studied her, taking in the quiet confidence she exuded. Her eyes weren’t just steady—they were attentive, measuring everything around her, and there was an underlying fire in them that he couldn’t ignore. She wasn’t one to settle for the obvious answers. Her posture, too, was a study in balance—leaning forward just enough to show interest, but never fully giving herself away.

It was an energy that kept him guessing, but in the best way possible.

And for someone like Declan, with his own history in this world of media and public image, he knew exactly the kind of woman she was.

Someone who didn’t rely on the glitz of the industry, but on something real. Something genuine. That was what set her apart. That’s what would make her the perfect fit for the kind of thing they were building here.

He didn’t have the words for it. He simply watched her, knowing that this was the kind of woman who always had an edge—a razor-sharp focus on the things that mattered.

There’s the fighter, he thought, and that thought brought a small, involuntary smile to his lips.

“So?” he said, his voice still calm, a subtle nudge, but with no urgency, “What’s next?”

Because, of course, a young woman like her would have a third condition.

Cassie’s eyes softened, just the smallest trace of vulnerability appearing before she masked it again, her lips pressing into a thin line. Declan saw it, but he didn’t press.

This wasn’t a moment to rush. She was measuring her response, and that was fine with him.

“Third condition,” there was no hesitation this time, but Declan noticed the way she settled into the words, almost as though she had prepared for this moment, “I want to talk to my uncle before anything final happens.”

Declan didn’t miss the subtle emphasis she put on ‘talk’—she wasn’t asking for permission, but she was looking for a conversation. And that made sense. Cassie’s relationship with her uncle was important, and he understood the need to clear things with him first.

For a second, he wouldn’t lie, he forgot she was Freddie’s niece. Yes, they had some similarities in appearances: brownish hair and brown eyes. But, despite that? Two different people entirely.

Bas glanced at Declan, and Declan gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

“Of course. No one’s rushing you,” Bas said, his voice filled with that easy, knowing tone.

Declan allowed himself a smile, a little quieter now.

That mattered more than he wanted to admit, it made every minute listening to Cameron’s lecture worthier than ever.

“I wish Rupert were here,” Declan chuckled as he thought about his friend, leaning back a little, “It would be nice to get his approval on this. At least then we’d know you’re already part of the team. Since, obviously, Freddie would agree.”

Cassie raised an eyebrow, a touch of amusement breaking through her previously serious expression.

“You think he’d just approve it like that? Rupert?”

Declan’s grin was small but genuine. There was something apologetic in the way he held her gaze, as if admitting that… Yes, I am that confident.

“If anyone could, it’d be him. But we can wait. Just know, when you’re ready, you’ve got a place here.”

“Wait a second,” Bas said suddenly, rising from his seat and turning to rummage behind the counter.

“I didn’t even say yes,” Cassie said with a frown, watching her friend shuffle behind the bar, his movements purposeful.

After a moment, Bas emerged with a bottle, his grin wide.

“That’s the only time I’ve seen you really consider it,” he said, pulling out two glasses from behind the bar, “You know, Declan? Me and Freddie have been trying to get her to even think about this since she moved in.”

“Really?” Declan asked, his voice tinged with a mischievous as he leaned forward, never taking his eyes off Cassie.

She shot him a look, brows raised, as though silently asking if he was being serious.

He was.

And there was something about hearing Bas’s words, seeing Cassie’s expression shift just a little, that made Declan feel a sense of quiet victory.

It wasn’t just about the idea of her joining the show anymore—it was about seeing her consider it, seeing her mind working through the possibilities. To think that the things she had been working on, her stories, could have more power, more reach... He couldn’t deny the warmth that spread through him at the thought.

To him, her name deserved to carry weight—more weight than any of the fears she still held about the public eye. Cassie’s work deserved to be heard on a broader scale, and the possibility of that, of seeing her stories unfold the way they were meant to, made his heart settle into something easier.

Bas placed the bottle on the counter with a thud, his grin widening as he poured a generous measure into three glasses. The amber liquid caught the dim light of the bar, casting golden reflections that danced on the polished surface. Cassie watched the liquid swirl, her thoughts tangling like the intricate play of light and shadow before her.

“Here’s to bad ideas,” Bas declared, raising his glass high.

Cassie smirked, shaking her head as she reluctantly took her glass. Declan, seated across from her, mirrored Bas’s motion, though his movement was slower. His eyes strayed to her, a quiet idea strangling his thoughts.

“To bad ideas,” Declan whispered, raising his own glass.

“To bad ideas,” Cassie echoed, clinking her glass against theirs. The first sip was smooth, warm, leaving a faint burn as it settled, but the growing warmth in her chest wasn’t just from the whiskey.

The conversation drifted, light and meandering, as the three of them settled into an easy rhythm. Declan’s usual formality seemed to loosen with each drink, his laugh becoming more frequent, more unrestrained. Bas, ever the raconteur, regaled them with one ridiculous story after another, his words punctuated by grand gestures that had both Cassie and Declan chuckling into their glasses.

“You should’ve seen the look on Freddie’s face when that happened,” Bas said, his grin infectious, “He was stuck between being horrified and thoroughly impressed.”

Cassie shook her head, her laughter spilling out despite herself, “Freddie’s tolerance for you must be superhuman.”

Bas placed a hand over his chest, feigning offense.

“I’ll have you know, he secretly adores me. I’m the chaos he never knew he needed.”

“I’d love to see how he’d frame that argument,” Declan chuckled, his voice tinged with genuine amusement.

As the laughter died down, Bas leaned back, swirling the whiskey in his glass thoughtfully. A sly thought passed though his mind as he glanced at Declan.

“Speaking of Freddie,” he began, deceptively casual, “he’s at Mrs. Spencer’s gala tonight. Valerie was invited too.”

Declan’s posture stiffened imperceptibly, though his smile remained intact.

“Is that so?” he said evenly, taking another sip from his glass, “Makes sense. It’s exactly the kind of event she’d enjoy.”

Bas raised an eyebrow, his grin widening knowingly.

“And Taggie’s catering for them, isn’t she? Wonder if she’s getting a ride home from Mr. Spencer himself back to your house.”

The offhand comment hit its mark precisely, Bas ever the player.

Declan’s grip on his glass tightened, and though he let out a soft laugh, it was edged with something uneasy.

The thought was absurd, of course. Mr. Spencer was kind-hearted and unassuming—a man who wouldn’t hesitate to ensure Taggie’s evening went smoothly. Still, Bas’s remark nudged at an earlier suspicion that had already fogged Declan’s mind.

Rupert at the gala, “being someone’s ride” as Bas had mentioned—what had that even meant?

Declan cleared his throat, brushing the errant thought aside.

“I was actually thinking of swinging by,” he said, the words slipping out before he could reconsider, “If only to give her a ride home. Save her from any... Unnecessary chivalry.”

Both Cassie and Bas turned to him in unison, their expressions mirrors of surprise, though Bas’s quickly shifted into a smirk.

“Unnecessary?” Cassie’s voice was teasing lilt as she tilted her head, “Sounds like you’re volunteering yourself to rescue some damsel. Isn’t Taggie your daughter?”

Declan sighed, a tired smile tugging at his lips, “Let’s just say I prefer to ensure she gets home safe.”

Bas chuckled, pouring another round.

“Well, I’m staying put,” he said, topping off Declan’s glass before sliding it back toward him, “The bar won’t run itself. But you,” he added, nodding toward Cassie, “should definitely go. Give him some company.”

Cassie blinked, clearly caught off guard, “Me? Why me?”

Declan raised an eyebrow at Bas, mirroring Cassie’s confusion. The whiskey in his glass swirled as he considered whether two a little too drunk individuals driving to a gala was even remotely a good idea.

His logical side screamed no, but the alcohol softened that resolve.

“Are you with your car?” Declan asked Cassie directly.

She shook her head, almost sheepishly.

“No. Baz dragged me out earlier,” she said, pointing at the olive-skinned man who looked far too smug for his own good, “He’s been playing chauffeur lately. Friend of the year, clearly.”

“Only when Rupert’s not around,” Bas quipped with a grin, the comment laced with purposeful provocation.

Cassie rolled her eyes, though a small smile tugged at her lips.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Bas. You’re just lucky I don’t charge you for putting up with your nonsense.”

The banter between them flowed easily, their sharp words softened by the undercurrent of camaraderie. Declan watched the exchange, bemused. There was something refreshing in their dynamic, the way Cassie’s sharp wit met Bas’s playful arrogance in a clash that was more rhythm than conflict.

As the banter went, for some reason Declan couldn’t quite understand, now they were arguing about horse riding.

British people and their fascination with horses…

“Sorry if I don’t have time for playdates with Jester and the other aristocratic ponies in the evenings,” Cassie shot back, her tone mock-serious.

“Unemployed for now,” he commented nonchalantly to his and Cassie’s banter, “Guess you’ve got all the time in the world for riding lessons for a while.”

“Piss off, you daft git,” Cassie shot back, it was hard to discern if it was faux anger or not.

Bas doubled over with laughter, nearly spilling his drink.

“Oh, now that’s rich!” he exclaimed, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, “Full-on British, eh? Should I even ask who corrupted you so thoroughly?”

Cassie raised an eyebrow, the glint in her eyes pure mischief, “Do you really want to know? Because yesterday, your fath—”

Before their banter could spiral further, Bas pivoted smoothly, clinking his glass against Declan’s, “So-ooo, what’s the verdict, O’Hara? Gala or no gala?”

“Coward,” she said, faking a cough, her words aimed squarely at Bas.

Bas threw his hands up dramatically, leaning back in his chair.

“I’m a bartender, love, not a chauffeur. I know where my responsibilities end.”

“Oh yes,” she muttered, swirling the remnants of her drink, “I am talking about that convenience, not the previous one.”

Declan hesitated, brushing his mustache as he thought about it, his eyes slowly and lazily moving to Cassie. The bar’s golden glow caught in her hair, illuminating the soft waves that framed her face.

She was different here—lighter, freer. It was a side of her he hadn’t quite seen yet, and for reasons he couldn’t name, he found himself drawn to it. There was something magnetic about the way she wielded her wit, sharp yet never cruel, like a blade meant for dueling, not wounding.

There was something about her presence that made the idea of the whole ride less daunting.

Or perhaps it was just his mind, in a tipsy and peculiar way, trying to justify the desire to see Cassie in a different light, in a more uplifting atmosphere.

“I will pass by,” he mumbled, “And if you’re tagging along,” he added, meeting Cassie’s eyes, “you might as well meet your uncle there.”

Cassie arched an eyebrow, clearly skeptical.

“Meet my uncle? At a gala full of pretentious twats in overpriced suits? Sounds delightful.”

Bas snorted into his drink, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

“If Freddie’s there, you can have your talk with him.”

Cassie groaned, dragging her hand down her face in exaggerated frustration. It wasn’t that she agreed with Bas—far from it. She simply didn’t have the energy to argue anymore. Her day had been draining enough without adding another verbal sparring match to the list.

“Fine,” she relented, “But don’t expect me to mingle. I’ll be your shadow, nothing more.”

Declan, who had been quietly observing the back-and-forth, allowed a small smile to break through, “Deal.”

Bas, sensing his moment, leaned forward with his glass raised high. His grin widened into something bordering on wicked mischief.

“To Cassie Jones, stepping into the lion’s den. Godspeed.”

Was he referring to going to a gala she wouldn’t even get into or Venturer? By Cassie’s face, she didn’t know which was worse.

“To the Bloody Harrier!” Declan added, lifting his glass in agreement, the nickname slipping out almost too easily.

Cassie rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the smirk tugging at her lips.

“More like dragging me into it,” she muttered as she clinked her glass against theirs.

The whiskey burned slightly less this time, the warmth spreading through her chest in a way that felt oddly comforting.

Despite her outward reluctance, resolve burned quietly beneath the surface. She had made up her mind long before they’d goaded her into it.

She tilted her glass back, finishing the last sip before setting it down with a thud. It wasn’t hesitation that had her drinking more than she should tonight; it was certainty—an attempt to drown out the anxiety that always came with choices like this.

Declan had noticed it all from the first sip. He could see the gears turning in her mind, the quiet battle she waged with herself, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he downed the rest of his drink, the burn grounding him as he rose from his seat.

“Well then,” he said, grabbing his coat and motioning toward the door, “shall we?”

Bas, still lounging comfortably in his chair, raised his glass in a mock salute.

“Try not to scare the posh ones too much if you find one of them, Harrier,” he teased, “They’re not used to someone who actually speaks their mind.”

Cassie smirked, tossing her scarf over her shoulder as she headed for the door.

“I am going there to talk with my uncle, not for the gala,” she shot over her shoulder, her tone light besides the playfulness in it, “And tell your father to not wait up.”

She also ignored the obscene gesture that Bas threw at her as she and Declan made their way out of the bar, the journalist laughing by her side.

As the bar door swung shut behind them, the crisp night air enveloped them, carrying with it the faint scent of rain and the earthy tang of distant foliage. Cassie shivered, the combination of the cool breeze and the lingering warmth of whiskey creating a pleasant contradiction in her chest. She pulled her scarf tighter around her neck, her eyes briefly meeting Declan’s.

The night felt quieter than it should have, the distant traffic barely audible over the weight of shared laughter still hanging in the air. Declan adjusted his coat, his fingers brushing the lapels as his mind caught up to the absurdity of his idea.

Why had he thought this was a good plan? Bringing Cassie along to the gala on a whim felt reckless, even by his occasionally impulsive standards. His chest rose with a deep breath, an attempt to ground himself, but his gaze drifted toward Cassie.

Her cheeks were tinged pink, likely from both the whiskey and the chill, and her steps had that subtle looseness that hinted at her being just tipsy enough to consider something like this entertaining. Her hair, illuminated under the glow of the streetlight, framed her face in soft, tousled waves. She didn’t seem like someone who’d jump at the chance to crash a society event sober, but tonight?

Tonight, she wasn’t sober.

Declan’s lips turned up despite himself. There was something about her presence that felt grounding and yet entirely unpredictable—a combination that, oddly, made his chest relax.

He couldn’t explain it, not fully. Maybe it was the way her wit cut through his occasional self-seriousness, or perhaps it was vulnerability she didn’t bother to mask. Whatever it was, it brought a strange sense of ease to his otherwise tightly-wound existence, like an unexpected breeze cutting through a stifling room.

Still, the logical part of his brain—a singular sober cell stubbornly clinging to coherence—questioned every piece of this plan.

And yet, another part of him. Whether it was the whiskey or the strange clarity that came with her company—countered with an unapologetic, why not?

A shiver passed through Cassie, pulling him from his thoughts. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, but the chill of the night seemed persistent. Without a second thought, Declan slipped his navy coat from his shoulders—the same one he’d worn during the broadcast—and draped it over hers.

Her brows lifted immediately, surprise painted across her face. She turned to face him and opened her mouth, perhaps to reject the gesture, but before the words could form, her eyes found his and then… The moment settled around them like the hush before a storm.

Their eyes met, lingering longer than either had anticipated, as if a know was being tied between the gazes.

Her eyes held his, searching, curious, and for a fraction of a second, the air between them seemed to thrum with something unnamed. Declan felt his pulse quicken—not in the way it did during a heated debate or an impassioned broadcast, but with a subtle, disarming intensity he hadn’t anticipated.

And then Cassie looked away.

Darting her eyes downward, adjusting the coat on her shoulders as though to busy herself. The spell was broken, leaving Declan standing there.

Suddenly and inexplicably aware of his own actions.

What had possessed him to do that? It was nothing—just a small kindness in the face of the cold. Yet, he couldn’t shake the strange feeling that tugged at the corners of his thoughts.

He refused to entertain the notion further. It was foolishness, plain and simple.

Cassie was Freddie’s niece, a talented journalist, someone he deeply admired professionally. There was no room for anything else, no matter how fleeting or innocent the thought.

Anything? Who had said anything? No one, of course. There wasn’t even a sign of conversation—just the rustle of the wind and the muffled hum of distant traffic.

There was nothing happening here.

No lingering tension, no unspoken understanding, no room for any of those... Passing thoughts that had crossed his mind. And certainly no reason for him to be standing there, feeling like the stillness between them was suddenly louder than it should be.

Declan cleared his throat, brushing the moment aside with the kind of practiced ease that only years of navigating sharp interviews and high-stakes debates could provide. His hand gestured toward the street ahead, the movement casual.

“Let’s go then, huh?”

Cassie didn’t respond immediately. She adjusted the coat one more time before offering him a faint, lopsided smile—one that didn’t betray whatever she might have been thinking.

“Lead the way, Declan.”

That glint in her eyes—it wasn’t mischief exactly, but it wasn’t far from it either. Whatever it was, it left him more unsettled than he cared to admit.

It wasn’t unease, not entirely. It was curiosity.

Wasn't it?

The sound of the car engine filled the quiet moments between their words, a steady undercurrent that matched the rhythm of the tires rolling over the asphalt. Declan’s hands rested on the steering wheel with a practiced ease, though his mind was anything but still. Beside him, Cassie reclined lazily, her head tilted toward the window, the streetlights casting fleeting patterns on her face.

It was the kind of quiet he might have found calming on any other night, but tonight, it felt alive with tension—unspoken words and half-formed thoughts swirling between them.

He almost didn’t notice it at first, the faint murmur of her voice rising above the hum of the car. It wasn’t until she started mumbling along to Blondie’s War Child that he realized she was singing—or, at least, trying to.

The corner of his mouth twitched upward, and for a fleeting moment, he let himself watch her out of the corner of his eye. She was too drunk to be coherent but not drunk enough to lose her rhythm entirely. It was... Endearing, in a way he hadn’t expected.

By the time London Calling by The Clash began to play, she had stopped singing and settled into an amused silence, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of his coat.

“You don’t do this often, do you?” she said suddenly, her voice breaking through the quiet.

“What?” Declan glanced at her, catching the flicker of her eyes in the dim light.

“Driving drunk journalists around Rutshire,” she said, a sly smirk playing on her lips.

He chuckled low, shaking his head, “Can’t say it’s part of my usual routine.”

“Didn’t think so,” she replied, her tone softening. Her fingers stopped their idle tracing, coming to rest on her lap, “You’re too... I don’t know. Controlled? Like you’ve got a vice grip on everything—your work, your life...”

Declan raised an eyebrow, half amused, half wary, “Is that so?”

Was she the same young woman he had encountered roughly... Let’s see, nearly 13 hours ago? Now he grasped how individuals typically felt when he scrutinized them. Bloody journalists, eh?

She shrugged and redirected her attention to the window.

“It’s not a bad thing,” she said after a pause, “It’s just... Heavy. On television, at least, it’s how you look but now… You look more human.

Declan’s lips parted as though to respond, but the words caught somewhere between his thoughts and his tongue. He couldn’t tell if it was the whiskey clouding his mind or the way her words seemed to cut through the fog and hit something raw.

“I don’t think it’s as easy as you make it sound,” his voice quieter now.

“That sounds unusual,” Cassie commented, lifting a brow, “Today, you’ve been the one making everything sound easy.”

A soft laugh escaped him, surprising even himself.

“Touché,” he said, shaking his head, bemused by her candor, “I suppose I walked right into that one.”

Cassie didn’t immediately reply, her gaze trailing out the window as the landscape blurred by. There was something contemplative in her expression, a quiet gravity that hadn’t been there before.

The radio continued to play softly in the background—a low thread that filled the gaps between their words. For once, Declan welcomed its presence, it gave him something to focus on other than the knot in his chest or the way her words seemed to echo louder than the music.

“You’re different than I expected,” she remarked once more, shattering the quiet. This time, her voice was gentler, tinged with uncertainty. "On television, you appear... So grand, almost unreachable. But here... You’re simply a father going to a gala, anxious to take his daughter home because he cares for her."

Declan’s grip on the steering wheel faltered, his knuckles shifting pale against the leather.

“I suppose that’s the danger of screens,” he murmured, glancing briefly at her, “They magnify what you want people to see and blur the rest.”

The words hung between them, heavier than he intended.

He regretted saying that. Not only because usually it was a thought he kept for himself but also for reminding that it was that the thing that Cassie had said that terrified her. He expected her to recoil, to retreat into her own thoughts as he had unintentionally circled back to her fears of being seen.

Instead, Cassie tilted her head, studying him for a moment before turning back to the window.

“Or maybe you’re just better at hiding than most.”

Okay, that was a surprise.

Declan didn’t respond, though her words echoed in his mind.

Hiding. It wasn’t entirely untrue, was it? How much of his life had been spent crafting a version of himself that fit the narrative, that could carry the weight of expectations without buckling?

Despite him always wanting to be his true self in the screens, it was impossible to not create another self for the audience, to the guests. Someone more humble, more in control of the situation, more certain.

But here, in this car, with her, the mask felt thinner somehow, as if her presence had a way of peeling back the layers he had built.

Cassie shifted in her seat, drawing the coat closer around her shoulders.

“Does this ever get you tired?” Cassie asked, her voice sounding casual, but there was a thread of sincerity beneath it that caught Declan’s attention. “It looks... Draining.”

Declan glanced at her, the question catching him mid-thought. He knew why she was asking, and could hear the echoes of her own struggles in the question.

Her drunkenness hadn’t dulled her insight—it had sharpened it, like a lens focusing on things she might not have addressed sober. And deep down, Declan understood why.

Almost everyone in their world knew about the tragic death of Matthew Jones, the celebrated journalist and Cassie’s father. Freddie had shared details in private over the months, filling in the gaps about the fallout that followed, the relentless media circus, and how it shaped his life at the time—as Matthew’s brother.

Declan imagined it had reshaped Cassie’s as well. It was not for nothing that she was asking.

“All the time,” he admitted quietly, surprising himself with the honesty in his voice.

Cassie nodded slowly, her gaze dropping to her hands resting in her lap. There was no triumph in her expression, no sense of having “won” something from him. Instead, her silence carried a kind of understanding that was oddly comforting. It wasn’t pity—it was recognition.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The steady hum of the engine filled the space, accompanied by the faint, familiar strains of the radio.

“You don’t have to answer,” she murmured, her voice gentler now and out of the sudden once again, “But when you’re not on screen, not on show—who are you?”

Declan didn’t react right away, his hands adjusting on the wheel as if grounding himself in the present. Her question persisted in his mind, not just in the car but in the corners of his mind, where the answers felt messy and uncertain.

“I think that’s the problem,” he wondered, his voice laced with self-awareness, “I’m not sure I know anymore.”

His own honesty surprised him… Again.

The road ahead was nearly empty, the soft glow of the gala’s lights appearing faintly on the horizon. Still, the journey felt oddly suspended in time, as though this moment in the car existed in a space separate from the reality waiting for them.

Declan exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible over the low hum of the engine.

Cassie’s question echoed in his mind, repeating again and again, threading itself through his thoughts.

For years, he had been the face of authority, the man people turned to for clarity in chaos. On screen, he was sharp and controlled, always ready with the perfect retort or the incisive question. But off-screen? The man behind the polished veneer?

He wasn’t sure he’d known that man in years.

The divorce papers from Maud had stripped away more than just their marriage—they had exposed the hollowness in parts of his life he thought were solid. He’d once imagined a future filled with quiet evenings, the warmth of family anchoring him.

He’d pictured Taggie, Caitlin, and Patrick coming home to a full house, their laughter bouncing off walls unburdened by the ghosts of his failures. But those dreams had dissolved into something messier and far lonelier.

Even the moments he had hoped to share with Maud—their plans for simpler times, away from the cameras and schedules once they were old enough to have grandchildren—had slipped through his fingers like sand, leaving behind only the ache of what could have been.

And then there was Taggie herself. Slipping through his grasp in ways he couldn’t fully define, like trying to hold on to water. He had always prided himself on their closeness, on the way she used to confide in him as a child. But now, there were signs he couldn’t ignore. The easy rapport she seemed to have with Rupert—was she confiding in him more than her own father?

Did she see him, her father, as the man he tried to be on TV or the one who fell short in real life?

Declan glanced at Cassie again. She wasn’t like anyone else in his orbit. She wasn’t asking him to perform or expecting him to have all the answers.

Her frankness, her willingness to sit in the discomfort of not knowing, felt... Disarming. Specifically when she was drunk.

He could only imagine that all these questions she had once made in her mind while they talked in the afternoon or after.

“You’re a strange one, Cassie,” he said, the faintest trace of a smile pulling at his lips.

She opened one eye, regarding him with mock suspicion, “Strange good or strange bad?”

“Just... Strange,” he replied, not knowing himself the right answer.

“I’ll take it,” Cassie snorted softly, closing her eyes again as if content to let the moment drift, “Guess I, myself, walked right into that one. Sorry if I said something stupid, I’m not exactly thinking straight.”

Declan chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he turned his eyes back to the road.

“You’ve got an interesting way of apologizing, I’ll give you that.”

Cassie let out a quiet breath, a soft, unexpected chuckle escaping her as she absorbed something Declan had said. It was different from her usual sharp humor—lighter, more relaxed, as though the weight of her thoughts had loosened just a little as her head lolled against the seat.

“It’s a gift,” she mumbled, though her voice had lost some of its earlier edge, softening into something more reflective, drowned in the dizziness, “Maybe I’ll regret this tomorrow. Maybe not.”

“Regret what exactly?” Declan asked, glancing her way again.

She exhaled deeply, the sound filling the car as she stared out the window, almost as though the passing lights could help her figure out the answer. 

“Saying things like... Like that.” She gestured vaguely, her words slurring, “Asking questions. About you. About screens. About all this... Stuff that probably isn’t my business.”

The car slowed as they approached a turn, the glow of the gala lights becoming visible in the distance.

“You ask because you care,” he managed the words out, trying to soothe the moment, “Not because you’re trying to pry. There’s a difference, there is no need for an apology, truly.”

Cassie opened her eyes at that, turning her head to look at him properly, “That’s very diplomatic of you, Declan. How very on-brand.”

Declan’s laugh came easily this time, less guarded than before, “I’ve been accused of worse.”

The car fell silent again, though it wasn’t uncomfortable. Cassie leaned her head back, only a moment later laughing at the joke. For what it seemed, it took her sometime to realize what he meant.

“You know,” she commented, “My dad... He never talked about this stuff. About what it meant to be public. To have people look at you like you’re more than you are. Or less.”

Declan’s grip on the wheel shifted, his attention still on the road. He didn’t interrupt her, sensing there was more.

“I think he thought if he didn’t talk about it, he could shield me from it. Like if he just kept me out of the spotlight, none of it would touch me. But it did. It always does.”

Her voice trailed off, and for a moment, the only sound was the faint sound of the engine and the muted music from the radio.

Declan took a deep breath, considering his words carefully, “It’s not easy, being seen like that. Or knowing people will judge you for things they don’t even understand.”

Cassie nodded, her gaze distant.

“Yeah,” she agreed, her eyes darting away to the window once more, “And sometimes, you don’t even know if you’re judging yourself the same way they do.”

The gala loomed ahead now, its grandeur casting long shadows on the darkened road. Declan slowed the car as they approached, his attention divided between the glowing entrance and the woman beside him.

“You’re not your father, Cassie,” he stated, each word delivered with the beat of his heart, “But that’s not a bad thing. He made his impact, left his mark. You get to decide what yours will be.”

Cassie turned to him, her lips parting as though to respond, but she hesitated. His words sank in slowly, their intent more comforting than overwhelming.

Declan glanced at her once more before parking.

“The world doesn’t need another Matthew Jones. But it could use a Cassie Jones.”

Cassie felt a shift inside her, a moment of stillness before her heart seemed to give a sudden, unexpected jolt. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t doubt. It was a warmth, something that felt almost unfamiliar but not unwelcome, growing quietly where the uncertainty once was.

How strange, she thought, that in less than a day, a man she had only known through screens could make her feel this way.

She decided it was a strange good, then.

The drive toward the gala hadn’t felt nearly long enough. For Cassie, the time between Declan’s car stopping and walking outside Bar Sinister was a blur. Yet, amidst the haze of alcohol and the disjointed events of the night, her mind circled back to one thing: Venturer.

Her clarity wasn’t rooted in confidence—it was more fragile, almost tenuous. But it clung to her nonetheless.

The calls she’d made earlier that day lingered in her thoughts, the voices of strangers who had trusted her with their pain. They had placed their faith in her, even when she wasn’t sure she deserved it. She had promised them she would do something, find some way to make their stories mean something.

And then there was Declan. She still didn’t fully understand it—the way he had used her allegations, not to diminish her, but to magnify the voices she had tried to represent. It hadn’t even been a day since they’d met, and yet, he had gone out of his way to give her story weight…

Why? Really, she couldn’t understand, why?

That question looped in her mind, unanswered and bewildering. He didn’t owe her anything, and yet, he’d offered her not just a platform but a hand to steady herself.

She didn’t know if she would ever be able to unravel his motivations. But in a way, it didn’t matter. It made her feel something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in a long time: hope. For herself, for the people she had promised to help, and for the possibility that maybe, just maybe, she could step into a space she had always believed was too big for her.

Well, she still believed it was. But, for the first time, she wanted to believe she was wrong.

Cassie’s gaze drifted toward the glowing lights of the Spencer estate through the window. She still questioned whether she belonged in front of a camera, whether she could wield a platform like Venturer without losing herself in the process. However, everyone else seemed to believe in her—Declan, Freddie, even Bas in his teasing way.

And maybe, she wanted to believe as well.

Because if Declan O’Hara could wield her story like a weapon for justice, then surely, she could wield her own voice for the same cause… Couldn't she?

It wasn’t about being sure of herself or about proving anything to the media that had twisted her father’s legacy into something unrecognizable. It was about those voices on the other end of the line, about the people she’d promised to help. Turning away now would mean breaking that promise—not just to them, but to herself.

And for the first time, as she stepped off the car, the thought didn’t terrify her.

Cassie’s boots crunched softly on the gravel as the cool night air greeted her, crisp and grounding. The Spencer estate rose before her like a beacon, its illuminated windows spilling gold across manicured hedges and cobblestone paths. The gentle clinking of glasses and faint bursts of laughter drifted toward her, mixing with the faint, far-off hum of an orchestra.

She tugged Declan’s coat closer around her shoulders, its tailored fabric heavier than she’d expected. The faint trace of his cologne lingered, grounding her in an evening that already felt half-dream, half-dare. The coat didn’t quite fit the elegance of the gala, but that incongruity comforted her—an unspoken reminder of where she’d come from and where she was heading.

Declan rounded the car, his gaze sweeping toward the far end of the lot.

“Freddie’s over there,” he said, nodding toward a parked car, its driver’s-side door slightly ajar as a familiar silhouette leaned casually against it.

Cassie followed Declan’s gesture, her gaze easily finding Freddie among the guests. It wasn’t as much about spotting him as it was about feeling his presence, something familiar amidst the unfamiliarity of the evening. He stood a little apart, his posture relaxed but somehow still precise, as though he could never fully shed the tension in his shoulders, even in moments of ease.

The scene around him blurred, the glow of the gala's lights playing off the edges of his silhouette, but Cassie’s focus didn’t waver. She knew him too well to miss the way he held himself, the ever-present quiet that seemed to follow him, even in the crowd.

She gave a small, barely perceptible nod, tugging Declan’s coat tighter around her shoulders. The coat was warm, but it felt almost foreign against the coldness of the night air, as though it didn’t quite belong to her at this moment.

“Alright. I’ll... Talk to him,” her words trailing off as she turned toward Freddie.

Declan’s eyes softened as he observed her. The stoic composure she had become accustomed to seeing in him seemed to loosen for just a fraction of a second, his expression betraying a hint of something unreadable. But instead of pressing, he simply nodded.

"Take your time," he said quietly, his tone low but not without its own kind of reassurance, “I’ll go look for Taggie inside.”

Cassie hesitated for a moment, standing on the uneven gravel as Declan’s footsteps faded toward the glowing entrance of the gala. She turned her focus back to Freddie, who leaned casually against the side of his car. The sharp lines of his profile caught the light, casting shadows that made him look simultaneously familiar and distant.

She wasn’t entirely sure why she felt the need to speak to him, or couldn’t quite remember why the sober version of her wanted to. Maybe it was because like Declan, Freddie believed in her, even when she struggled to believe in herself. Or perhaps it was because he was one of the few people who truly understood her father—not just the media icon, but the man behind the legacy.

The alcohol in her system blurred her thoughts, turning them into fragments that didn’t quite connect. What had she meant to say? That she was ready to join Venturer? Or was she seeking reassurance, confirmation that she wasn’t about to make a colossal mistake? Or... Was it something else? A deeper need to see herself as others saw her—not as Matthew Jones’s daughter, or a reckless journalist who doesn’t know what she is doing, but as someone with her own voice, her own agency and could figure things out.

As she approached, her steps crunching against the gravel, Freddie’s head lifted. He spotted her instantly, his expression shifting from mild distraction to curiosity.

“Cass,” he greeted, his voice steady as ever, though his brows knitted, “Didn’t expect to see you here. Or... Like this.” His gaze flicked over the oversized coat draped over her shoulders.

Cassie smirked, tugging the coat closer, “Declan O’Hara has an interesting sense of chivalry.”

Freddie’s lips twitched into a smile that didn't quite get into his eyes. For a second, a suspicious look washed over his face before shifting back to curiosity, his attention lingered on her face.

“You’ve had a drink or two.” It was really that obvious? “Yesterday, you got arrested, tonight you are drunk… What do you plan to do tomorrow night?”

“Perhaps rob a bank,” she jested, finger over her chin, tapping as if she was truly thinking about it further, “Give them a true reason to arrest me, you know?”

Freddie arched a brow but didn’t press, gesturing toward the passenger side of his car, “You’re definitely too drunk. Come on, let’s sit.”

The moment they settled inside the car, Cassie found herself staring at her hands, tracing invisible patterns on her lap. The words she’d rehearsed in her mind earlier—if she had even rehearsed them—seemed to scatter.

Worse considering how drunk she was. Because let’s confess, she was too drunk. Thanks to Bas and Declan.

“Uncle, I...” She paused, frowning as she tried to organize her thoughts, “I think I’m going to do it.”

“Do what?” he asked gently, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

“Venturer,” she said, the word tumbling out in a single breath, “I’m going to take the offer.”

Freddie studied her for a long moment, his expression changing subtly. There was no dramatic change, no obvious emotion to pinpoint. Instead, there was something quieter—an intensity in the way his brow furrowed, his lips pressed together, and his eyes softened even more as though weighing every word she’d just said.

He wasn’t just listening. He was reading her, the way he always did, peeling back the layers of her drunken bravado and finding what lay beneath.

His silence drew her to continue, filling the space with her own uncertain voice.

“It’s not just about... Getting out there or proving anything,” she said, her words slower now, measured in a way that contrasted with her slightly slurred tone, “It’s about the people I promised to help. The ones I will meet someday in the future. And the ones who believed I could do something. And maybe... Maybe they’re right. Maybe I can.”

Her gaze lifted to meet his, searching for something she couldn’t quite name. If she was to be sincere, anything really.

“I don’t want to be my father’s shadow,” she whispered, her voice cracking, “But I also don’t want to ruin what he stood for. The media’s already done enough of that. I want to make him proud. I have to.”

Freddie’s expression softened, and he placed a hand on her shoulder, grounding. As always,

“You already are, Cass,” he whispered back to her, a smile adorning his lips, “Even if you don’t see it yet.”

“You think so?” she questioned him, hesitant.

“I know so,” he replied firmly, now serious, “And you don’t have to do it alone. There are people who want to help—Bas, for one. Lizzie, too. She could give you advice if you’d let her.”

Cassie hesitated, her drunken haze making it harder to parse his words, but their meaning still sank in.

“Lizzie,” she repeated softly, her thoughts meandering back to the woman’s gentle presence and subtle strength, “She seems so... Sure of herself, isn't she?” she slurred it, laughing before continuing, “I don’t know if I’m anything like that.”

“You don’t have to be Lizzie, neither like your father,” Freddie said gently, his voice threading through her rambling, “And you don’t have to figure it all out tonight. But Lizzie’s been through her share of fights, as your father. I know he’d understand what you’re facing.”

Cassie’s gaze drifted downward, her fingers absentmindedly brushing over the worn fabric of Declan’s coat draped around her shoulders. It felt heavy—she couldn’t stop herself from noticing that, but not oppressively so… More like an anchor keeping her grounded as her thoughts tumbled over themselves in a blur.

“My father...” she started, then stopped, her voice catching in her throat. The words felt fragile, like glass she was afraid to shatter. She took a breath, her hand stilling against the edge of the coat as if searching for steadiness.

“I don’t know if I can stop trying to protect him,” she admitted, her voice quieter now, her words almost drowned in the quiet of the car. “I’ve spent so much time trying to keep what he built from being ruined. I want to... I don’t want to be what they’ve turned him into.” 

Freddie stayed quiet, his gaze focused on her, urging her to continue.

“It’s like I’m always trying to put back together something I can never touch,” the frustration bleeding into her tone, “I can’t fix what they did to him. I can’t stop people from seeing him the way they painted him. But every time I try, it just... it slips through my fingers.”

Freddie’s silence lingered for a moment, almost too long, before he spoke again, his voice calm but carrying an unspoken weight.

“You’re not responsible for what happened to him, Cass. You’re carrying something that wasn’t meant for you. His legacy... It’s not about what you protect, or how many people you shield from the things they did to him. It’s what you choose to do with the pieces of him that remain—what you make of them.”

Cassie’s breath hitched, but she didn’t break down. She just nodded quietly, trying to digest his words as they tumbled around in her mind.

“It feels like everything I’ve been doing... It’s to keep him whole. But I’m just patching things up. I’m not even sure what’s left anymore to protect.”

“You don’t have to carry that burden,” Freddie replied, his gaze focused on Spencer's residence, “You don’t have to carry his mistakes or his image, trust me, I’ve been in your place, I know what I’m talking about. What matters is what you choose to do next—what you make of your own life. You’re not him, neither of us are. You don’t need to be.”

Cassie inhaled deeply, but it didn’t seem to fill her lungs. She’d heard the words before—the advice, the reassurances. It should have been enough, right? But tonight, it felt heavier, like the walls were closing in. Her mind was drawing darker pictures now, the fear bleeding into thoughts she couldn’t push aside.

Now she remembered why she didn’t usually drink.

“I’m so scared of losing him,” she finally said, her words tumbling out in a rush. The tightness that had gripped her for so long released in a rush, “Losing his name... Making it all feel like it was for nothing.”

“You’re not losing him,” he replied, his tone firm but not harsh, “He’s in you, Cassie. Not in some image the media wants to cling to. Not in the mistakes that the media blew out of proportion. He’s in the parts of you that are real—the way you see people, how you care about them. That’s what matters. That’s what counts.”

Cassie swallowed hard, but the words didn’t bring the relief she expected. She shifted in her seat, suddenly feeling the weight of the conversation and the alcohol heavier than before. Her fingers brushed over the coat again, the sensation grounding her, but her thoughts were spiraling, tugging her deeper.

Everything seemed so much worse with the drunken fog covering his mind.

“I don’t even know how to start letting go,” she whispered, her voice cracking as her gaze dropped to her lap, the coat, anything but his eyes, “I’ve spent so long keeping his name intact. His image... So careful, so guarded. And every time I try... Every time I feel like I can breathe without him, it just slips right through my fingers.”

Freddie stayed silent for a moment, letting her words hang in the air, weighted and unresolved. When he spoke again, his voice was steady.

“You don’t have to know right now,” he tried to reassure her, “It’ll come, when it’s time. And you don’t have to do it alone. I’m here.”

She couldn’t answer him right away, her mind still lost in the complexity of her own emotions. His words felt like a promise, but even in her intoxicated state, she knew they weren’t that simple.

But then, something cracked in her thoughts, a flash of clarity amid the haze.

“If I go to Venturer,” she wondered, almost to herself, “When I take the offer… What if I do what he did? What if I make the same things?” Her voice was quiet now, trembling as the thought she had been avoiding suddenly surfaced, “What if they start comparing me to him once they discover he was my father? Because they will. What if I can’t measure up? What if... I ruin everything more than they already have?”

Freddie’s silence was louder than his words could have been. The understanding between them was almost too much for her to bear. She glanced at him, waiting for an answer, but Freddie’s gaze was a quiet sea of thought.

After a pause, he spoke, the simplicity of his words hitting her harder than she expected.

“You’re not him, Cass. You’ll never be him. You don’t need to prove anything to anyone, especially not to the media or to anyone who’s already decided who you are.”

“But they’ll always remember him,” Cassie replied, the truth seeping out as a mixture of resignation and frustration, “And I’ll always be compared to him.”

She didn’t even know why she was saying it—maybe because tonight, it all felt too close to the surface. Maybe because she didn’t have the energy to keep pretending she didn’t care.

The alcohol had taken all her energy away.

Her uncle looked at her with a softness that made her want to run but somehow kept her grounded.

“People will try, Cass,” he said after a moment, “But they won’t see what you can do. They will try to make up something that is not real, but it won’t ever work. Because it would be impossible to imagine you being anything but sincere, raw, honest.”

Cassie absorbed that for a long moment, the air heavy with the vulnerability she hadn’t intended to show. The unease in her chest hadn’t disappeared, but it didn’t feel as suffocating. Still, something gnawed at her—a quiet, unrelenting fear.

Freddie looked at her more closely now, his words quieter, almost a whisper.

“You’ve always been afraid of making the same things he did, Cassie. But that fear, it’s not just about you. It’s about his shadow. And you don’t have to keep hiding from it.”

Cassie turned her gaze away, her thoughts spinning again. It wasn’t just about being seen by a grand audience and discovering she was nothing she tried to be. Neither about being seen as her father’s daughter. It was about avoiding the comparisons—avoiding becoming the next failure in a long line of missteps.

But that wasn’t the whole picture, was it?

If she took that offer—really took it—she wasn’t just signing up for a fight for herself. She was signing up for the possibility of failure, of becoming something that wasn’t perfect. Of being judged. Of losing herself in the process.

But then again… If she didn’t, what would she be?

Her father's legacy would hang like a weight around her neck, too heavy to carry and too fragile to protect.

Earlier that they, she had thought of using it as an advantage instead of considering Venturer. But now? The more she thought about that, the more she hated herself for having been so desperate at that hour.

It would have been a terrible idea.

Cassie’s thoughts churned, a tangled mess of doubts, desires, and the lingering weight of everything she couldn’t quite name. The fear of falling into the same patterns, of becoming just another misstep in the line of her father’s legacy, clawed at her. But the more she tried to run from it, the more it seemed to haunt her.

And yet, she knew that if she didn’t take the chance, if she didn’t step into the space that had been carved out for her, it would all be for nothing. She couldn’t let that happen. Not now, not after everything she’d promised.

Her heart was heavy with the weight of the choice before her, but for the first time, there was a faint sense of relief in the uncertainty. It wasn’t a clear-cut path, not a guarantee of success, but it was hers. It had to be.

Her voice was barely a whisper, the thought escaping her before she could stop it.

“Maybe I need to stop running from it.”

Freddie’s smile was small, but it was there, soft and understanding.

“You’ll be fine, Cass. I know you will.”

Cassie turned her gaze toward him, uncertain but strangely comforted by his presence, “How can you be so sure?”

Freddie’s expression shifted, becoming more distant, as if reaching back to a time and place she couldn’t fully understand. He leaned back, his hands resting on the steering wheel, gathering his thoughts before speaking again.

“When I lost him,” he began, “I was so deep in that well that I couldn’t see my way out. I couldn’t face the world. I didn’t want to. I just wanted to lay down and let time take me too.”

Cassie stayed quiet, her eyes fixed on him, waiting for him to continue.

“But,” he continued, his voice gaining strength as the memories took shape, “As time passed, as I got the help I needed and found my way back, it was when I stopped running from the world—when I stopped running from his image—that things started to make sense. I stopped fighting it and just... Understood. And one day, you’ll understand too. It won’t happen all at once. But it’ll come.”

Cassie stared out of the car window, the lights of the gala blurring in her vision. The coat around her shoulders felt heavy—not from its weight, but from the reminders it carried, of Declan and of the space she was now stepping into.

She had always thought radio would be a way to stay hidden. A way to keep her father’s name from haunting her every move. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized it had only been another form of running. Now, with Venturer on the table, she knew she couldn’t keep avoiding it forever. It wasn’t about her father’s legacy; it was about her. It was time to stop letting the past dictate her future.

Turning to Freddie, the words slipped out before she could stop them.

“I thought getting into radio was my way of staying out of this, you know? But now… If once I’m there, in front of a camera, I know I’ll be forced to face it.”

Freddie’s eyes didn’t leave her face, “You probably won’t remember most of the conversation tomorrow, but I’ll say it, you need to live it without doubting every action.”

Cassie let out a slow breath, her gaze dropping to the coat in her lap. She wasn’t sure she was ready for this, but the weight of the decision didn’t feel quite as heavy as it had before. Maybe she wasn’t meant to be someone else’s idea of who she should be. Maybe it was time to step into something real.

“Maybe you’re right,” she said quietly, “I’ll for sure forget most of the conversation.”

Freddie’s laugh came as a soft, rumbling sound, breaking through the quiet like a beacon. He shook his head slightly, his usual sardonic edge replaced with something gentler.

“You’ll think about it,” he said, his tone confident yet unpressing.

Cassie nodded slowly, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of Declan’s coat draped across her lap. The heaviness of the conversation settled, but it didn’t smother—it was lighter now, the kind of weight she felt she could hold without being crushed.

Freddie glanced toward the glow of the house, “We can talk more tomorrow. I’ll bring Lizzie with me. We’ll help you nurse your inevitable hangover and sort through the rest.”

Cassie let out a small laugh, her lips quirking into a half-smile.

“That sounds like a thrilling way to spend your day.”

“It’ll be worth it,” he said simply, his words carrying a steadiness that made her feel a little less adrift.

Cassie leaned back against the seat, the night air brushing against her cheeks as she glanced toward him.

“Speaking of Lizzie... Where is she? Is she here?”

Freddie nodded, his gaze shifting toward the entrance.

“She’s wrapping up. I promised her a ride back.”

Cassie’s brow furrowed slightly, curiosity cutting through the haze of her thoughts, “And Valerie? Is she here too?”

Freddie’s expression didn’t falter, but there was the briefest pause before he replied.

“She left earlier. Said she wasn’t feeling great—probably went home.”

Cassie blinked, her intoxicated mind seizing on the detail, “Without you?”

“She doesn’t need me to hold her hand every time she leaves,” Freddie shrugged, his tone casual.

The words stirred in Cassie’s mind, unremarkable on the surface but carrying a weight she couldn’t ignore… Until a thought crossed her mind, followed by a million more.

She tilted her head, her gaze sharpening despite the whiskey softening her edges.

“You should just end it, Uncle,” she said in the next second, the words tumbling out without the usual filter she kept in place, “Be with Lizzie, you clearly enjoy each other’s company. Valerie’s already halfway out the door, and Lizzie—”

“Cassie,” Freddie interrupted, a note of surprise threading through his voice as his eyes widened slightly, his hands lifting in a quick gesture as if to calm her down or stop the thought mid-air.

His widened eyes met Cassie’s, but the surprise on his face softened quickly, replaced by a quiet exasperation. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a short laugh—a deflection, maybe, or an attempt to shake off the weight of her words.

“Good God, Cassie. You’ve always been too blunt for your own good,” he muttered, his lips curving in a half-smile, a sad one.

Cassie blinked at him, the alcohol buzzing through her veins making her unusually bold. She wasn’t entirely sure why she’d said it—no, scratch that, she was sure. It had been brewing in her mind for weeks, months even.

Still, now that the words were out there, the implications seemed heavier, clearer.

“You know I’m right,” she said, her voice quieter this time but no less insistent.

Freddie didn’t answer immediately. He shifted his weight in the driver’s seat, his fingers drumming briefly against the steering wheel before dropping into his lap. His eyes flickered toward the faint glow of the residence beyond the windshield, the hum of distant music filtering through the cool night air.

“Lizzie’s...” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully, “She’s a friend, Cass. And Valerie—”

“Doesn’t care,” Cassie interrupted, her voice sharper now.

Freddie looked at her again, his brows drawing together. His gaze wasn’t angry, though—more contemplative, like he was weighing her words against something unspoken.

“Maybe not,” he admitted after a moment, his voice measured, “But it’s complicated. Life is complicated, and not everything is as simple as it looks from the outside.”

Cassie opened her mouth to argue, but before she could, the sound of crunching gravel outside the car caught both their attention.

Freddie’s hand moved instinctively to the door handle, but he paused, his head turning toward the approaching figures illuminated by the headlights.

Declan O’Hara stepped into view first, his sharp features carved into focus by the pale light. Behind him, Rupert strolled with an air of practiced ease, Taggie walking just a little too close at his side. Her hand brushed his arm—a fleeting gesture, but enough to catch Cassie’s notice.

The Wolfhound’s gaze swept the scene, his sharp eyes moving with deliberate calm over Freddie’s car, Cassie in the passenger seat, and the trio behind him. For a moment, his expression was carefully neutral, but there was a flicker—an almost imperceptible tension in the set of his jaw, the faint narrowing of his eyes.

Curiosity, perhaps, or something closer to suspicion. Cassie, in her drunken haze, couldn’t quite decide which.

Rupert’s grin widened as he approached, his voice breaking the silence with a deliberate cheeriness.

“Well, well, what do we have here? A cozy little pow-wow?”

Freddie’s jaw tightened subtly, though he matched Rupert’s energy with a casual smile.

“Waiting on Lizzie,” he said, his tone easy, “What about you lot?”

Declan’s gaze lingered on Cassie for a moment before he responded.

“Giving Taggie a ride. Figured she’d need one since...” He trailed off, his eyes darting briefly to Rupert before continuing smoothly, “Mr. Spencer brought her here.”

Rupert’s grin didn’t falter, but there was a sharpness in his gaze as he replied, “Taggie has plenty of options for getting home.”

Taggie interjected quickly, her voice light and steady. “Dad was kind enough to offer, that’s all.”

The tension crackled between them, subtle but undeniable. Cassie’s attention shifted from one face to the next, her drunk mind trying to piece together what wasn’t being said.

Cassie’s gaze darted between them, her mind sluggish but still catching the undercurrent of something unspoken. The faint pressure in Declan’s voice, the way Rupert’s easy grin didn’t reach his eyes, and Taggie’s too-smooth interjection all seemed to hum with an almost imperceptible strain. Like a string pulled just tight enough to vibrate but not yet snap.

It was the kind of tension that didn’t need loud arguments to make itself known—it lived in the pauses, the glances, the spaces between words.

Taggie turned her attention to Cassie, her smile warm, trying to soothe the moment.

“You must be Cassie, right?” she said smoothly, her voice carrying the lightness of someone who had perfected small talk, “I’m Taggie. I’m a big fan of yours—I listened to your show every night.”

“Thanks,” Cassie replied, her lips curving into a small smile, “I really enjoyed working there but, you know, sometimes we must recognize that we deserve better.”

Taggie’s polite nod came quickly, her smile not quite meeting her eyes. The soft glow of the car headlights bounced off the curves of her features, and Cassie could feel Taggie’s thoughts wandering away from their exchange.

Declan’s expression remained inscrutable, but Cassie didn’t miss the way his gaze flicked briefly to Taggie, then Rupert. The angle of his stance shifted slightly, subtle yet calculated, as though bracing for something.

“So, you must be the famous Cassie Jones, Freddie’s niece!” Rupert said, breaking the silence with a grin that leaned toward the theatrical, “Quite the reunion out here. I’m Rupert—”

“I know who you are,” Cassie interrupted, raising her hands, “Minister of Sport. I’m more surprised you know who I am.” Her voice had a touch of amusement, though her brow arched as she spoke, the tiniest edge of challenge lacing her words.

Rupert chuckled, his hands spreading out in mock innocence.

“Well, your uncle telling us nothing about you didn’t make it easier,” he said, his tone light but not entirely devoid of calculation, “But you must imagine it, stirring with people like Crawford tends to bring attention.”

Cassie held back a laugh. Despite being drunk, she knew better than saying it was her who asked her uncle not to mention her.

She knew once she said that, the night would never end.

Cassie fought the urge to laugh, biting the inside of her cheek. Even in her drunken haze, she knew better than to let it slip that it was her idea to keep her uncle quiet about her. Admitting that would guarantee a night full of relentless questioning—and she was already past her limit.

Declan’s voice cut in smoothly, his tone casual but laced with a playful edge.

“Freddie, you keeping this one out of trouble?” His gesture toward Cassie was easy, but his gaze flicked briefly between Rupert and Taggie, his stance just a little too composed.

Freddie’s smile was polite but taut, his tone balancing on the edge of friendliness. “I will try.”

Cassie, emboldened by the alcohol humming through her veins, turned to Freddie with a grin.

“I can assure you,” she said, her voice lilting with mock seriousness, “I’ll sleep the second we hit the road.”

Taggie laughed lightly, the sound warm but carefully measured.

“You’re even funnier in person,” she said, her eyes flitting toward Declan for just a moment before returning to Cassie, “You’d be a great addition to Venturer.”

Cassie’s gaze shifted to Declan, her expression softening despite herself. “I’ve heard that before,” she said, her voice quieter, more reflective.

For a moment, their eyes locked. It was subtle—barely a pause—but the space between them seemed to shift. Declan’s mouth curved into the faintest smile, though there was something restrained in his expression, as if he were holding back a thought.

Freddie, sitting silently in the periphery, seemed to notice the moment, his gaze narrowing just slightly before returning to neutral.

“We should be on our way,” Declan said finally, his voice smooth but carrying a note of finality.

Rupert, however, seemed in no hurry to leave. He rocked back on his heels, hands shoved into his pockets as his gaze drifted lazily around the lot.

“No rush, is there? It’s a nice night.”

Declan’s brow twitched, a barely perceptible shift that Cassie might have missed if she weren’t already hyper-aware of his presence. His voice remained measured, calm.

“It’s late, and I’d like to get Taggie home before it gets any later.”

The words landed with a certain punch, though Cassie’s tipsy mind grappled with why. There was something about the phrasing—precise, intentional—that caught her attention.

She glanced between Declan and Taggie again, noting how Rupert’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. Weird.

Freddie cleared his throat, cutting through the subtle tension.

“We’re heading out too,” Freddie said, his voice carrying a casual lilt, though his hand moved almost instinctively toward the coat draped across Cassie’s shoulders. His gaze flicked briefly toward the house before settling back on Declan, “We’ll just wait for Lizzie; I’m giving her a ride.”

Cassie glanced down, her fingers curling absently into the soft folds of the coat. It still carried a faint warmth, a strange mix of comfort and weight she couldn’t quite place.

“Oh, right. I should give this back.” Her voice wavered slightly, a mix of tiredness and awkwardness, as she lifted the coat and held it toward Declan.

For a moment, Declan didn’t move. His gaze found hers, steady and searching, and the faintest flicker of something—hesitation? Thoughtfulness?—crossed his expression.

“Keep it,” he said at last, his lips curving faintly. The smile was almost shy as it widened, “You can return it another time.”

Cassie hesitated, caught between the instinct to protest and the sudden quiet that seemed to settle between them. Her fingers faltered mid-motion.

Before she could decide, Freddie’s hand intercepted the coat mid-motion.

“It’s fine,” Freddie said, his voice calm but firm, a hint of finality in the undertone, “It’s warmer in the car.”

The air shifted, the unspoken tension stretching thin one more time as Freddie and Declan’s gazes met. Declan’s stance didn’t tremble, but his expression tightened—briefly, imperceptibly—before smoothing into neutrality.

“Of course,” Declan replied, his tone polite but noticeably cooler.

Cassie rose from her seat, the motion drawing her closer to Declan. Her eyes lifted to meet his, and for a moment, their gazes held. It wasn’t a charged look, not exactly—it was quieter, a lingering acknowledgment of something.

Something that Cassie’s drunk mind didn’t even acknowledge truly. If her drunk version was to be sincere, she only appreciated looking into his dark eyes, she felt lighter every time she found them tonight.

Declan reached out, taking the coat gently from her hands. His fingers brushed the fabric, a fleeting touch that felt heavier than it should have.

After tonight, Cassie silently swore that she would never drink again.

“Thank you,” she murmured, though her voice was almost lost in the space between them.

He inclined his head, the trace of a smile returning to his face.

“Goodnight, Cassie. Freddie.” He faced the man, bowing his head briefly.

Cassie watched, still lingering by the car, as Rupert climbed into his vehicle, the door slamming shut with a soft thud. Declan moved fluidly beside him, offering Taggie a brief but courteous smile before opening the door for her. The brief interaction was almost too smooth, too polished to feel completely natural. Cassie couldn’t help but notice the way Declan’s posture remained perfectly composed, how his movements were precise.

As she slid into the backseat of Freddie's car, Cassie leaned her head against the cool window, her thoughts still racing. The events of the night clung to her, fragmented pieces of conversation and moments flickering in her mind like disjointed images. The cool glass against her skin was grounding, but the unease still lingered.

Declan’s smile, the way he had looked at her earlier… Sincerely, the whole day sit sat in the pit of her stomach

Her eyes followed Rupert’s car as it pulled away from the lot, the taillights fading into the distance before disappearing entirely. She then watched as Declan’s car followed suit, the two of them driving off into the night with an almost eerie synchronicity.

Freddie’s sigh filled the quiet space between her and Freddie, pulling her back from the haze of her thoughts. She hadn’t realized how much of the night she had been holding her breath. Freddie, however, seemed unfazed, his eyes focused on something else.

Cassie hadn’t seen him glance at Declan, but as the car’s headlights illuminated the road ahead, she caught the subtle change in Freddie’s demeanor. His gaze flickered toward the rear view mirror before quickly turning back to the residence, waiting for Lizzie.

The moment was brief, but something in the way he carried himself shifted—a slight tension, a quiet little figure that she wouldn’t grasp even if she had noticed the whole sudden reaction.

“You alright, Uncle?” Cassie turned to face him, knitting her brows.

Freddie nodded slowly, but his answer wasn’t as certain as he wanted it to be.

“Yeah,” he replied, her voice a little hoarse, “Just... Thinking.”

Cassie hummed, turning her attention back to the window as her mind drifted once more, still tangled with the events of the day.

What a day, really.

[shituationist]

the drexler-smalley debate on nanotechnology is interesting to me. it's also interesting that it's largely forgotten. young people today are mostly unaware of what kind of hype nanotechnology had going for it in the early 2000s, which has now all but died down. there was a point where singularitarians were worried about the possibility of "grey goo" taking over the earth before "AGI" did. nowadays it's rare to hear them talk about nanotechnology at all.

drexler was the nanotechnology hype man. to a lesser degree, so was smalley. both believed in the potential for nanotechnology to address human problems, but drexler was the "grey goo" guy who believed in nano-scale mechanical synthesis of arbitrary molecular compounds. smalley on the other hand viewed nanotechnology as essentially a specialized branch of chemistry, and believed that nanotechnology would have to - to put it bluntly - obey the laws of nature that govern normal chemical synthesis.

smalley's contribution was criticized for relying on metaphor, but this isn't really the case. smalley tries to get drexler to step away from science fiction and towards how chemical interactions really work. drexler's case is more defensive and much weaker than his own advocates let on. smalley argues that if you want to do chemical synthesis, you can't break physical laws to do it. he tries to demonstrate why hypothetical nano-scale mechanical "fingers" would fail to synthesize chemicals in the desired fashion, limiting what kinds of materials can be fabricated.

drexler rejects that hypothetical machinery and then shifts the terms of the debate back to relatively ordinary bio-chemistry. both mention ribosomes, which produce enzymes, as prototypical "molecular assemblers". smalley is pleased by their convergence on this point. he tries to drive home his point further about the limitations of what hypothetical engineered ribosomes could produce, and how the vision of self-assembling nanobots is unrealistic given the way natural "molecular assemblers" really work. but drexler shifts the focus again back to the mechano-synthesis of his dreams/nightmares, envisioning molecular assemblers as a nano-scale factory floor complete with conveyor belts and a kind of mechanical smushing together of molecules, analogous to macro-level manufacturing processes.

smalley wasn't having it. his concluding letter begins with: "I see you have now walked out of the room where I had led you to talk about real chemistry, and you are now back in your mechanical world. I am sorry we have ended up like this. For a moment I thought we were making progress." you can hear the disappointment in his tone.

and it got worse: "You are still in a pretend world where atoms go where you want because your computer program directs them to go there. You assume there is a way a robotic manipulator arm can do that in a vacuum, and somehow we will work out a way to have this whole thing actually be able to make another copy of itself. I have given you reasons why such an assembler cannot be built, and will not operate, using the principles you suggest. I consider that your failure to provide a working strategy indicates that you implicitly concur--even as you explicitly deny--that the idea cannot work."

smalley then goes on to talk about how drexler's idea of "grey goo" has scared children who are interested in science and how he should be ashamed of himself. at that point he's just rubbing it in. but the debate ends there, too. smalley dies a few years later. drexler, for his part, seems to have given up on the "grey goo" idea when the funding for nanotechnology research started to dry up. he's an "AI" risk guy nowadays, collecting consulting fees for "AI safety" types of things. in retrospect, it seems like smalley was right. the direction of nanotechnology research went towards practical chemistry inspired by ribosomes and enzymes and limited by the physical qualities of those systems, the kinds of limitations smalley describes. drexler's "self-assembling nanobots" are nowadays regarded as a kind of science fiction by eminent researchers in the field. smalley's key points, that there are limitations to what biological "molecular assemblers" can produce and the constraints on how they can be produced, have withstood a couple decades of scientific research.

[thelaughtercafe]

Coping With Hope

Tea Type: Half and Half (Fluff and Hurt/Comfort)

Potential Triggers: No twording in this fic! This whole fic centers around creating coping strategies for issues with eating, and that negative voice in one’s head! Hope this helps someone else going through this too! ❤

Pairing: Bakugou/Reader towards the end, but other characters include Todoroki, Izuku, Ochaco, Mina, Kaminari, Kirishima, and Shinsou!

Length: 1.3k+

Summary: You're so thankful for your friends, and they help you brainstorm strategies to help you with your issues.

A/N: Oh would you look at that? A follow up because I have no self control 🙃 This is more of a part 2 than anything to finish off the night so no twording yet! Next fic is where twording'll be more prominent. It physically killed me not to include Monoma in part 1 because if felt he didn’t fit the dynamic so there will definitely be a Shinsou/Reader/Monoma fic at some point.

“So. Now that we’ve established the issue; how do you want us to help?”

Todoroki sat across from you with you up by the pillow and the others all circled around you; crammed on top of Bakugou’s bed. 

You were still catching your breath a little, having suddenly been attacked by wiggling fingers and teasing for a solid 10 minutes. It had been overwhelming, but in the best way possible. No doubt Bakugou knew you needed a moment to not think which is the real reason he outed you. 

Cheeks still a little pink, the negative voice seemed too tickled out to have anything to say for once, apparently tuckered out. 

“Well…”

You nibbled your bottom lip, trying to think. 

“Maybe you guys can remind me to eat, gently?”

You fidgeted uncomfortably, shyly playing with your fingers. 

“If you ask me directly I may get defensive or anxious; the only one of you I’d say who could effectively get through to me like that is Bakugou, and Todoroki.”

“Me and Bakugou?”

Todoroki seemed surprised and almost offended and you hid a smile behind your hand as you nodded. 

“Yeah. See, Bakugou is gonna be the type to shove a cereal bar in my hand and if I try to protest he’s just gonna make me shut up before I spiral. He’ll have me eating before I have time to think about it. Whereas I could see you also giving me small snacks and such, but you have a much subtler way about you of…hm…how do I explain? Like making me go quiet and shy and just doing as asked? I guess intimidated is the right word but good intimidated if that makes sense?”

He snickered under his breath at that, making you look up as you blushed. He reached over and patted your head, affectionately.

“Uh-huh. I get what you mean cutie. That’s fine.”

You tried to move on to cope with your face burning and nodded. 

“Th-thanks! Okay um…also not treating me like different? I don’t mind subtle gestures and well-" 

You started shyly fidgeting again, eyes flicking to the mattress as you swallowed shyly. 

"Affection and physical contact could be a good way to help condition and reward me I think. I kinda forgot how touch starved I was till confronted with it and then I realized how nice it is so-but if that’s weird don’t-”

“Oh we are on it!!”

You giggled as Kaminari near tackled you before cuddling up to your side and nuzzling into your neck. tickling you slightly as you squirmed before giving up and leaning against him. Okay, admittedly that felt really nice. 

“Hey save some for us Nari no fair!!”

Uraraka pouted and made grabby hands at you as Shinsou began carding his fingers through your hair again quietly, making you melt all the more into the boy behind you.  

Bakugou snorted. 

“You really do remind me of a cat sometimes you know that? Gonna start calling you kitten.”

Your eyes popped open at that as you blushed. 

“Don’t you dare hotshot. I can think of much worse nicknames given time.”

He leered at you playfully. 

“I’m not too worried kitten~ guess you’ll have to get used to it.”

You rolled your eyes but hummed as you tried to think. Was there really anything else?

“What about when you spiral?”

Deku’s voice was kind but concerned and you stiffened a little against Kaminari before shaking your head at him. 

“Trust me; you don’t want to hear what the voice in my head shouts at me. I deal better with spirals alone. Better I break down alone, cope with it and then move on.”

He frowned at that. 

“But… you have us now. Don’t you want us to help ground you and remind you it’s not true? Kachaan used to help me with my anxiety attacks by doing that.”

You bit your lip, hesitantly but nodded. 

“I mean…I can try it. But no promises I won’t run away or something when I get overwhelmed. I get scared of having my emotions negatively affect you guys.”

“Well we’re still here and fine aren’t we?”

Kirishima piped up with a smile that made you relax again with a nod, as Izuku continued.

“Well it should definitely be an intimate group then so you don’t feel too overwhelmed. Me, and either Kirishima or Bakugou depending on who’s available…is there anyone else you think who would help?”

“If she’s not around you guys, Monoma and I can handle it.”

Shinsou spoke suddenly making you turn to angle your head towards him. 

“Are you sure?”

You knew Shinsou also struggled with spirals so you didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. 

He nodded, determination clear in his eyes. 

“Mm. Yeah. And I’m sure Monoma will want to help too. He’s surprisingly good at calming people down. Who would’ve guessed him never shutting up could be useful, right?”

An amused smirk tugged at his lips that you mirrored and you nodded. 

“Okay then.”

“Ooh, ooh what about me?”

Ashido raised her hand and bounced in place a little, a grin evident as she looked eager. 

“I’m honestly kind of at a loss for more ideas-”

“Oh I got one!”

Kaminari leaned his head on your shoulder, his arms wrapped comfortably around your middle as he grinned at Ashido. 

“You like to cook right? Why don’t you make her lunches?”

You waved your hands quickly in denial at that. 

“Wha-? No no that’s okay!! I don’t want to waste ingredients or what if I can’t eat it all that day or-”

Shinsou’s utterance of your name made you freeze again and once you’d met his gaze he gave you an amused smile. 

“Breathe.”

You did so as Ashido smiled gently and put your worries at ease.

“Well I always buy too much anyway honestly. I make Kaminari’s, Jirou’s and occasionally Todoroki’s too on top of my own so if anything you’ll be helping me out! As for if you’re having trouble eating it all… I’m sure one of the boys will be ecstatic over extra food; so that way you don’t have to feel bad if it gets too hard! Sound good? Oh!”

She laughed in surprise as you hopped across the bed out of Kami’s grip who whined at the loss to hug her in answer, rubbing your back. 

At your mumbled thanks she hummed in acknowledgement. 

When you finally sat back, looking misty eyed and nervous as you glanced towards Bakugou the others knew it was time to go and began making their way out over the next several minutes as you got up to wish them well and thank them for being such great friends. 

Eventually, only Bakugou and you remained, peaceful silence between you two as you tiredly leaned against his shoulder, both of your backs against the pillows as you rested. 

Eventually, after a while, you spoke up quietly. 

“…Is it bad that I’m scared? Now that everyone knows I just…I’m worried I’ll let them down.”

You felt rather than heard him sigh and he moved to wrap the arm you’d been leaning against around your shoulders, his other hand supporting his head as he looked at the ceiling in contemplation and then answered. 

“I think…it’s perfectly normal to be afraid. Even All Might has fear, ya know? But as long as we make an effort every day to fight against that fear. Then I think we’ll also be a little better every day. That’s how I choose to think of it anyway.”

A genuine smile had bloomed across your face at that and you sighed into his neck, the elevated warmth his body provided immensely comforting and disarming.

“You’re gonna make such an amazing hero one day Bakugou. You’re already one person’s. I’m so lucky you found me.”

Your eyed had slipped shut so you missed the way his cheeks flamed though his eyes filled with pride, his grip tightening just enough to make you feel completely protective. The peck to the top of your head was quick but lingered enough to ensure you felt it. 

If you hadn’t already been starting to drift into dreamland, you surely would’ve noticed the thickness in your best friend’s voice as he murmured. 

“Go to bed, kitten. You’ve had a long day today.”

If only you knew you weren’t the only one who felt saved. 

[systemadministratorclu]

🌌- Their alternate universe self

A portal opens in front of Milo and Lyle and out falls canon Rourke. The portal closes behind him, he's in the middle of nowhere with these two.

All three men are, understandably, very confused, each for his own reason.

For Milo, it's because there are now two Rourkes, though it's easy to tell them apart, seeing as only one wears an Atlantean crystal and has a Heart of Atlantis tattoo that covers his entire right shoulder. And only one looks at him with warm, loving eyes. The other has a gaze that chills Milo to his very core. There is nothing but hate in those cold, dark eyes that look at him like a wolf waiting to devour its helpless prey.

For Lyle, it is the instant recognition of who the stranger is. Or at least the recognition that it's some other version of him. This of course leads him to wonder where this version came from and why he's here. Neither he nor Milo asks how the man ended up here, they both have a feeling they know. Lyle feels the hairs on his neck stand up as he looks at the other him. There's a sense of coldness, of ice to him, and Lyle doesn't like the way this creep is looking at Milo like a piece of meat.

Surprisingly, it is the stranger whose confusion is gone first. Of course he wondered where he was and how he got here, and why there was a copy of him here. But those thoughts have been pushed aside for the moment. Because he has acquired a target. His sight seems to laser focus on the one who stands in his way. The one who ruined his plans AND escaped his wrath. Not this time, Mr. Thatch, he thinks, his body coiling up like a cobra preparing to attack.

And then, like lightning, he strikes.

Milo has no time to even blink as the immense weight slams him to the ground, driving the wind from him. He's barely noticed that when the barrage of fists begins and doesn't stop. He manages to regain enough of his breath to cry out in pain, both from the blows and the enormous weight crushing him into the ground. He can't see, and he's not sure if he's lost his glasses or if he's just disoriented from the merciless assault on his face. Ordinarily, Milo is a good fighter, he has even beaten Lyle in some of their training bouts. But this man is nothing like Lyle, despite looking like him. Milo realizes this....this berserker Rourke...isn't looking for a fight. He's hellbent on a kill. And Milo's mind is unable to make his body even begin to try and find an escape or a defense fast enough.

Milo is scared now. He's going to die.

The stranger has a mad, almost giddy look in his eyes, even as he pummels his helpless victim into the ground. He sees blood but it's not his so it only encourages him. He wants to draw more of it. He is so focused on his mission to kill Milo, he has made one grave error. He has forgotten about his other self.

Lyle is just as shocked as Milo. But he quickly becomes as focused as the stranger. Suddenly, he no longer gives a rat's hairy ass who the stranger is or why he's here. Lyle cares only about one thing.

The stranger hurt Milo. Is still hurting him. And Lyle knows Milo's skill enough to realize Milo isn't fighting back....because he can't. Milo's cry of pain is like a starter gun going off for a runner, and Lyle strikes just as fast as his counterpart.

"GET THE FUCK OFF HIM!!" He roars as he throws the stranger back, away from Milo. Lyle then puts himself between the two. He fights everything within him that wants to just run to Milo's side. He can't. Not until the threat to Milo is gone. Not until he ensures that Milo is safe from further harm. He does steal a glance at Milo and sees him just lay there, not moving, and now he wants even more to run to Milo's side. Instead, he uses that desire to fuel his fight as he rounds on the stranger.

He doesn't worry about techniques or strategy or anything else. He just wants this fight over as quickly as possible. And just as the stranger did to Milo, Lyle now does to him. Fists and feet fly in a never-ending torrent of motion. It's all a blur to Lyle, until finally, he somehow knocks the other him unconscious, and it's clear the newcomer won't be getting up for a while.

Lyle then gives in to his desire, running over and dropping to his knees.

"Ohh Milo." He gasps at the injuries as tears spring to his eyes and he sweeps Milo into his arms and just holds him for a moment, telling him he's safe now as he checks the rest of Milo's body to see if he's hurt anywhere besides his face, where he definitely has a broken nose and probably other bones, too. It's too serious for him to just heal it with his crystal, though he does use that on any cuts or scrapes he sees, so they don't get infected. The rest, unfortunately, will require actual medical help. For now, Lyle just gently dries Milo's tears as he heals some more cuts. Milo just whimpers softly in pain.

"It's alright, Mi, you'll be okay. You're gonna be okay." He puts Milo's glasses back in place as best he can, then gently brushes Milo's hair back and gives him a soft kiss on his forehead.

Milo sucks in an enormous breath as the crazed beast is pulled off him. He hears Lyle's voice, then the sounds of the two fighting.....he's barely conscious and everything hurts so much. Then Lyle is there beside him, now he's in Lyle's arms. He winces because everything hurts, even at Lyle's soft touch. He knows Lyle is trying hard not to hurt him more or cause him any more pain. But the backs of his shoulders were scraped up by the ground where he'd been slammed into it (his tank top appears to have spared the rest of his back, but these wounds still look more serious than Lyle feels comfortable trying to heal with the crystal). Lyle sets him down only so he can take off his own tank top, roll it up, and slip it inside the straps of Milo's so it covers the backs of his shoulders. It's not going to help the wounds much, but it might spare Milo even a little pain from having the area touched as Lyle stands up with Milo cradled against his chest. He looks back at the spatters of Milo's blood on the ground and his unconscious other self, but doesn't really care. Sure he probably could've finished him off for good, but Lyle is not a murderer and to him it's more important he gets Milo to safety and gets him help for his injuries. He does utter a curse in Atlantean before he stalks off, holding Milo close, telling him he loves him, among other words of comfort, as he carries Milo away from the scene of the fight.

//this got way longer than I thought it would. Sorry not sorry!!//

[csyched]

Since some people seem to like my QDS rambles i think i will keep going… :>

Did you know i really love QDS Gale? And I will tell you everything I love about how he was written and how I have analyzed him after being into QDS for over a year. Mind you, spoilers for volumes 1+2, though it's only regarding Gale himself and nothing else, and I try to keep the big moments vague. Also, this is a long post.

First off, I think Yu Godai does a fantastic job writing her own interpretation of Gale. Since he wasn’t an original character of hers, he’s quite different in the novel series, yet I would argue that his character arc is written better and of course, more stretched out than it is in DDS. There is more of a slow-burn in terms of his development, and even if you can’t read the later volumes apart from the summaries available (I had to machine translate the entirety of vol. 5 lmao), you still can see how he changes throughout the series, and it’s really nice to see it through.

In QDS, rather than having an instant awakening, Gale has to grapple with difficult emotions like anxiety and frustration a bit more slowly as things in his environment begin to change. Another different component is that because of changing conditions of the world, he is denied of his role by Serph and is stuck back at base for many missions, hence his developing frustration. Thus, he starts to question his worth within the Junkyard, and because of the "thought conditioning" that he and all other bishops in the Junkyard were put through, it’s even more difficult for him to try and rationalize these unfamiliar emotions. (At one point, he even tries to run an internal diagnostic check because he's so confused about what he is feeling). For him, someone who has been born to act as an obedient machine, emotions are unnecessary and an obstacle in his job. Additionally, it's clear the sudden change is something he is not designed to handle. This leads to him repressing his feelings as a defense mechanism. It ends up protecting him as intended later on (ooh does that part get interesting by the way!), but it leaves him struggling to connect to the people around him. Most people brush him off as cold and uncaring with his nature of relying on logic for strategy.

Clearly though, Gale does care, and he is self-aware. He just has no idea how to express it all.

Gradually, Gale does begin to break, starting with the unease he feels with his unfulfilling role. He isn't allowed to fight alongside his comrades, nor do normal bishop duties (everything in the Junkyard is breaking), and he's essentially being grounded like a child, his ideas very often dismissed. With the weight of this and confusing, contradicting orders from his leader, we get to see Gale crack under all of this pressure. There is an expectation for him to be a bishop and listen to orders obediently, but to also change and adapt and understand everything like everyone else, including complex emotions. It’s a ridiculous expectation, of course, which leads me to a bit of an off-tangent point.

As an autistic person, reading and focusing on Gale’s perspective felt… painfully familiar. Sure, there are obvious things like his monotone voice and low variety in facial expression, things I also have. There’s also his hypersensitivity, something he is equipped with due to being a bishop. Additionally, there is a certain level of infantilization I think he is treated with, made more noticeable by the fact that he is the oldest in the Embryon. But something I also recognized as relatable was that inherent and instant expectation for Gale to quickly grasp the intentions of others and the nuances of their emotions and perspectives. In response, Gale begins to develop an ability to predict how people will react (e.g., he develops a tactical plan according to how he thinks Serph will like it and will respond to the current situation, his commanding style being of slight irrationality and emotional “hunches” that Gale doesn’t understand, but tries to) and he really does try to empathize with his comrades out of his own concern... it's just hard. And he isn't given much patience with it, clearly.

Additionally, he misses “obvious” social cues, yet is hyper-vigilant, or very self-aware in how he talks to people, to the point of fearing rejection or punishment. For example, he:

Thinks he's in trouble and being detained when Sera holds his hands when he goes unconscious, and is then assumed to be ungrateful

Misses sarcastic jokes by Cielo

Provides prolonged explanations that are usually unprompted, at least not to be in such high detail

Immediately assumes punishment from Serph when failing a certain responsibility he was given

I believe these are things that some, or many autistic people have experienced in their life. For me, I was recently diagnosed as an adult, and understanding the way I interact with others is eye-opening, yet frustrating and painful since it’s taken so many years of utter confusion to get here. Many of us grow up with a distinct feeling of "what is wrong with me?". I believe that Gale truly deserved some grace, but nothing ever goes well in QDS, sadly. I can promise you however, that Gale gets to learn and grow a lot in the series.

And if you want to know more about Gale in QDS, I'd be happy to share more. These novels deserve a lot more spotlight.

[mmriesoftvat]

CHARACTER ANALYSIS: WANDERER VS CYNO.

i've talked extensively to people about my thoughts on this, so i'm going to preface this entire post with my OPINION that wanderer is playing around during this fight. he's incredibly strong and has hundreds of years of fighting experience over the other contestants. he was ordered to keep an eye on them, not to actually harm them. THAT SAID, "playing around" also doesn't mean not doing anything. he's clearly still fighting, but i think the difference is that he's enjoying himself more than he anticipated. and of course, there are contestants that brought him a decent enough challenge and even tested his skills. but ULTIMATELY wanderer was not throwing his full strength into the ring. he was taking it easy and holding himself back. please don't come at me.

that said, let's get on with it!

here we have our first screenshot. he's not touching layla, he merely is taking the diadem from her. it's a huge blink and you'll miss it moment, and i had to slow the video way down to capture this shot because of how fast he's moving. had he been more serious, wanderer would have at least done something more. this is the first hint we see that he's holding back/taking things semi easily. he's just taking it and going.

i really love this shot of her confusion. layla has no idea wtf just happened. wanderer is a zoomy boy, okay? very "hi bye!". i love it. she's heckin confused, probably didn't even see him.

oh but faruzan definitely saw him. now she's mad. it had just been between her and layla, and now EVERYONE'S there, all fighting for the diadem. competition just got more high stakes for her. go faruzan, get your crown.

THIS was the first moment i realized wanderer wasn't being serious. if he were actually competing, he probably wouldn't have slowed down/stopped to stare at faruzan. everyone else was in it to win. he's just holding out the diadem and. dare i say, even taunting her? hat guy you silly billy.

bonus dialog after he stole the diadem right out from layla's arms. again, zoomy and zippy boy.

look at he go.

this is the first time he's being targeted. notice how he's not attacking her back. he's attacking her device in self defense.

self. defense. though, i will admit that he does throw out some half assed blades later on, but for now, he's protecting himself.

so far, yet again, he's moving in self defense. i don't know for sure if he knew the others were laying in wait and purposely flew toward them. i feel like tighnari definitely planned on hitting him, but wanderer is flying at the moment, and is still moving fast. quick reflexes though, i'm impressed. wish i could be like that.

this is his expression to cyno's weapon being thrown in his direction. to me it looks focused, like he's thinking on the spot and less "i'm going to demolish this guy." wanderer is actively thinking while moving. either for strategy or to dodge, but i love the tiny detail in that his gaze is focused right on that staff, and he looked very in the zone. and of course in the next shot, he uses his own abilities to knock the staff away.

now cyno, on the other hand. cyno is also very focused. he's definitely not playing around. that expression, what little we can see of his eye, very much screams "i'm going to pummel you into the ground." he wants that card. he's here for the win and he's going to take it.

the fact he lands and immediately starts running tells me he's NOT going to hold back. he's throwing his all into this. i love the contrast between him and wanderer. wanderer seems more focused/thinking on the spot on how not to hurt them. whereas cyno is looking to win and wanderer is someone he can target. especially considering wanderer is still holding the diadem. to me it also is very telling how low to the ground cyno is. he's still hunched forward, that guy has speed on his side and he's using every bit of it to get to wanderer.

here is wanderer, readying himself to attack cyno. and again i say he's holding back. because in the next shot-

he's landing on cyno's staff.

i've already talked about and reblogged recently a previous post where i went into detail over how strong wanderer is. if he really wanted to, that staff would not have stopped him from kicking cyno's face. we know cyno is strong, he's incredibly strong. but wanderer is also hyper strong and can do things that i don't think cyno can. plus, it looks like, to me at least, that he didn't even aim for cyno's face. the staff came up to block cyno, and wanderer immediately landed on it. there are a lot of things he could have done to take cyno out, but DIDN'T. every time i think about this entire cutscene, this moment right here is the biggest giveaway that wanderer's not being wholly serious. he landed on the staff and stared down cyno, and then jumped off. cyno may be taking this fight serious, but wanderer is holding back.

wanderer DOES throw out an attack, but i feel like it's him knowing that cyno's also fast as hell and can dodge easily. going back to the beginning, he didn't hurt layla or faruzan because he didn't want to hurt them. since cyno's also very strong, i'm pretty sure wanderer was comfortable enough to throw something out, knowing cyno could handle it. in that same vein, i don't think he got that chance with tighnari earlier, because he was too busy dodging all those arrows. i digress.

wanderer attacked because he knew cyno could easily dodge.

like so. cyno's able to block the attack because cyno is a very skilled fighter. not that none of the other contestants aren't skilled, but wanderer also just stopped to stare at faruzan rather than attack her. he had every opportunity to throw his anemo at her and layla, but he's only doing it with cyno. probably because cyno is also very fast and quick on the reflexes. still, it's a cool scene, it's my favorite cutscene in the entire game.

i mean, look at the way cyno's sliding to dodge. guy's practically doing the splits. but no, more seriously, look at the expression on his face. he's just as focused and determined, though i still think they're both focused and determined for different reasons. like i said earlier, cyno wants that card, wanderer just wants to do his job and make it out without anyone getting seriously hurt.

again, wanderer being really fast and dodging cyno's attacks. he's still throwing out his anemo, but he also flies around to make sure cyno's paying attention first before attacking again.

it's hard to see since even with the video playing really slowly this is what i'm able to get. but cyno was able to block the attack. the fact that wanderer waited until he could tells me he was holding back. were he more serious, he wouldn't have waited. at least, i don't think.

cyno is running so fast here it looks like he's gliding. maybe wanderer is a little more serious at this point. here is an opponent who can match him in speed at the VERY least, if not strength. i would even wager to say he's impressed. he's used to being the lone wanderer, hating the world around him and belittling everyone for being weaker than him. but here comes cyno who can match him in terms of speed and agility. who WOULDN'T be impressed by that? so maybe wanderer is a little more serious about who he's up against, especially considering they've been fighting each other more than anyone else in the competition fought each other. in this last round, at least. doesn't mean overall wanderer is completely serious over the whole competition.

another act of self defense. though i think in this case he didn't exactly have a choice. cyno caught him off guard. wanderer didn't have time to dodge or launch a counter attack -- cyno was too quick for him. no choice but to block the attack.

i feel like in this moment, it looks like wanderer wants to keep fighting cyno. the stare down is really intense, and it's intimidating when you see that cyno's surrounded by electro. the guy is ready to destroy something. i feel like, at least for the briefest of seconds, they both forgot about the competition and were more interested in fighting each other. but kaveh was attached to faruzan's device and flying in really fast.

bonus, i love that layla and faruzan have just been. standing around the whole time. i don't know where tighnari went. probably looking for another angle to shoot wanderer with.

just because wanderer is distracted by a flying kaveh, doesn't mean cyno is. more proof that wanderer isn't completely serious. why else would he turn his back on an opponent? cyno's not distracted, he's gonna get that diadem and win. he's so determined.

kaveh isn't even a threat. he's flying right by everything, probably too panicked and confused to let go of faruzan's device. but wanderer is reaching out anyway to spin him around. which, to me is the whole point: he may have had some enjoyment and flying around, but ultimately, the diadem was not his to take and the competition wasn't his to win. cause if he wanted to win or cared at all, he would've just taken the diadem to the podium himself. which wasn't what he was ordered to do but that's beside the point. the entire fight was nothing more than idle time wasted (and some unspoken bonding with cyno, i'm convinced of it.)

he's actively spinning kaveh around, though i think the device kaveh is still holding is helping. i don't think wanderer really intended to hurt anyone, he's just moving them around, toying with all of them.

cyno's still coming for the diadem. he wants it. but wanderer purposely holds it out. maybe he planned for it? because cyno succeeds in knocking it out of wanderer's hands. it goes flying up, leaving it open for kaveh to use his toolbox to grab it.

which of course, the force sent kaveh tumbling head over heels right to the podium. had wanderer not grabbed him and redirected him, wouldn't have happened.

the rest of the scene is kaveh basically winning the competition. but my ultimate conclusion is that wanderer was holding back. he didn't start attacking the other contestants until cyno came along, because cyno is just as terrifying as he is. i feel like wanderer enjoyed the fight, and would have continued had kaveh not shown up with the device, which provided a perfect opportunity for wanderer to redirect him and send him flying to the finish line.

wanderer was in the competition because of orders, and didn't NEED to fight. he could have continued to toy with everyone, but cyno brought out a different kind of focus in him. i'd like to think he enjoyed that fight, but he was definitely holding back. there were moments where wanderer could have kicked cyno in the face or launched him, but he didn't. and the only reason he attacked was in part because he knew cyno could dodge, and in part because he was keeping cyno distracted long enough for kaveh to come flying in.

it's another testiment to wanderer's strength and even character development. it's one of the reasons he's my favorite character, because while he's still the loner and an asshole at times, he does show his respect toward people in his own way.

[hellssheep]

Chapter 7: How To Train Your Hellhound

It's the end of the third week since the start of Amanda and Wooly’s training. Throughout these weeks, there are a lot of things Amanda has learned from training. It’s not just learning how to defend herself and wield weapons in general. No, it is more than that: It's what you learn within the training and lessons. Some lessons were taught in the tapes they were imprisoned in, but they weren't as meaningful as when you do it with those you look up to. That, and because the deadline to stop Hameln from completing their plans is looming.

Amanda is taking lessons on self defense and wielding melee weapons. Apparently, self defence is actually more than karate or martial arts. It also involves improvised fighting, situational awareness, and sometimes verbal de-escalation. The training Amanda and Wooly also went through is sword fighting with styrofoam swords, Target practice with airsoft guns, Wrestling (not the WWE kind unfortunately), and tabletop games like checkers or the strategic role playing board game called Dungeon Explorers Vs Dragons. It's not a lot of things, but they are working on finding more things available. But for now, they are learning from what they have. 

Amanda and her friends have learned a lot about their strengths and weaknesses. She may not be physically strong, and neither is Wooly without his hellhound possession, but she learned that it takes more than brute strength to fight. It takes many different skills like patience, agility, muscle memory, gymnastic ability, awareness, strategy and more. Amanda has pretty good flexibility and pretty creative problem solving, but needs more room for trust and patience with herself and others. Wooly is careful and great at following steps, but he is too cautious at times, needs to be a bit more creative, and needs to trust other people’s ideas. Even adults have their strengths and weaknesses. Shaun is both agile and smart, but isn't confident with his abilities. Riley is… well, they take after Aunt Kate, bless her heart.

Wooly has gone through the almost same training as Amanda. The only difference is he is also going through dog training to guide his canid demon to become more trusting, collaborative, serene, and domestic. It seems like an impossible challenge for the team of three to train a Hellhound Sheep in a month. As it turns out, it wasn't as impossible as Amanda thought it would be. 

Turns out that positive reinforcement and a thing called “clicker training” is a most effective method of training, especially for aggressive Canines. It is best paired with a treat, and it apparently enjoys sweet potatoes and pumpkins as a reward. It still takes patience, but The Hellhound is adept. On day one he was timid and defensive, then a week later he followed commands like heel, stay, retrieve, and touch (a trick where you stick your hand out and your dog touches it with its snout). Once he hears a “click”, he knows he did something right.

 Around midnight, when nobody is out, Amanda, Wooly, Shaun and Riley take them out to an abandoned dog training course where Wooly shows them what he is capable of. At first we get him to go through the course as usual, but when we get a hang of it, we make the course a little more challenging. Some days, Shaun borrows a tennis ball launcher so Wooly can practice dodging them while going through the course. Other days, Wooly and his demon hound form could either go through the course in reverse, or try to catch a stick attached to an RC car. We sometimes add other obstacles into the course, like a makeshift rock-climbing wall that we screwed onto the building, or hanging toy rings he can grab from the trees. The more he practiced, the better he could change quickly into his forms. There were some epic moments from the training course, like one time, Hellhound Wooly gained enough momentum climbing up the rock wall to leap 7 feet vertically from the top of the 10 foot wall and landed unscathed. Even it surprised itself sometimes.

On casual parts of the day, Shaun would go shopping for them. The kids would casually Read books, draw, or play with toys or games on Shaun’s gaming console. He has a lot of cool games downloaded onto it, like kart racing, cube-building adventure games, that cool puzzle game with portals that has a nicer-looking sequel, and a bunch of arcade games. Amanda’s favorite game is a puzzle adventure game where you play as a journalist who was invited to an expedition to an island full of snack bug hybrids where the host went missing and the journalist needed to solve the mystery of the missing member and the island.

Shaun and Riley would either order food from somewhere, or they challenge their own culinary skills. Shaun is really good at making meals from leftovers. One time he made an amazing omelet made from just eggs, cheese, and last night’s steak dinner. The hellhound was pretty ravenous at first when food was served, trying to take a bite before it was done being made, but it grew out of that habit after some training. The Hellhound even started bringing its plate or bowl to the stove one day when Riley was cooking chicken to be served. I suppose both of their dishes are delicious.

It seems common by now that Wooly’s hellhound Never ceases to amaze us. At first we thought It was Wooly who was doing it, until he told us that it was the beast the whole time. The more domestic the hellhound becomes, the less wooly has to worry about taking control over it if things go wrong. Even he started getting along with what he used to see as a threat. The fact that this “Demonic Feral Beast” has quickly learned to become part of the family was a really incredible thing that it has achieved, but it wasn't as amazing as what happened at the end of the third week at Shaun's home.

______________________________________________________________

Amanda was playing airsoft with Riley in the backyard while Shaun and Hellhound Wooly were inside the house, training it to find things using its sharp sense of smell. The targets they are shooting down are made up of soda cans and plastic milk jugs. She was having fun trying to beat Riley to the most points by shooting the farthest targets first with her airsoft pistol. Amanda is a lot better at using airsoft firearms than when she started, and is doing a lot better than Riley. She already shot all but one of the farthest targets before shooting the rest that Riley has not shot down yet.

Riley complimented her “That was some Amazing Shots Amanda. Good job”

“Thanks Riley. Just wait till you see me use a real gun.”

“I wouldn't trust you with a real gun, no offence.”

“Why not?”

“Well, you're too young to use a gun. I mean… you could hurt yourself, or worse.”

“But…But I wouldn't! I thought you trust me!”

“I do trust you, but…not a weapon that lethal.”

“You don't trust a real gun?” Amanda asked annoyedly.

“Eh, Pretty much. I'm just afraid that it would set off on you and either injure you, or worse. Maybe in the future you can, but for now, let's just have you and Wooly stick with airsoft guns. But hey, an airsoft pistol is still pretty useful, and safer for you to use. I'm sure you'll figure it out eventually.” 

“I guess so.” She responded as she put down the “toy gun” on the rim of the firepit before helping Riley out with putting away the targets. Amanda was pretty disappointed. She was hoping that she would be trusted to use a real gun after all the training she went through. Maybe Riley does have a point with real guns being too dangerous for her to use, but what use is an airsoft as a form of self-defence. To scare maybe, but what else can she do with it if that doesn't work, chuck it at the attacker’s head? Well, that could work, but are there any other effective ways of using an airsoft pistol?

She then learned another way you can get hurt by an airsoft gun, because she knocked over a bunch of airsoft beads, spilling it all over the patio and started losing her footing because of it. Amanda yelped as she fell awkwardly onto the hard ground backwards. Amanda cushioned her fall using her elbow, scratching it in the process. 

“Augh! Dang it!” She yelped.

“You okay amanda?”

“What do you think?”. Amanda sat up and showed her scratched up elbow.

“Oh darn. That must hurt.”

“Yea, obviously. You just said that an airsoft gun is safer to use, Riley.” Amanda mocked.

“Don't be like that Amanda. Let's go inside and clean that up”. Riley helped Amanda up from the ground and took her inside.

The first thing Amanda saw when she and Riley entered Shaun’s house was him with a bag of diced yams, supervising the Hellhound who was searching for bundles of socks that he hid around the room. The reason Amanda and Riley knew what they were looking for is because the Hellhound just found another sock and returned it to Shaun.

“Nicely done there Wooly. Four down, one more to go.” Shaun congratulated. “Oh hey there Riley. Is Amanda alright?”

“She just scratched up her elbow. Do you have a medkit anywhere?”

“um…I think I do. I just don't know where I put it last.” 

“Alright, I'll help you look for it.”. Riley then turned to Amanda and gestured towards the living room furniture. “You go on ahead and sit down on the couch while we find it, okay Amanda?”

Instead of responding to Riley, Amanda did what they said and sat down on the sofa. She was still a bit upset about the gun talk, and embarrassingly tripping on airsoft beads. Amanda tried to look at her elbow to see how scratched up it was. She couldn't see her obstructed joint, but she can feel the soreness of it. Another thing Amanda noticed was a shadow casing over her. Amanda assumed it was Shaun and Riley who finally found the medkit and arrived to treat her minor injury. She turned around, only to be met with someone else holding a medkit: Hellhound Wooly. It was holding the handle of the kit by its maw. Then he jumped on the couch, placed the first-aid down by her and opened it up. “umm…Riley? Shaun? I think he found it.”

“Holy cow he really did.” Shaun responded.

“Did you teach him that?” Riley asked

“No, not at all. I didn't even think it knew what a medkit is. I guess it is smarter than we let on.”

“Heh, I guess he didn't really need that tracking training after all.” 

“I guess so too. It only took it under 2 minutes to find four of the sock bundles I hid.”

When Amanda is done treating her scraped elbow as Shaun and Riley monologues, she closes the first-aid kit and hands it to Shaun. The monstrous sheep layed down on its stomach, placing his head on Amanda's lap like a domestic canine. It was calm, gentle, and close enough for her to pet if she wanted to. Cautiously, Amanda slowly lifted her hand up, and gently stroked the hellhound on top of its wooly head. It is softer than anything she has felt, yet is durable to the touch. Despite the knowledge that she is touching a powerful beast that can easily kill you in one fatal move, Amanda felt tranquil. The Hellhound seemed comfortable with it too, since its wooly tail wagged as she pet the tamed feature. Amanda looked into the Hellhound’s eyes, and saw it look into hers with serenity. This was the very first time the Hellhound has shown full trust in Amanda. There are times where it doesnt mind her presence or just show no aggression towards Amanda, but this was the first time the Beast actually interacted with her positively. 

“Well, what do you know?” Shaun muttered “I think this hellhound just became a golden retriever.”

“You mean that as a compliment, right?” Riley asked

“Of course. It's genuinely cute.”

Amanda can't help but be proud of the Hellhound’s character development too. She can't help but think about what to do to make it realize how much it achieved. Amanda then remembered the market they both went to. 

“Hold on there Wooly.” Amanda asked the Hellhound Sheep. “I'll be right back. I need to get something.”

______________________________________________________________

The beast is curious, yet worried of what the young girl is gonna provide him when she gets back. Is it gonna be a reward for providing care for the young one, or a punishment for not completing Shaun’s command. Throughout the many millennia it has been summoned, none of the summoners has treated it as well as the three that it was training with. Severe punishments like being chained up in a spell circle, whacked with a silver cane, shot by holy water tipped arrows, or poisoned by Aconitum Vulparia laced steak is the norm for demons who serve mortals. But, the most severe punishments the trio have given him range from being ignored to being told that misbehavior is bad. The beast still expects some sort of punishment that is worse than a little scolding and no treats if he wrecked or tore something apart.

The little girl returned from the room, hiding something behind her back. What is she hiding? The beast is reluctant to approach the girl, fearing that she might be hiding something terrible behind her. Thankfully, that fear faded away as soon as she revealed what she was holding. It was that Bolo tie with a peach blossom encased in clear resin. A part of the beast somehow remembered where it came from, or at least that Wooly side it developed remembered that item.

The child loosened the tie and held it up, ready to place it onto the beast. It held its head down to allow the girl to place it around its neck. She tightened the loop, but only left it loose enough to not make it feel uncomfortable for the Hellhound. The beast sat up proudly, despite doing that seemingly little of a task. The beast supposed that the task is more important than it seems. Maybe the trinket was magical, because the beast can feel a comforting warmth in its heart. No, that was there before it wore the Bolo tie, but it felt better than before.

“Yea, you have the right to feel radiant,...” Amanda complimented “because you are one of us now.”

“Welcome to the family. All three of you” Riley added as they all huddled up into a hug, with Hellhound Wooly in the middle. Despite how claustrophobic the hug can be, It felt right to the Beast.

“F̵̪͂ȁ̴̭m̴̫̓î̷̟l̵̯̑y̷̺̓? ̷̣̔H̷͚̎m̸̼͠.̸̳̈́..̸͎̐ Th̵͍̚e̵͉̊r̴͖̅e ̸͘ͅĩ̷̠s̴͇̓ ̵̝̇s̶̤͋o̴͉̊m̶͜͠eț̸͝h̴̼͝in̵͑g q̴u̴̝͛i̷͜͝ẗ̷́e ̸̧̅gl̴o̴̬̍ri̵o̵̤͆u̶͕̎s̷̭̃ ̷͙̑a̷̙̚b̸̢̓ou̵̩̕t̷͈̋ t̶̞̋h̵̝̑a̷̫͆t̴̙̑ ti̵t̶l̷e̸.̷͍͒ ̶̟̈w̸͚͑ḥ̴͌a̵̲͛t̷̡͂ ̵̥͝â̸͕n̶̰̂ ̴͕͘ḣ̴̻o̴̮̓n̴̥͘o̴̰͋r̶͓͊. the beast thought to itself.

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[therealgchu]

Spooky Action at a Distance - Chapter 2

is up!

i think i just really like messed up, dysfunctional ppl.

Chapter 2 is now live over on ao3.

next week, the first chapter in a new Anamnesis series called The Pilot will be published Friday.

my other stuff on ao3.

it takes two to tango

“Sam,” she started, then paused, “do you still go by Sam?” she asked, looking away. It was easier to talk to him if she didn’t have to look at him.

“Still Sam, at least to people who know my name,” he answered, “which aren’t that many.”

“Sam,” she began again, still not making eye contact, “I’m not sure what you’re expecting…” she started.

“I’m not expecting anything,” he blurted, taking a step towards her. “I just wanted to…talk. I guess.” He looked chagrined, “I’m kinda flying by the seat of my pants here,” he said nervously, hoping that she might throw him a lifeline. Even when she wasn’t looking at him, she made him nervous.

She took a step back in reaction to his step towards her, and let out an exasperated sigh, “When don’t you?”

“I thought after several lifetimes I had outgrown that. But, then I saw you, and everything seemed to go out the window,” he answered. “I want to….I wanted to….how are you doing?” he ended lamely. Her impassive mien and lack of eye contact was making it hard to find the words to put her at ease. Which was ridiculous since he wasn’t at ease, either.

Min brushed her hair out of her eyes. “I killed Delgado and took over the Crimson Fleet,” she said after a moment. “I’m the queen of the pirates now,” she said cynically, the only real emotion she’d shown the whole time.

He stared at her, mouth agape.

“Makes it easier to get all of the artifacts when I have a personal army at my beck and call. Aren’t I the type of Starborn that you go after to keep from getting to the Unity?” she asked, finally making eye contact with him. “Aren’t you supposed to stop me? I’m unworthy,” the self-loathing was dripping from every word.

“Min…I…” Sam started, but she interrupted him.

“Just let me gather the artifacts and I’ll be out of your universe and you’ll never see me again,” she said and looked away.

“You don’t want me to help you fight the Hunter?” he asked lamely. He didn’t know how to respond to her statement about Delgado. She wasn’t wrong about his raison d’etre as The Emissary, but as Sam, he didn’t think he could move against her. She may not be his late wife, but she was similar enough that it hurt. It was obvious that whatever happened since he saw her last changed her, and just like his wife, he wanted to help her. He couldn’t help himself.

Min snorted, “I’ve never needed your help fighting. Unless you’re radically different than my Sam, I never needed help to fight anything,” she said. She knew she was being cruel, but it was also the truth. But, he was the one that invaded her space, that made her feel emotions that she thought she killed years ago. Just like her Sam, he could get past her walls and defenses without even trying. It pissed her off. “I was always a far better shot, more disciplined, better at tactics and strategy,” she tallied off on her fingers.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he replied despondently. He didn’t need her to remind him of his shortcomings.

“Then why are you here?” she asked again, this time annoyance edging her voice. “And I know it’s not to make small talk or to catch up.”

“I don’t know,” he answered. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” He looked at her with a pained expression and shook his head. “I should go,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” Min said simply.