#anyways i did not edit this so have at it

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - off the record (part three)

part three ; iced oat milk latte, no sweetener

warnings ; jungkook being a bitch, oc planning his murder once again </3

prompt ; in which you’re paired with your insufferably charming ex-academic rival turned coworker to cover a congressional scandal, and suddenly, professional boundaries becomes the only thing holding you two apart.

note ; hi, hello, bonjour, hola, ciao!!!! before we get into this whole mess, i want to start by apologizing for the hunger games reference… i fear i am rereading the series and all i can offer up is metaphors and similes having to do with katniss everdeen

anyway! we get a tiny tiny peek into a nicer jk (before he snatches that back up in his paw real fast), we meet monroe in all her political glory, and we also meet Rosalie!!!!! she is kinda maybe important (i mean, did you even look at the index… homegirl has an extra dedicated to her) so pay ATTENTION to those good ol context clues

ok that’s all i have to offer besides hugs n kisses. MWAHHH

playlist here

series masterlist here

Mondays in Washington D.C are a bloodsport.

You’re essentially Katniss Everdeen with a college degree, wielding a Macbook Air and a slightly chewed Pilot G2 instead of a bow and arrow, and tragically, there’s no Peeta tossing you bread.

You’ve accepted your role in the arena — not because you’re necessarily winning this specific Monday (though rewriting a headline three times while simultaneously ghosting two former sources does deserve some kind of medal), but because in this moment, you recognize just how good you are at your job.

This Monday, with Jenna sitting across from you in the cafeteria, a small, satisfied smile curved upon her lips and an iced green tea creating its own little puddle on the table, you feel like you’ve just shot an arrow through the Gamemakers’ roast pig.

“You,” she says, pointing at you with a manicured finger, “are single-handedly keeping CNN afloat.”

You arch a brow, leaning back into the faux leather chair, “Just me? Not the seasoned journalists or the guy in graphics who hasn’t taken a day off since the Obama years?”

“Okay, yes, but they didn’t just lock down the most exclusive interview of all time while also managing two live hits in one afternoon.” Her eyes are sparkling as she takes a sip of her watered-down concoction. “Honestly, if I were five years younger and less emotionally stable, I'd be deeply threatened by you.”

You grin, warmth flooding your chest. You’ve always admired Jenna; beyond her credentials, which includes three promotions before the age of 30, she also knows how to wield power with elegance.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was,” she settles her drink back down on the table. “You have been on fire lately. Monroe, the security reform story, that exclusive with Whitford’s aide… I’ve gotta say, you’re giving me a run for my money.”

The cafeteria isn’t busy at this time of day. There’s a few lingering presences, some interns loitering by the salad bar while they talk about happy hour plans neither of you will be invited to.

Your 1-on-1’s with Jenna have always been incredibly informal; the two of you opt to sit in the lunchroom, discuss any updates to stories you’re chasing down, and she pretends that she needs to edit anything you write even though she trusts you more than her own husband.

“Well, Monroe kinda fell in my lap,” you shrug. “Sheer stroke of luck.”

Jenna laughs, a full-bellied one that makes you feel like maybe you can breathe a little today. Hell, maybe you’ll take that “mental health walk” you keep scheduling on your calendar but happen to neglect every time it rolls around.

“I don’t even care,” she shakes her head. “I needed something real meaty this month. If I have to greenlight another story about the president’s favorite dog breed, I will walk into the Potomac.”

“Tell me again why you keep me around?” you tease.

“You might be the only person left who doesn’t make me regret going into journalism.”

“Flattery gets you everywhere, Jenna.”

She takes the hair tie off her wrist and pretends to launch it at you, and you both fall into a fit of giggles before she sits up suddenly like she just remembered she left her curling iron on. “Oh! Before I forget, the gala’s Friday.”

You pause in your tracks. Full record scratch, pause, tape spooling, rewinding. “The what now?”

“You know, the White House Correspondents gala. Annual festival of denial. Open bar, basically prom for people who peaked at Model UN? Ringing any bells?”

It’s actually ringing so many bells you feel like you’re in church. It’s Washington’s annual act of self-congratulation. Officially, it’s the White House Correspondents’ Dinner Afterparty, but everyone calls it what it is: White House Prom. A glitzy, overfunded fever dream where senators and editors and press reps drink bourbon under chandeliers, interns get stuck holding coats, and everyone pretends they haven’t been arguing over bylines all year.

A night where policy meets pageantry and somehow always ends with someone crying in the bathroom over budget cuts.

You groan obnoxiously. “God. Is that already here? I thought we canceled it after last year’s incident.”

“You mean when a Reuters editor sang ‘WAP’ on a table? Yeah, no. Tradition lives on.”

“I swear if I have to talk to one more sweaty political aide about how much they ‘respect the hell out of my work,’ I’m going to fake an international assignment.” True story, unfortunately.

You watch behind Jenna as the interns file out of the lunchroom after playing with lettuce and gossiping for five minutes straight.

“Still at the Hay Adams?” you follow up.

“Ballroom this year,” Jenna confirms. “Bigger space.”

You nod, mostly to yourself. It’s not mandatory, but it’s expected. Like flossing. Or staying neutral on Twitter.

“Yippee,” you grit out in faux excitement. “Lucky us.”

Jenna hums, then leans in with the type of expression normally reserved for the latest staffer-on-staffer affair. Your spine automatically mirrors her posture, because this is Washington and you can never predict what’ll come out of her mouth, even if it’s just about someone's bad Botox.

“Also, I probably shouldn’t be saying this yet..” she trails off, inspecting her nail polish, then glancing around as if the interns never fled the room. “...But you’re being considered for the next internal bump.”

You blink. “Bump?” Cocaine at this hour seems like overkill.

“Promotion,” she clarifies. “Senior Correspondent.”

Your whole body locks up, brain short-circuiting for a second before kicking into high gear.

You can’t tell if this is because of the Monroe thing or the Whitford aide or the years you’ve spent out-scooping your colleagues while surviving on six hours of sleep. Probably all of the above.

Either way, your heart is breakdancing. You’re really trying to look like it isn’t.

“That’s…” you nod slowly. “Cool.”

Cool. Cool? That’s what you go with? Jesus Christ. You sound like a hungover intern.

“Would you want to interview for it?” she asks amusedly.

Would you—

Okay. No. No squealing. No weird excited noises. No blacking out. Breathe and say something coherent that conveys hunger, capability, and an IQ higher than 119.

“I’d be open to it,” you say, like a person who hasn’t already mentally rewritten her resume and picked out what she’s wearing for the panel interview.

Jenna smirks knowingly. “Nice. I’ll let higher-ups know.”

“Does… anyone else know?”

The question slips out before you can stop it. You don’t necessarily know who you’re alluding to. Maybe Emma, maybe that guy Paul who sits two rows away from you and is always blasting NPR in his AirPods.

“If you’re asking if we’re evaluating anyone else for this, the answer is I don’t know,” she crosses her arms over her chest. “But… they do need my approval to go through, and I haven’t put anyone up for review yet.”

The ‘except for you’ is silent.

She pushes back her chair, grabs her mostly waterlogged green tea, now just a cup of sadness and regret. You follow her lead, still feeling slightly shell-shocked in the best possible way.

Walking out of the worn-down cafeteria with her, shoes tapping against the tile, mind already spinning with possibilities, you feel oddly at peace.

And maybe that’s why you love Mondays in D.C so much.

Not because they’re easy or slow or remotely tolerable.

But because sometimes, they remind you of exactly who the hell you are.

And that, makes the bloodsport kind of worth it.

The chair squeaks every time you shift, which wouldn’t be a problem if it wasn’t the only sound in the room.

The White House has many rooms. Historic ones, important ones, also some where actual history is made. This is not one of those rooms. This is one of the weird, vaguely depressing interview rooms they trot out for second-tier people. You know, deputy communications directors, committee aides. That one Assistant Secretary who went viral for being hot, then immediately got canceled for a tweet he wrote in 2011 about dogs wearing pants.

An overpriced chandelier slightly swings above you, lighting the space aggressively. Your chair is wooden, tilted approximately 97 degrees like it wants you to develop scoliosis.

Still, you made it. You’re here. Not even fashionably early. Stupidly early.

You blame the adrenaline. Your meeting with Jenna earlier left you jittery, and no, it had nothing to do with the four Celsius’ you ingested. The notebook in your lap, which currently looks like it’s been through six war rooms, is overflowing with questions — some carefully workshopped with Jenna, others you came up with alone while brushing your teeth this morning.

Your leg bounces. You flip a page, then flip it back. Your eyes fight to look at the clock without looking at the clock.

This is fine. You like prep time. You thrive on prep time.

The door creaks open behind you, and your heartbeat does a weird little thump thump behind your ribs. Your body refuses to swivel in the chair in case it’s her.

Here we go. Monroe. Congresswoman. Possibly the key to that promotion Jenna has promised you on a silver platter. Maybe, if you’re really lucky, Jungkook got hit by a car and you’ll be running this interview slot on your own. Time to sit up straight, flash your professional smile, channel your inner Barbara Walters and—

“Wow. Early. Didn’t know that was your thing.”

You slump completely into your chair.

Did the car you just imagined hitting him take a wrong turn?

You don’t dare turn to look at him, instead pretending to be incredibly invested in the chicken scratch on your notepad. “Wow. Late. Makes sense that’s your thing.’

The door closes behind him, and you hear him set his bag down by the entrance. “You know she’s not supposed to be here for another five minutes, right?”

You roll your eyes so hard you give yourself a minor headache. “That’s five minutes of prep time.”

There are approximately seven billion people on this planet. This is the one you’re stuck sharing a congresswoman with.

God is testing you.

Jungkook rounds your chair, and for a moment you prepare for impact — some offhand comment, a smug smile, a challenge disguised as a compliment. Standard procedure.

But instead, something cold and plastic materializes right in front of your face.

You blink away the blurriness of the object in front of you.

It’s a coffee cup. In his hand. Inches from your nose.

“What the fuck is that?” you ask, recoiling slightly like he just tried to hand you a live animal.

He sets it down on the table in front of you with dramatic flair. “Your coffee.”

You stare at it. Then at him. Then back at it. “You don’t even know what I drink.”

He doesn’t flinch at that. “Isn’t it still that iced oat milk latte thing? No sweetener?”

Your soul briefly detaches from your body.

“How—”

“You used to order it every day before Public Policy, and then show up with it half-empty already,” He shrugs casually like that isn’t deranged information to remember. “It stuck.”

What the actual fuck is going on?

He takes a sip of his own drink — hot, probably black, the beverage of overconfident men who think bitterness builds character. “Still think you’re weird for drinking something that tastes like oat-flavored water with no sugar, but hey. To each their own.”

You’re still staring at the cup.

“Why did you bring me this?” you ask, voice flat, because this feels off-brand. He’s not… nice. He’s Jungkook. He’s that dude you just imagined getting run over by a car, and then the car backed up and ran over him again while you smiled gleefully. “Is it poisoned?”

“Yeah,” he deadpans. “I stopped at the cafe and asked for the rat poison special. It’s just a little something to take the edge off.”

You level him with a look. He grins wider, those two bunny teeth poking out beneath his top lip. Bastard. He’s so… so.. (and when you find the right words, you’ll scream them from the rooftop.)

Then he finally sinks into the chair next to you and stretches out like this is a coffee date and not a battle for professional supremacy.

“I want a fair game,” he states matter-of-factly, eyes flicking toward the empty seat Monroe will soon occupy. “Need you caffeinated for that.”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy internally malfunctioning.

Because here’s the thing: he shouldn’t know that. About the oat milk (or the existence of it in general.) The lack of sweetener. The whole personality trait of a drink you depend on like a life jacket.

He shouldn’t remember.

Yet there it is. Sitting on the table, condensation gathering.

You cross your leg over the other and force yourself to look unimpressed. “You really came in here with a performance-enhancing latte to try and make me nervous?”

He smirks. “Is it working?”

Absolutely.

“Only because I’m wondering when the side effects kick in.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, and you hate the way your stomach sort of flutters. Like it forgot whose side it was on.

You pick up the cup anyway. Take a sip. Might as well see if he remembered the extra shot of espresso—

Damn it.

It’s perfect.

It’s exactly what Jenna brings you each morning.

There’s so much more you want to say but it all shrivels up on your tongue and dies.

He nods toward the cup. “Well?” he asks. “Up to your standards?

You pause mid-sip, raise a brow. “It’s drinkable. Could use a little poison though.”

“That’s the nicest thing you ever said to me,” he smiles widely, although you and him both know that was the farthest thing from a compliment.

“Don’t get used to it.” You let the straw clack gently against the lid. “I’m sure you’ll say something idiotic in the next thirty seconds to cancel it out.”

You think he’ll fight you on it like he’s been fighting you on everything since the first time you met. But he just smirks, one side of his mouth lifting, “Probably. But you’ll still drink the coffee.”

“Mm. Haven’t decided just how disturbed I am that you remembered my order from college.”

“I’m disturbed you’re still drinking it,” he shoots back. “Sounds like it tastes like shit.”

You’re about to launch into some detailed rebuttal involving Jungkook’s questionable taste in everything from shirt choice to headline structure to coffee orders when you hear the rusty doorknob turning.

This time, however, it’s not Jungkook barreling through the entrance.

Congresswoman Monroe hovers under the threshold of the room, stepping into it cautiously. At the noise, you and Jungkook both shoot up from your chairs like students caught gossiping mid-lecture.

She’s maybe mid-40s, though her face suggests she made a very lucrative deal with time around 31. Her dark hair is pulled back into a low, sleek ponytail, wearing a navy pantsuit that probably costs more than your entire student loan debt.

She pulls off her Celine sunglasses in one fluid motion — what is it with people on the Hill wearing sunglasses indoors? — and tucks them into her bag, giving you both a long once-over. You feel quite small under her gaze, despite her being shorter than you.

“Wow,” she raises a brow, “Look at that. The youth still believes in chivalry.”

You want to extend a hand to her for her to shake, but decide against it when you calculate the distance still between you two. “It felt appropriate. It’s nice to meet you, Congresswoman. We appreciate you taking the time to talk to us.”

She snorts at that, clearly entertained, “Well, I believe it was my overachieving press rep who lured you here, not I. He seems to have a way with words to convince two of the biggest outlets to speak to me off the record.”

Ah, yes. Who could forget the ever-so-eloquent Mark? You hope he’s doing better than when you last saw him.

“It’s no problem, really,” Jungkook reassures. “I know this story is fresh, so we’ll take anything.”

Monroe seems to accept that answer, striding forward and taking her seat across from you two with ease. You and Jungkook share a quick look before sitting back down, both your notebooks flipping open almost immediately. You want to say you know exactly where to start, but considering the circumstances, nothing feels sufficient.

She crosses her legs, leans back in her chair and looks between the two of you as if pondering which one of you will be brave enough to speak first.

Clearly, it won’t be you.

“Let’s start from the beginning,” Jungkook’s fingers twirl around his pen thoughtfully, like he’s John Hancock about to sign the Declaration of Independence, “Walk us through how you and Delgado got involved in the first place.”

You resist the urge to groan out loud. Classic Jungkook; start at square one, build some cute little narrative arc, win hearts and minds while you’re over here looking like you’re the world’s most submissive little sidekick. He’s laying groundwork like this is some Netflix docuseries and he’s the charming narrator.

You have approximately twelve smoking-gun questions and a left eye that’s starting to twitch.

Before Monroe can answer, she raises a hand. “Confirming this is off the record, right?”

Both you and Jungkook shoot your hands up in defense, as to prove there’s not some top secret recorder clutched in your palms. You answer quickly, “Completely.”

She gives you a look like she doesn’t fully believe you, but she’s too tired to care. Then she shakes her head in approval, crossing her hands and placing them atop her knees like she’s preparing to read from some memoir. “Well, it started like they always do. Good intentions but terrible, terrible execution.”

You immediately start scribbling, handwriting resembling of someone who’s having a medical emergency.

She goes on, “He said he needed to review the vote count with me. Said it couldn’t wait. Silly me for thinking he meant actual numbers.”

Your brain is already fifteen steps ahead, questions lining up in your head like little soldiers. You’ve done enough research on the story to know this much is true: it was more than just one night.

“So.. you weren’t aware there were eyes in the hallway when you left his office later that night?” you cut in before Jungkook can deliver a follow-up, because no way is he getting the juicy stuff first.

Monroe snorts, “I was aware of a lot of things. Surveillance interns weren’t one of them.”

Jungkook glances up from his Moleskine. “Intern had good timing.”

“Depends on who you ask” she responds drily.

“So when did it actually start?” Jungkook shifts forward in his chair, picking up his coffee and taking a sip. “A one time incident doesn’t usually come with three months of scheduling overlaps.”

Jungkook: 2. You: 1

“It doesn’t..” Monroe pauses, half for dramatic effect and half for introspection. “But clearly you’ve had some time to look at my calendar, so why don’t you tell me when you think it started?”

“Honestly,” you begin, flipping pages in the back of your mind, trying to remember that article you read three hours ago that dictated the timeline with color-coded graphs and blurry pictures. “I think it was back in June? July?”

She doesn’t answer that, just hums thoughtfully.

“Care to clarify how far back?” Your hand betrays you, reaching for the iced coffee on the table in front of you that has boiled down to some sad mixture of water, oat milk, and espresso.

Her lips twitch. “Far enough that I should’ve known better.”

You set the coffee back down after a prolonged sip. Beside you, you feel Jungkook’s beady little eyes trained on you. “Who else knew?”

“And who else was covering it up?” Jungkook jumps in.

It becomes a full-on ping pong match. You’re not even waiting for answers before volleying the next question. There’s something about an agreement, about Mark having an inkling, talk of going public before actually getting the chance to. You’re incredibly disappointed this isn’t on the record — this is the spiciest conversation you’ve had in years on the Hill. Jungkook seems just as intrigued as you, his own notepad filling up faster than quicksand.

It’s a dual — a bloodless one, for sure, but still mildly entertaining. Your cramping hand and the part of you that wants to scream every time he throws in a follow-up that actually adds value makes things slightly more complicated, though.

Worse: he’s enjoying this. Visibly.

And, okay, you’ll admit this much — you’re enjoying it too. Just a little. In the way you enjoy debating and working with someone who’s actually worth your time. In the way your competitive little brain lights up like oh, this again? Yeah, let’s fucking go.

You ask something else — who’s to say what it’s actually about? You just had to get it out before he did — and Monroe chuckles. “You two always like this?”

She seems quite amused by the two of you.

You open your mouth to say no, because professionalism or whatever. But then Jungkook shrugs and replies, “Sometimes. We’ve gotten better.”

No, you haven’t, but right now that’s neither here nor there.

“Well, at least I know I’m in capable hands,” Monroe beams at you two, the first real sign of human emotion you’ve captured from her since she sat down.

Capable is one way to put it, that’s for sure.

He looks over at you again (you might have to get a restraining order. This is now the tenth time and you’re starting to get scared.) It’s more in a this is fun, isn’t it? way. Which, ugh. Maybe it is. You’d never admit it but the absolute thrill of chasing a story with someone who also appreciates the highs that come with this job, while still trying to one-up each other? Yeah. It scratches a very specific, very messed-up part of your brain.

Still, he doesn’t get to win.

You lean forward, diverting back to the story at hand. “Just to clarify, did he ever explicitly threaten you with exposure if you ended things?”

Monroe’s gaze sharpens. “He didn’t need to. You don’t get involved with someone like Delgado without knowing he’s always got a spare knife somewhere.”

You write that line down so fast your pen nearly flies out of your hand. Jungkook mutters under his breath, “Jesus.”

The buzz of a timer goes off, jolting you and Jungkook upright like someone just yelled “Ten-hut!” to both of you. Monroe seems satisfied with that noise, opening her bag and retrieving her sunglasses from the depths, perching them on the bridge of her nose. “Well, that’s all we’ve got time for today, I presume? I’m sure Mark will be in touch soon for follow-ups.”

In some way, you think you’ll miss her. She might be the only congresswoman on the Hill that doesn’t have some 30-inch ruler up her ass.

“Of course,” Jungkook stands up on command, outstretching his own hand for her to shake. You follow suit like a lost puppy. She shakes both of your sweaty palms before acknowledging you both silently and heading towards the door, slamming it shut behind her.

In unison, you and Jungkook slink back down in your respective chairs, still in some weird post-interview daze. You’re not even looking at him. Not even a glance. Because glancing means acknowledging, and acknowledging means reacting, and you don’t do that.

Except, okay. Maybe you glance. Briefly. It’s for intel.

Weirdly, you don’t hate the way it feels to share something with him this closely. You both got exactly what you needed — the honest truth, a story that’s so compelling Shakespeare couldn’t even spin up this kind of narrative.

You don’t dare acknowledge that thought either. You bury it deeply. Somewhere right next to the memory of him bringing you your coffee.

When it’s nighttime in Washington D.C, it’s like a different dimension opens up and swallows the Earth.

Bars are filled to the brim with overexcited interns and senators on the prowl for their next cheating scandal. Coats are tossed across barstools like forgotten souvenirs. Chalices of beer are raised in the air as if people returned from a long day at the frontlines.

There’s some kind of magic that comes with it, like anything can happen because you’re finally not at your desk.

You’ve just turned off the lamp on your desk when your phone starts buzzing with urgency. See: magical. Anyone who knows you knows better than to call on a weekday night.

The only person who doesn’t know better, would be Rosalie, your best friend from college. Even the buzzing feels distinctly like her. As in, it’s probably not life or death but it’s definitely dramatic and may or may not have some form of light alcoholism attached to it.

You glance down at your phone screen, contact photo still the same blurry selfie she took freshman year wearing a tiara and threatening to drop out because your dorm had “zero aesthetic.”

You hesitate for exactly one second. It’s late. You’re tired. Your brain still smells like that cursed interview room from earlier and your notes from Monroe are a chaotic mess of arrows, question marks, and multiple phrases in all caps.

But, then again, it’s Rosalie. And when Rosalie calls, something ridiculous always follows. Like night after day. Like impulse after Amazon Prime.

Plus, you kind of want to give into the magic.

You swipe to answer, pressing the phone to your ear and scooping your bag onto your shoulder. “You’re either drunk, shopping, or about to fake your own death again. Which is it?”

Her voice bursts through the speaker, words rushing out. “Okay, rude. First of all, I never fake anything except for, like, orgasms and excitement about family obligated dinners. Second of all, surprise bitch!”

You furrow your brows in confusion, moving towards the exit of the CNN press room. “What?”

“I'm in D.C!” She shrieks like this is some normal update and not a major plot twist.

“You—what?”

“Like right now. I’m here. I just landed. I’m with Daddy.”

The first time you met her, she also referred to her father as ‘Daddy.’ It deeply troubles you, but you’ve come to learn there is literally no other way to name the man who’s a diplomat with a literal castle in Scotland.

“You were in London this morning,” you deadpan, struggling to do the mental math on time zones and emissions and mileage. You step out into the hallway, leaning against a cold wall.

“Yes, and now I'm here, on the hunt for a martini. It’s called globalization, babe.”

You cover your face with one hand and let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a snort. Rosalie has been your best friend-slash-financial cautionary tale-slash-roommate since freshman year at Columbia. Your first true peek into what money could look like when it wasn’t tied to survival. She grew up with private jets and trust funds and the kind of skincare routine that requires a prescription and personal esthetician.

You grew up with coffee from a deli and a FAFSA login engraved in your mind.

Somehow, your friendship works.

Maybe it was the way she made everything feel like a movie. Or the fact that she’d once threatened to sue your econ professor on your behalf because the “curve is misogynistic.”

But mostly, it was how she always made space for you.

Even if that space is currently filled with credit card debt, half-finished Master’s degrees, and a shocking amount of vintage Balenciaga.

You sigh, already smiling. “Rosalie, what the fuck are you doing here?”

“I just told you! I’m with Daddy, he had some kinda thing. International diplomacy or rich people drama, I don’t know, I tuned out. But I’m here, I miss your face, and you sound like you’re one day away from a nervous breakdown.”

She really does know you like the back of her hand.

“I literally am.”

“See? All the more reason to get drinks. I’m thinking an extra dirty martini for me, a vodka soda for you..” You can practically hear the puppy dog eyes she has on display right now.

“I could be convinced.” You readjust your bag on your shoulder, staring solemnly at the end of the hallway.

“Okay, this is me convincing you,” she pauses for dramatic effect. “I’ll pay.”

Perk #2000 of having a rich best friend.

“You got me there.” You’re now fully laughing, the sound echoing off the hallway, phone still pressed to your ear like you’re back in college, sneaking calls in between lectures to give unsolicited advice to her on her most recent love interest.

“Come onnnn, let’s be messy.” She pleads. You glance again down the ominous hallway. Your shoes are killing you today. Your brain is fried, eyes burning after hours of staring at words and headlines and formatting.

Still, none of it sounds that bad when you think of Rosalie and a really crisp vodka soda with two limes.

“Text me the place,” you’re already bracing for impact. “But if you order anything that comes with edible glitter again, I’m leaving.”

“You’re the best,” she exhales a breath as if she’s been holding it the whole time you’ve been on the phone, “Love you!”

There’s a disconnecting sound on the other end of the line, and you bring your phone down from your ear to stare at it in front of you. Nighttime in D.C always feels like this: the first lick of ice cream on a summers day, a comforting hug from a parent after months of separation, toes digging in the warm sand. Magical, and full of possibility.

The moose head is definitely judging you.

Mounted above the bar like a taxidermist’s wet dream, it stares down at you with cold, glassy eyes and antlers the size of a small aircraft. It’s wearing a sequined top hat for reasons unknown, and honestly, it’s the most stable thing in the room right now.

The bar name Rosalie texted you an hour earlier serves cocktails with unpronounceable bitters and has dim lighting that makes your outfit look ten times better than it actually is (and also doing a hell of a job at concealing your under eye bags.) The high-top table you two are perched at smells faintly of citrus zest, her YSL perfume and spilled liquor.

Even the leather booths and black matte menus screams place that is trying way too hard to stay afloat in D.C’s nightlife climate. There is a very specific brand of person who goes to these bars, and you and the moose are both trying to figure out if you fit the bill.

To your dismay, your vodka soda is alarmingly strong, which is unfortunate because you ordered it specifically as a keep-it-together drink. Sober-adjacent. Instead, it tastes like the blonde bartender at the front is going through the world’s most devastating breakup.

You’re a quarter through it and already considering whether food would be helpful or if you'll just end up eating three-dollar-sign fries you didn’t mean to order.

Across from you, Rosalie’s swirling her (extra) dirty martini, rambling on and on about her recent trip to London. Something about the fog or the rain. You watch her as she animatedly speaks, fur-trimmed coat moving with every flick of her wrist.

“Okay…” she says, one olive skewered dramatically on a stick between her fingers. “This city is like, aggressively serious. Everyone looks like they’re walking to a meeting even at 8 PM at night. What’s that about?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, swirling your own black straw around the rim of your drink, trying to dilute the vodka, “Probably some senate fundraiser going on a block away.”

Rosalie gasps, “That is so unsexy. Vibes here are rough.”

Only Rosalie would refer to the nation’s capital as ‘unsexy.’ You respect the brutal honesty; she’s not entirely wrong. The city is overrun by middle-aged fathers and misogynistic women. If that doesn’t scream unsexy, you’re not sure what does.

“You picked the place,” you mock, rolling your eyes.

“Well, yeah, but I was going for hot, mysterious energy, not—” she gestures wildly around the room. “—whatever this is.”

You look around. There’s a man in a vest swirling around an old-fashioned and a woman arguing with headphones on while sipping from a wine glass. “Rosalie, this is the most you bar I’ve ever been to.”

She almost turns as pale as a ghost. “This can’t be my brand.”

You can’t help but laugh, sinking deeper into your chair. It could be argued this is her entire brand; picking out places that will hand you a check worth more than your electricity bill for three months.

“So,” she begins, dramatically perching her chin in her hand, “how’s your glamorous life at the White House? Any closer to marrying a diplomat’s son?”

“Unfortunately not,” you take a sip of your vodka soda and grimace. “However the other day I did make prolonged eye contact with an intern. Although he might’ve been 20, so unsure if that counts.”

She nods like that checks out. “Oof. That’s not a good sign. Are you on any dating apps?”

Her expression twists in excitement, clearly holding out for some cute politically correct love story. You don’t have the heart to tell her that the only thing you’ve shown affection to in the past few months is a bottle of sauvignon blanc.

“Nah, you know me,” You stare down at your drink as you speak quickly to avoid her piercing gaze. “Enough about that, though. I heard you were maybe, kind of, accidentally starting a wellness brand?”

Rosalie perks up a little at that, although you can tell she doesn’t necessarily appreciate the segway from your dating life to her varying business ventures. “Well, Daddy’s investors wanted me to pick a niche, which is so toxic, because I believe in trying anything once.”

“I’m sorry—what?”

Rosalie’s business ventures have ranged from ‘mildly unhinged’ to ‘legally gray.’ In the last three years alone, she’s tried to launch a gemstone-infused bottled water line (now banned in three countries), an app that was supposed to match influencers with “friends” for Coachella, and a cashmere dog sweater subscription box that somehow lost her family $12,000 despite only having five customers — three of which were her own dogs.

It’s safe to say her being enrolled in graduate school was the unrivaled alternative.

She once asked you to invest in one of her projects. You bestowed upon her $5 and a random penny that had two heads on it.

“I’m a woman of many multitudes,” she explains with alarming speed. “You can’t put me in a box. One week I’m into adaptogens, the next I want to sell lingerie to housewives. You know how I get.”

“Rosalie,” you let out a noise resembling a snort. “This is all deeply unserious.”

“Exactly.” She plucks an olive off the wooden toothpick, popping it in her mouth. “But it’s fine. Daddy said if I stop spending money, he’ll really consider funding my wellness brand. So right now I need to chill the fuck out and realign my values.”

You don’t think she really understands what it means to realign her values.

“So… you’re basically unemployed.”

She gasps, slapping a hand over her heart. “How dare you use that word.”

You grin into your drink. It’s so easy to fall back into a rhythm with her. Even if she lives in a totally different universe. Even if she has never once felt the need to check her bank account before ordering a $22 cocktail.

Her lips press against the rim of her glass before she places it back down hesitantly. “You know, you really should get back out there.”

You should've known better than to assume this topic of conversation was done.

Out of the corner of your eye, you make eye contact with the moose. His (and you’ve decided it’s a male, bedazzled hat and all) eyes swallow you whole.

You tilt your head back towards the high ceilings to avoid catching Rosalie’s or the moose's eyes. “I’m perfectly fine in here.”

She doesn’t acknowledge your pun. “When’s the last time you’ve even had sex, you little virgin?”

Ha ha.

You actually laugh out loud. Which is probably not the response she was hoping for but — be serious.

When was the last time you had sex? Does emotional disassociation count?

Because if you’re going by strict technicalities, it was that one-night stand a few months ago when Emma dragged you out, told you to just “pick a guy,” and you went with the first one who made a semi-decent joke and could name one recent foreign policy.

It was… fine. Forgettable in the way dry toast is.

You’re pretty sure he called you babe halfway through and you pretended not to hear it because you were already nauseous from the amount of vodka sodas you consumed that night.

“Sex is a social construct used to avoid real human connection.”

You smile indignantly at your best friend, crossing your arms over your chest. There’s satisfaction rippling through your body. Try arguing with that one, Rosa—

“How long are you going to avoid real human connection before you end up all alone, surrounded by ten cats and all my wellness supplements?”

Okay, rude. A wake-up call at this hour isn’t really necessary. She sounds much too invested in this for your liking.

Statistically speaking, you are on track to die with your phone in one hand and a highlighter in the other. But also? You kind of don’t care.

You're good at exactly two things in this life: 1) your job and 2) being right, neither of which you plan on giving up any time soon. You’re not about to emotionally babysit a man who wears loafers without socks or tells you he’s “big on communication” but flinches when you ask what his ex’s name is.

Relationships are cute for people like Rosalie, who have time to dabble in them. You are booked out for the foreseeable future.

“You know I don’t care about that stuff.” You decide that’s an appropriate response to her worrying. “I just.. value my alone time. And you’ve seen how hard I work. I don’t have time to date.”

“What about your coworkers?” she muses casually. “Surely one of them, with the same work ethic as you, is a good option.”

You nearly choke on your drink so violently that the moose head looks concerned.

“What?” Rosalie blinks at you with full sincerity. “I’m just saying—it seems efficient. You could like, hold hands while rage-writing about the president.”

You stare at her blankly. “I’d rather go on a silent meditation retreat with Mitch McConnell.”

“You’re being dramatic. Walk me through the options,” She sits up straighter, voice rising at the end of her sentence.

“Okay…” you exhale, already regretting everything. “There’s Andrew, but he clips his nails at his desk and I can’t unhear it. It’s like ASMR for serial killers.”

She grimaces, tapping her polished nail against her glass. “Ew.”

“There’s Gavin, who’s technically married but also keeps asking if I’ve ever been to Greece in spring, so that feels like a no.”

Now that you’re running through the roster out loud, it’s pretty devastating.

“Paul.”

You say the name with hope attached to it, and Rosalie leans forward in anticipation, like she’s already envisioning her maid of honor dress and your pastel wedding invitations. “But.. he calls Slack ‘the Slack’ and that gave me the ick. Plus, he also listens to NPR, so that’s another minus.”

Rosalie groans and sets her forehead down on the table like this is your fault. “God, your workplace is bleak. What’s the point of being employed if you can’t seduce someone with a respectable title?”

“Believe it or not, I do actually work so I can get paid.” You take a sip of your drink, which has simmered down to a pool of vodka and watered-down soda.

She lifts her head from the table, “Not one hot little office romance? A private kiss in an elevator? Anything to feel alive?”

She’s really overestimating the Hill’s penchant for romance.

You give her a long look. “I write about current events. That is my version of a hot little office romance.”

She snorts, then tilts her head at you knowingly. Uh-oh. You know that look. It’s the look she gave you in college before she asked if she could set you up with her cousin, the 7th Earl of Douglas. “Wait.. do you still work with that guy?”

Your stomach drops. Like an elevator going down one floor too fast. “What guy?”

You’re playing dumb, which is not usually your move. But you are. Aggressively and visibly.

Rosalie shrugs like it’s no big deal. “You know, that guy from college. What was his name.. Jungkook?”

Damn her. You really need to stop telling her your work stories. Not that it matters anyway. She’s known him the same unfortunate amount of time you have.

You shift slightly in your seat. It’s a tiny readjustment but you’re fidgeting, leg crossing the other way, hand playing with your straw like it’s suddenly fascinating.

You absolutely do not glance at the moose for help.

“Yeah,” you say. “I do.”

Rosalie arches a brow. “He’s still as hot as he was back then. I saw his post on Instagram last week. Those cheekbones still working overtime, eh?”

You force a laugh, struggling to banish any and all flashes of his cheekbones that are currently flitting through your mind like pages of a scrapbook. They are oddly nice. But knowing him, he probably gets cheek filler or something. “I guess. If you’re into that whole overly symmetrical thing.”

“Who isn’t into it?” She picks up her martini glass, taking a massive gulp.

You can’t respond. You’re too busy hyper-focusing on your vodka soda and trying not to remember a very specific Friday night freshman year. One where you walked into some random room at the Pi Kappa Alpha fraternity house with jungle juice in one hand, only to—

Nope. Not going down that road.

Following in her footsteps, you take a big sip of your drink. Rosalie doesn’t notice the way your leg is slightly bouncing under the table. Or if she does, she’s sparing you the embarrassment. “I always thought he’d go into modeling or something,” she tosses her jet-black hair over her shoulder. “Didn’t peg him as someone who would go into politics.”

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, “even the devil wants press credentials.”

“Bet he still looks good in a suit though.”

Now it’s your turn to drop your head onto the tabletop.

Sure, maybe there are people out there with actual problems. Real ones. People who’ve lost their homes, who don’t know where their next meal will come from, who aren’t currently sipping overpriced vodka sodas while side-eyeing a moose in a hat. Compared to them, this whole moment is an insult.

And yet, in this precise, horrifying pocket of time, you genuinely can’t imagine a worse fate than Rosalie fawning over Jungkook like he’s a misunderstood bad boy.

If you’re being all Psychology 101 about your feelings (which you got an A in, so you are), you’re still annoyed about the coffee he brought you earlier. How dare he remember things about you like he’s some poor excuse of a friend. You don’t want to be seen, or be known, especially by him.

You lift your head up, sip the last of your drink, ignore the knot forming somewhere behind your ribs.

“Anyway,” you clear your throat and force the tightest smile your face can manage without cramping. “tell me more about those edible face masks you texted me about last week. Those sounded questionable.”

But Rosalie is a martini deep, so she leans forward across the table before you can finish the pivot. Her fur coat bunches against the edge, nails curling. “So, is there any chance he’s going to be at work tomorrow?”

“What?”

“Jungkook.” She looks at you like you're the crazy one. “Will he be there?”

You squint at her, like maybe if you narrow your eyes hard enough, the words will rearrange into something more coherent. “It’s a weekday. I assume so, unless he’s decided to pursue his dream of becoming a shirtless travel vlogger.”

“Perfect,” she leans back against the chair now. “I’ll be here a few more days.”

“I—what? Wait. Hold on. No.”

She pouts dramatically. “Why not?”

You sputter, and you feel your right eye beginning to twitch. “Wha—Why not?? Rosalie, what do you mean why not?”

“I mean,” she looks genuinely baffled. That makes two of you. “I’m single, he’s single, you work with him… you can’t not set us up just because you’re being weird.”

You’re about to flip this table over. “I’m not— what? I’m not being weird.”

She plays with the toothpick that used to hold her olives. “You do this thing sometimes where you act all chill but then your eye starts to twitch.”

You stare at her, openly horrified. “Rosalie, I do not. No—okay, look. First of all, I do not matchmake. That’s not in my skillset. I can barely order dinner for two without freaking out.”

You abruptly realize your hands are clenched in your lap, and the inside of your cheek is sore from how hard you’re biting it.

Okay — maybe you should let her fuck him. She’s an adult. You’re not her keeper, and thank God you’re not his either. You have no legal or emotional stake in this whatsoever.

But then you think about it for more than six seconds and suddenly the idea feels… bad. Like ethically bad. Cosmically cursed. Like watching someone about to pet a tiger because it looks “soft.”

Besides, why would you want to subject her to that kind of torture? Why would you offer her up to the emotional rollercoaster that is Jungkook when you’re barely surviving it yourself? Honestly, it would be cruel. A hate crime.

She gazes at you. You are going to start screaming spontaneously any minute now.

“Okay.. but like, why can’t you just help me out here?”

You sit there poker-faced. Your brain — already operating at half-capacity thanks to the vodka soda and the emotional trauma of this conversation — halts all function. You open your mouth, praying something logical will come out. A thoughtful excuse. A real reason. Maybe even a full monologue about professionalism or the fact that he drives you insane on a daily basis.

Instead, what tumbles out is, “Heard he gave someone on the Hill a STD.”

Silence.

It’s like every patron in the bar took a vow to participate in a well-timed moment of silence.

“Wait, what?”

You swallow thickly, saliva going down like molasses. “Yeah. I mean, don’t quote me or anything. But, you know how it is. Rumors.”

The words feel like wet socks in your mouth.

You eye her carefully, waiting for the inevitable laugh. But it never comes. “Oh,” she says, drawn out like she’s having a That’s So Raven-level flashback. “I mean, it’s not like we haven’t— “

She stops herself. Bats her eyelashes. Smiles quickly. “So, you were talking about my edible face masks?”

You go along with it. You’re not about to ask what she almost said.

You both brush past it like the moose above you isn’t watching in real-time.

Stirring your straw around the edge of your glass, you become aware of how warm the bar feels, how loud it’s gotten, how your face is doing that thing where it tries to stay neutral but ends up folding in on itself.

You don’t know when you became a liar. As a White House correspondent, your entire career was built on integrity and ethics. This is new territory for you.

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. She can obviously have him. She can have his cheekbones and his annoying woodsy cologne that makes you irrationally upset and his coffee-bringing habits.

Take it all. Godspeed, Rosalie.

Something about being in the office with a minor hangover feels like a crime against humanity. A petty offense punishable by being trapped under fluorescent lights while liquor seeps out of your skin.

Every time Paul from two rows over makes eye contact with you, you feel a fresh wave of nausea roll through your body like a bad remix of last night’s (multiple) vodka sodas.

You don’t even know what he wants. Maybe he heard how you eliminated him last night from your list of potential suitors at the office. He probably can also smell the vodka dripping from your pores but that’s a separate story.

Your night, as it would only happen, ended with four more vodka sodas after the first one had been downed and topics of conversation that should never be repeated in a public setting. Apparently you also tried to steal the moose’s hat. So, yeah. Not really doing your finest this Tuesday morning.

You try to focus on your inbox, which is currently ten emails deep and pulsing with the words URGENT and MONROE EDITS. Tentatively, you open one. Close it. Open another. Realize it’s the same email. Close it again.

All higher brain power has been disabled until further notice. It’s just rotating between memories of Rosalie’s fur coat, the moose head, and the vague threat of vomit in the back of your throat.

Unfortunately, Jungkook sneaks his way in there too.

Which, no. You are not going to sit and think about whether Rosalie ended up DMing him. You’re not donating energy to the possibility of her sliding into his messages with a “hey stranger.” You’re not even remembering the comment she made on the curb outside while waiting for her Uber about “needing to reconnect with old friends.”

Everything is totally fine. (And you’re on the right track — your Advil is starting to kick in.)

“You look like you died at a party and were revived by the ghost of hangovers past,” Emma says as she plops into her chair next to you, placing her chocolate chip muffin on the desk. She had already been here when you arrived ten minutes past 9 AM, but retreated to the cafeteria for a breakfast pick-me-up.

You can’t even crane your neck to look over at her. “I think I’m being judged by Paul.”

Emma leans to peek over her desk. “He’s wearing those weird loafers again. He doesn’t get to judge anyone.”

“I think I’m sweating vodka.” You keep going down your list of woes.

Emma snorts at that. “Rough night?”

Another email gets opened but promptly exited out of. “Very. Met up with my college best friend.”

“The rich girl?” She pushes her glasses higher up on the bridge of her nose, re-opening her laptop.

“Yup,” you sigh. “Still rich.”

“Goals.”

You nod in agreement, fingertips hovering over your keyboard. “I wanted to be her when I was 19. Still kind of do.”

“If I had her money, I’d have fake boobs and a villa in Greece. I’d never answer an email again. I’d float off the grid on a yacht,” Emma muses dreamily, placing her chin in the crook of her palm.

“Instead, I’m here,” your mouth opens with the beginning stages of a yawn. “Rotting, in need of electrolytes. If I know her as well as I think I do, she’s probably getting a massage right now.”

Emma lets out a noise that resembles the familiar sound of laughter, opening up a new window on her laptop to resume her previous tasks. You stare blankly at your own screen. It mocks you with a NBC article you plan to tear to shreds and a to-do list you’re checking off just to say you did something, like the sheer motion will jog your brain into gear.

The cycle goes as such: open a new tab, skim an article, close it, reopen it ten seconds later because you already forgot what was said.

There’s this new policy rollout you’re chasing that’s somehow both deeply boring and disastrous. Two weeks ago, you had dinner with Kara Devlin, a junior legislative aide and some overachiever from Brown, and you pried as much intel as you could from her like a raccoon rummaging through garbage. She had given you a whole lot of nothing, but there was one quote you’ve been holding hostage.

Your eyes brush past a few local blogs. The Times. Politico. That one freelancer who insists on formatting his substack like a ransom note.

And then, you land on Fox. It’s not like you’re looking for suffering, but you might as well round out the masochism.

Your finger slowly moves down the touchpad of your laptop, scrolling down. Half of your mind is still hungover, the other half is trying to remember if you actually did Doordash those electrolyte packets to the building or if you just thought about it aggressively.

The article’s whatever. The usual. Misleading title, blurry infographics, some ominous use of the word “patriotic.” You’re on complete and utter auto-pilot, eyes glazed over in mild disgust, until—

Jungkook Jeon, Contributor.

Your finger freezes on the scroll pad. Aggressively go back up to the top. You sit up so fast you nearly dislocate your vertebrae. Your attention is piqued — not because he has any insight you particularly care about, not for policy clarity, but so that later, you can roast the living hell out of whatever lazy, metaphor-mixing nonsense he’s about to pass off as journalism.

You reread the opening lines again. Something about bipartisan stalling, vague reference to committee strategy, a few recycled phrases.. blah, blah, blah.

There’s a giggle that’s threatening to bubble up from your chest. It’s like the universe knew you needed this. You leisurely continue to scroll, unable to control the smile on your face.

Wait.

What did that line just say?

Your brain turns on like someone flipped the light switch in a haunted house.

There’s a quote nestled in the middle of the article. In big, bold letters, signed off with the name Kara Devlin.

Your smile gets wiped off your face in three seconds flat. Leaning into your screen, you murmur the quote under your breath: “The strategy for the senate is not to all agree to the same policy, but see how many back out due to its democratic ties. That’ll reveal where everyone’s intentions lie.”

No, no, no. That’s your quote. That’s Kara Devlin’s direct words, told to you under the flickering lights of a diner in Maryland after acceptable work hours. It’s now sitting in Jungkook’s article, chopped up and thrown in like seasoning.

Your hangover drops so far down the totem pole it’s practically underground.

You sit back in your chair, hands firmly gripping the armrest, mouth slightly open like you just witnessed a murder but aren’t sure who to call.

Three things immediately occur to you:

The writing is fine. But you would have tightened it, maybe removed some passive verbs, flipped the framing..

His quote placement is clunky. It’s shoved in there as if it’s not the backbone of the piece.

WHAT THE FUCK.

You reread the quote so many times it burns into your retina. Fuck Kara Devlin. Even after you paid for her three appetizers and her milkshake, she turned around and gave it up to Jungkook. She’s a slut (politically).

Emma glances over. “You okay over there?”

You’re too busy calculating how fast you can walk over to the Fox press room without murdering someone on the way to respond.

“Helloooo? Earth to [Y/N]?” She waves her hand in front of your face.

Your voice takes a second to boot back up, like an old car on a cold morning. “He used my quote.”

“Who?” she asks, dropping into the tone she uses for gossip.

You reluctantly swivel the laptop screen towards her like you’re presenting the murder weapon. “Jungkook. He wrote this piece and used my quote from Kara Devlin.”

Emma narrows her eyes at the article, lips moving as she whispers the words on the screen under her breath. Once she’s done, she gasps in horror, “Kara? Like the girl you took out to dinner?”

“The very one.”

“Oh, god.” She pushes your laptop away from her in disgust. “Even after you emotionally groomed her into trusting you?”

“Okay, maybe don’t say ‘emotionally groomed.’ But yes. Her.”

“Are we sure it’s the same one?” Emma offers.

“Of course I’m sure!” You throw your hands up in exasperation. “I was sitting right there across from her as she droned on and on about some other policy issue until this just fell in my lap.”

“Damn,” Emma shakes her head, lets out a tsk.

“How the hell did he even get his hands on it?” You slump in your chair, hands now covering your face.

Emma shrugs unknowingly. “Did Kara get hacked? Maybe Jungkook planted a wire in your bag?”

Both are plausible.

You groan loudly, “It’s not even just the quote that kills me. The placement is ludacris. He just shoved it in there like it’s… like it’s a garnish. It’s chives, Emma. He used my quote like chives.”

Emma winces, “That’s deep.”

“Now his stupid little name is tied to that quote.” Not to mention, you’ll also have to go on a wild goose chase for a new one.

Emma begins to unwrap her muffin that was lying untouched, “Do you want me to go slash his tires? I’ll wear a mask.”

“I’m not saying yes,” you mumble, “but I’m also not saying no.”

She drones on about her master attack plan, while you sit glued to your seat. Fine, you’ll admit it — this little cat-and-mouse game you and Jungkook play has always been fun. It’s fun in the way verbal sparring is, or how lighting a match just to watch it burn could technically be considered a hobby.

It’s not like you haven’t gotten your licks in before — stolen a quote here, intercepted a question there, once maybe ‘accidentally’ deleted his name off a media RSVP list.

But Kara Devlin was yours. She was earned.

Emma is still mid-rant about slashproof ski masks and the technical logistics of a ‘light’ tire slash, when you glance at the clock in the corner of your screen.

And then time slows.

It’s 10:02 AM.

Ten. Zero. Two.

Your pulse spikes, hair on the back of your neck standing up. You freeze completely like maybe time will reverse itself out of pity.

“Emma,” you cut her off mid-sentence. “I gotta go. Meeting. 10:30 AM.”

She blinks at you. “Oh! What kind of meeting?”

You’re already shoving your notebook into your bag with the panic of someone being chased, breathlessly speaking. “Legislative aide. Some Senate bill, I don’t know. It’s across the lawn, you know how long it fucking takes to get there.”

Emma pulls a face. “Oof. That’s rough. If you speed walk, you’ll make it by 10:25.”

You stuff your laptop into your bag too, nearly drop your phone, do a full spin because you can’t find your badge and then find it pinned to your pants pocket like a dumbass.

“Okay,” you mutter. “Okayokayokay. No time to dwell. I’ll process the theft later, either in therapy or in the bathtub with wine.”

Emma’s holding back a laugh, “Well. Let me know if you need company while you do that.”

God, she’s great. What an upstanding woman.

With that, you’re gone, storming out of the press room. Your bag keeps smacking your hip, hangover faintly lingering. You speed past a group of interns who part like the Red Sea, interrupting their morning gossip session.

You are an organized and professional woman who has simply spiraled about a journalist stealing your source and forgotten about a government meeting. It happens.

Today is going great. Perfect. Fantastic.

You burst through the glass doors, sun suddenly too bright on your skin. The air smells like fresh landscaping.

Usually, you love this part. This little stroll across the lawn, the strut in front of a stunning backdrop of democracy and white buildings that gleam. Normally, you take it all in.

Not today though. Today, you are head down, hair sticking to the nape of your neck, puffs of air inhaled into your lungs at an alarming rate. You break into a half-jog across the lawn, cursing your choice of shoes and the existence of time itself. Somewhere in the distance, a tourist points at you, probably thinking you’re someone important. You are not. You’re just late.

You're almost there, you can see the building rearing its ugly head. You’ll have about five minutes to fetch some water but it’ll do. Honestly, you’ve made great time, so that’s something to celebrate.

And then — you hear it. Your voice, off in the distance, echoing across the expanse of the lawn,

Weird. Not totally impossible, but unsettling.

You blink a few times, slow your pace, and instinctively whip your head in a few different directions like you’re the supporting character in a horror movie who’s about to get the axe.

Did you die? Did the hangover finally win? Is this what the afterlife is, a loop of your own voice haunting you across the lawn?

It really does sound exactly like you.

You peer up at the sky, as if God or maybe Jenna is pulling some weird power move. Like surprise! Time for a self-awareness ambush. Let’s listen to you talk for a change!

You slow to a crawling speed, confused and slightly nauseous. This could be a hallucination.

But then… you see it.

On the steps of the west wing entrance, past the security gate, near one of the stone benches, you spot a man with broad shoulders, back facing you. Watching something on a laptop that contains your voice.

You walk even slower than humanly possible, tiptoeing as you get closer. You realize he’s watching the press pool from a few weeks ago. You don’t remember which one exactly, they all blend together.

The inconspicuous man chuckles to himself.

Who the hell is that?

You take a few half-steps forward like getting closer will make any of this make sense. Just a casual stroll, nothing to see here. A curious taxpayer.

Squinting a little harder as the sun hits at an odd angle, you see a notepad perched in his lap, pen in hand.

That’s kind of sweet. Someone clearly looks up to you. Maybe it’s that intern you made prolonged eye contact with.

Oh. Oh.

He picks up his pen again, and you see them. The tattoos that litter his knuckles, clear as daylight.

You know those tattoos. You’ve known those tattoos since freshman year of college.

They look a lot like Jungkook—

Jungkook is sitting on the steps of the West Wing in broad sunlight, watching your press pool questions on his laptop like he’s studying you.

A gasp escapes you, and you slap a hand over your mouth but it's too late.

His head jerks around so fast he almost flings the notepad off his thighs. Those eyes widen when he locks them with yours, like a deer in headlights.

There’s probably a good two seconds that go by where you just stare at each other. Frozen in this very weird, dramatic standoff. Stuck in that horrible moment of recognition, like when your ex appears in your Hinge likes or you walk in on your sibling watching a thirst trap.

“What in the fuck are you doing?” you ask slowly, voice sharp and cold.

He flinches at your tone. “Jesus Christ, could you not sneak up on me like that?”

You creep forward, inching toward him like you’re hiding a knife behind your back. “Sneak up on you? You’re the one sitting on the steps in broad daylight studying my voice like a weirdo.”

Jungkook shuts his notebook quickly, “I’m not studying it—”

“Oh, really?” you snap, marching closer. You’re hovering over him now, your shadow looming on his body. “So you just casually watch old press briefings, skip to my questions and take notes for fun?”

Jungkook stands now, placing his notebook next to his laptop on the step. “Okay, relax. I was prepping.”

It’s annoying how much taller he is now that he’s face-to-face with you.

“Prepping?” you echo. “Prepping for what, exactly?”

“I was seeing how you phrase your questions,” he replies flatly. “It’s not illegal. You’re not copyrighted.”

You laugh sarcastically. You don’t know what compels you to stand there and say more. By all means, you should flip him off and walk away. Let him watch. Never think about it again. But you do the opposite. “Are you kidding me right now? You stole a quote from my source —which by the way, fuck you for that— and now you’re out here trying to take notes on my question phrasing?”

He shrugs casually. “What do you want me to say? You’re good.”

Yeah, you know. It’s how you got into Columbia. This shouldn’t come as a surprise, and yet somehow it does because he’s the one saying it, enough to stun you.

“Oh, fuck off. You don’t get to plagiarize my source and then compliment me.”

He walks down a step, still towering over you. “I didn’t plagiarize. I just published what I found.”

Your ears are ringing. “That’s your justification?”

“Wasn’t theft, just initiative.”

And it’s the way he says things like this, like the world exists to conform to all his desires, that sends you spiraling into a cocktail of blind rage and envy. When you’ve been losing things to Jungkook for as long as you have, you live in a constant state of acceptance that never really ends. It’s in how you brace yourself whenever his name is on lists outside of bulletin boards, how you sometimes catch yourself expecting to lose before you’ve begun trying.

All you can muster up is a heaving sigh before you reach down and slam the laptop shut, pausing your own voice mid-question.

He looks mildly offended. “Was that necessary?”

You gape at him, words barely forming, because the audacity is just so constant with this man. “What are you even doing here?” you gesture to the area. “Sitting here like some creepy ghost?”

“It’s a free country.”

“Don’t you dare use the constitution on me right now.”

“I like sitting here,” he says innocently. “I think here.”

You deadpan. “You… think here.”

“Yes.”

“In public.”

“God forbid I like to remember what this place is supposed to be about,” He raises his hands in defense.

“Oh good lord.”

“It helps,” he continues, completely ignoring you. “When I’m burnt out or pissed off or just need a minute to think, I come here. It reminds me why I got into politics in the first place.”

You scoff. “Which was..?”

He looks back toward the Capitol dome, eyes squinting like he’s about to say something that belongs on one of those mugs from the White House gift shop that you got your mom four years ago. “To do something that actually mattered,” he says. “To write about the government in a way that reminds people they’re still human. That we’re all humans.”

Now this monologue reminds you why you hate the guy. Who cares if he’s handsome or insightful or tall? He has deduced your career to a Pinterest-esque quote about journalism.

“Wow.” You start to slow clap, the sound of your palms slapping echoing across the lawn. “So poetic. Inspiring, really.”

He cocks his head, waiting for you to finish being theatrical.

“And also,” you put your claps away. Better to save them for your chat with the legislative aide, which you really should be getting to. “to apparently steal my tone, quote my sources, and stalk my voice.”

He rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “Like I said, you’re good. Sorry I noticed.”

You clench your jaw, body buzzing. “Whatever. Enjoy your little identity theft picnic.”

You spin on your heel and march off toward the building you were actually supposed to be at. Your steps are fast, eyes trained ahead.

Even as your fists are clenched, you can’t stop the thing rising up behind your ribs. The stupid, aching realization that Jungkook has been watching you.

Like you’re the only one worth keeping up with.

You hate it all. You should demand CNN to scrub all footage. But none of it really matters because what you hate most viscerally, is that your brain whispers something treasonous like: at least he gets it.

Your face burns, heart pounding as you push past the wooden doors of the old building in the West Wing.

You hope the wind swallows him whole. And maybe his stupid notebook too.

masterlist + ask

taglist ; @somehowukook @lovingkoalaface @moroe-blog2 @almatiarau @hanamgi @yooniepot @strawberryberrygirl @rossy1080 @libra04 @kenzierj11 @senaqsstuff @dtownbae @xumyboo @bellefaerie @chimchoom @satisfied18 @arcanekookz @vintagemoonsstuff @brokebitch-101 @taolucha @songbyeonkim @oopscoop @mochibites00 @whatevevrerr @lessthantmr @nesha227 @mar-lo-pap @jazzyb22 @lachesismoonmist @indyuhhhhh @sky-23s-world @swimmingweaselzineegs @jiminshi20 @khadeeeeej @withluvjm @anishasingh1233 @jksusawife @btstrology @youphoriajk @jadestonedaeho7 @diamondjeon @sharplycoldpaladin @annafarrr @tteokbokibyjk @prxdajeon @tatzzz-25 @magicalnachocreator @younhakim29 @purplelanterns @134340-kr @amarawayne

[alltimecharlo]

First I just want to say how obsessed I am with your writing and how amazing it is. Having said that I know you already write mic’d up Mack but could you write about mic’d up Will?

thank you so much!!! 🥹 yes, i certainly can! this is a follow-up to the mack mic'd up fic! under the cut :)🩵

Mack swears he’s only ducking into the media office because Maggie texted urgent in all caps. Otherwise he’d be shower‑napping like any sane person thirty minutes after practice.

But Maggie’s the in‑arena video wizard who controls how the internet sees him, so he figures he’d better answer the bat signal.

He finds her and Max hunched over the big editing monitor. A waveform snakes across the timeline, Will’s voice chattering bright and fast in the speakers.

“—I’m just saying, if Mack had been born in like, Arthurian times? Knight. No question. Probably Lancelot.”

Mack stops in the doorway. “What did I just walk in on?”

Maggie jumps. “Perfect. You’re here.”

Max swivels, grinning. “Congrats, Mack, you’re the secret protagonist of Mic’d Up: Will Smith Edition.”

Mack pinches the bridge of his nose. “He talked about me the whole time, didn’t he?”

Maggie gestures helplessly at the screen. “There are chirps. Good ones. But also… this.”

She rewinds a few seconds and hits play.

Will (recorded): “Look at Mack’s edgework on that last turn. Guy’s poetry in motion. Hate him.”

Someone off‑camera laughs.

Will: “Seriously, watch him cut back on the next rep—boom, gone. It’s illegal to be that smooth.”

Mack’s ears go hot. “Oh my god.”

Max scrubs forward.

Will: “Hey, Toff, you ever notice Mack smells like cookies and good decisions? No? Just me? Cool.”

Mack buries his face in his hands. “Delete it.”

“Can’t,” Maggie says, eyes gleaming. “League content team wants sixty seconds by tomorrow. The fans will riot if we leave this on the cutting‑room floor.”

Max thumbs the space‑bar again.

Will (whisper‑level): “There he is—look at him. Number 71, love of my life, destroyer of worlds, holder of the best backhand in the Pacific Division—”

“MAX,” Mack snaps. Max cackles and pauses the clip.

Maggie props her chin on her fist. “We can trim out the Shakespearean sonnet bits. But… it’s kind of adorable. And fair is fair—you soft‑launched him last week.”

Mack groans into the sleeve of his hoodie. “He’s never living this down.”

“Pretty sure he doesn’t want to,” Max says. “Listen to this last tag.”

Play.

Will: “—anyway that’s Mack. Best part of my day. Don’t tell him I said that, he’ll get all grumpy and pretend he’s not blushing.”

The feed clicks off.

Silence.

Mack’s heartbeat is in his ears. He risks a look at the screen freeze‑frame: Will on the bench, cheeks flushed, grin wide as the bay while he tugs at a water‑bottle lid. Happy. Talking about him.

Maggie’s voice drops. “We’ll blur whatever you want, but… honestly? People love you two. Feels good, letting a little of it show.”

Mack exhales slowly. “Fine. Keep thirty seconds. Lose the cookies line.”

Max mock‑salutes. “Aye‑aye, First Overall.”

Mack turns to leave, then hesitates. “Can you export that raw file to my phone?”

Maggie smiles. “Already AirDropped.”

—

He sends the clip to Will with no caption. Three dots bubble, disappear, bubble again.

Will: soooooo you saw the advanced scouting report huh

Mack: i smell like cookies??

Will: thought YOU said that once in the room?? i’m just agreeing 😌

Mack: i’m going to dunk you in the cold tub tomorrow

Will: promise?

Will: (also you look stupid handsome in that b‑roll, just saying)

Mack pockets his phone, cheeks still on fire, and heads for the showers. He’s got practice in the morning, chirps to endure, and one over‑eager boyfriend to toss in seventy gallons of frigid water.

For some reason, the day suddenly feels perfect.

♡

[sgiandubh]

When anger is not enough

These have been the worst, most difficult six months of my entire life.

Seeing your entire career questioned.

Seeing your own twenty-two years of public service openly despised by a Screeching Nobody, who promised DOGE style purges. The lists were ready and I was on one of them.

Seeing your firm options and principles pressured. Faust is a lifelong obsession, yet I never imagined I'd feature in a Balkan remake of sorts. Not giving in is harder that you'd think. I didn't.

Seeing people you once called your friends ready to turn coats and sell themselves - and to whom (two cheap crooks), and for what (empty promises that were never happening, anyways).

Planning to do the unthinkable: sell our house, pack our belongings, leave for France. We even found a charming fisherman's cabin near Quimper....

... which, I am so fucking relieved to write, will not happen, after all.

It's been six months we don't sleep properly. It's been six months we eat whatever junk food we can manage to order. It's been six months we live with the humiliating fear of inevitable doom that was never to be, anyways. Except we had no idea and no way to tell for sure.

Tonight, the vote of fear uncharacteristically trumped the vote of anger:

I started my day with Bella Ciao, I am ending it in the same vein, with this:

There are two wonderful Portuguese shippers who know very well what this song means to me, on a very personal level. And they know it because we sang it together, in front of the Paris Landcon venue, on April 25th, as we were picking our damned passes. We sang it like the powerful spell it is, for all the good reasons, spoken and unspoken #cravos. I will never forget that moment - you both know who you are 💖😘.

We now took our lives back, even if much of it might be shattered, still. That is not important today: we have tomorrow to think about it.

....'And they did not win'.

My deepest, heartfelt thanks to all of you who wrote, phoned, asked, prayed, sang, comforted, joked and simply cared. I never expected such an outpouring of empathy and I am humbled, again.

I love you, too. We love you, too. We simply hope you know that.

With this solved and behind us, I can go back to SC, which is far easier and more pleasant than having to deal with a potential Fascist coup in my own backyard.

Later edit: for those who still stress and in case it wasn't clear - WE SURE WON!

[pomefioredove]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ ad perpetuam memoriam IV

I II III

summary: an undoable deal and a fortunate fellow type of post: series includes: ruggie, azul, crowley, ??? additional info: platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is not yuu, this is all AU, not making predictions for how twst will end, some characters are inebriated forgive me orz, not editing this more I'm done I'm done!!!

Dearest Reader,

I am terribly sorry to receive word of your illness. Forgive me for my emotion, it is not my intention to burden you, but I have been beside myself with worry.

Please see to it that you're taken well care of. If the accommodations are unsatisfactory, send word and I will have someone fetch you and take you to Fleur City. Some of the greatest alchemists in the world reside here.

Yours truly.

If you had eaten the letter, torn it into chunks and chewed and swallowed and let the ink and fine stationery sit in your stomach, it would have lurched less than it does now.

It was no fault of the contents, the fancy, fine ink, smooth black smudged blue on the bottom line, P.O. BOX #1482, FLEUR CITY, SHAFTLANDS, nor was it of the writer.

He meant well; too well, perhaps. And you weren't suspicious, though you had spent the night pacing your quarters and scouring the letter for some reason to be. It was routine for you, now, to question goodness, to doubt and debate anything you were told. To bite the hand that fed you. You would rather starve on an empty stomach of unfulfilled desire than to feed yourself from a forced hand, famine was preferable to the slow and painful death of hope.

Your conclusion was this: this stranger, unlike the ones here, had no obligation to help. You were as valuable to him as a beggar, a vagrant, or a thief; that is, worthless, something to turn a blind eye, unless you were of the bad habit of feeling noble.

As you had already found, you had nothing to offer. You were poor, unkind, jaded, weak, sick in both body and mind and likely soul, too, though you hadn't told anyone so yet, and there are no doctors for such a thing anyway, only religious men. And you hadn't the slightest idea where you might find one of those, if they even exist, here.

And the stranger, your companion in paper and ink, Smokey, as you had so fittingly named him, did not know the one that came first well enough to care about you through their image. You often wondered how he thought of you; or, rather, what face his mind had made for you. Who did he see when he read the lithe letters of you name? Someone beautiful? Someone cruel? No one at all? Were you to him as he were to you, a body made of black ink and rough white paper from the school store, brought to you in bundles by the Headmage? You hoped not. You thought so highly of him in his neat penmanship and perfectly creamy paper, what would he think of you in your inexpensive penny stamps?

Near midnight, now. You'd had a horrible habit, lately, of staying up long past the last bell of curfew to read and write your correspondence. Not for the silence or the darkness of Diasomnia's last breaths, but for the fear of being caught in so a licentious an act as reading a letter from your lover (which you thought you ought to call him- he was, after all, the only person you thought could truly love you. Perhaps it was because he had never seen your face. There is, after all, much distance between your bed and the mailroom, which you can both fill with fantasies of what you might be like in the flesh).

Nonetheless, the thought of being seen in such a vulnerable way, sat at your desk or in your bed or on your floor, sometimes, when you hadn't the patience or the pride to wait for a surface, with these beautifully written letters, pieces of another's soul, held to your nose and then your chest, when you become too embarrassed by the thought of telling a strange boy everything you loved and resented and wanted and rejected in want of forgiveness for feeling desire, well, it was all disconcerting. These letters were yours, a rope thrown over a garden wall, a vine of ivy thriving to your window, a line to something that lives and breathes outside of your bedroom, outside of your body, that, in some way, reminds you that you haven't died here. Yet. If you had, some weeks ago, of fever or fall, you thought you might never know it; everyone would treat you just the same if you were an unpleasant memory, rather than an unpleasant person.

But this boy, Smokey, if he never received word of your wellness, if you had suddenly fallen off the face of the world (or the walls of the school, since they are the very same thing to you), he would raise Hell itself. You know he would- or, at least, you would like to think, though lending him the hilt of your own weapon, the stem of your soul, your hope, is as dangerous as loving him. They are the same thing, you suppose.

Midnight. Without ever opening it wider than the width of your pinky finger, you stuff the letter inside a drawer of your desk. These days, after you read the gentle notes, you become terribly embarrassed, and you can no longer stomach the bittersweet thought of being known, and so you stow them away in this drawer where nothing but the wandering hands of your thoughts can touch them.

Today's letter was most disconcerting. You had never told him of your desire to leave.

You had dreamt it, of course, for months now, you toyed with the romantic thought of throwing all your coats and care to the wind and running barefoot to the ferry at the belly of the island, boarding it, and sailing to be a beggar in a foreign land. In some of these fantasies, you swim. The realism didn't really matter to your restless mind; they're only daydreams. You could barely bring yourself to leave your dorm bed; what wonderful force would it take for you to flee the island?

Of course, you fantasized of horrible things happening to you; frightening, unforgivable things, being burnt, tortured, disfigured with magic or by human hand, beaten, left bruised and battered, all sorts of bloody, painful things that you sought so much comfort in, that you merrily partook in, as if they were a second slice of cake at a birthday party rather than the thought of penance paid by blood. These fantasies often preceded the ones of departure; they were what you thought of when in bed, comfortable beneath your blankets, warm and full. There was a sense of absolution in it all; you would finally have a right excuse to feel sorry for yourself. You could curse out everyone who had so selfishly hurt and hated you for the sin of being you, you could be the good martyr that they so wanted, instead of the sacrifice that they had been burdened with. It was wrong, to think of the people who wouldn't so much as touch you, beating you black and blue, but you had to, because if not for them, the only person you had left to hurt you was yourself; and harm from your own hand was far more a dangerous fantasy. It was real.

But, all these things were only secrets you thought of in bed, and never something you put on display to the world in pen and paper, or in word of mouth. Were you really so unhappy, that your wonderful writer could feel your pain through the page?

Perhaps he was only being polite.

You decide on that for peace of mind.

There were only three people whom never made appearance in your daydreams of near-death.

The first, was, obviously, Smokey. The thought of him being cruel to you, when it had come to you in mind, one night, made you feel nauseous, as if there were a fire caught in your stomach, as if you were drunk on the eucharist, and you never entertained the thought after.

The second was Crowley, the Headmage, whom, try as you might've, you could never imagine raising a hand to you. The thought was so uncomfortably foregin that you could never really imagine it at all; in your mind he would only be half a form, or only hand and arm, or faceless. You could never quite put the pieces together to make a full man- which was, in itself, rather ironic, as Crowley was the only person here to have touched you without hesitation or respite, and to have touched you as if he could really feel you, as if you were real, as if you were a person, and not a ghost or a rather unattractive space in open air. That is, to be touched tenderly, but tightly, forgivingly and unafraid to feel your form and weight.

The third was the thing in Ramshackle dorm, which was not a person so much as it was a light in the window, but that you thought of as a person nonetheless.

You would contend with all three today.

First was the letter, which you had read the midnight prior. Its personhood had been weighing on your mind all morning.

Current is Crowley, who you have only been walking with because no one will bother you so long as you're with him- not out of an aversion to trouble, but because no one wanted to be around him. In this way, you could both avoid class, and being with the others.

"Horrible," he mutters, having returned from reprimanding a trio of second-years cutting class. "The nerve! To attend the greatest institute of magic in the world, and not even care! These children are giving me gray hairs, you know."

You glance at his hair, inky black and glimmering green in the sunlight. "No gray. You're still good,"

You feign to mention that you, too, are missing class. You haven't attended a single one all month. Most days, you forget you're supposed to be sitting in a cramped classroom with a textbook and a vexed teacher at all.

"Oh, good," Crowley smiles, his mood improving at the move of the clockhand. "But they really ought to take their education seriously. Not everyone has the chance to enroll in such a fine establishment."

"I know," you say. You're sure he's said the same thing to you not half an hour ago.

"Always causing trouble- starting fights- vandalizing the school- stealing bathroom signs- I scarcely thought Savanaclaw could become any more rambunctious than when Kingscholar was heading it, but now... a very good leader, yes, indeed,"

You don't ask. "But that intermediate dorm council is doing pretty okay, now,"

"Ah, yes. The council was a wonderful idea. Perhaps we should enforce the same in the other dorms, in lieu of their current housewarden selection methods. It would certainly be less cleanup for the janitorial staff,"

You still don't ask, but it doesn't surprise you that the students here are messy and competitive in their claim to the hierarchy. "I wouldn't be opposed to that,"

"Yes," Crowley nods. "Ah, now... duty calls. I must attend a faculty meeting... help yourself to campus, as long as you don't cause any trouble. The bus from Foothill Town comes by every hour, if you fancy a day off. Farewell."

You stare at him as he saunters away, whistling and warbling with the songbirds in the browning apple trees of the courtyard. That makes your second invitation to get off campus- though, Crowley's a far more temporary affair. And impersonal- not unlike the man himself.

Foothill Town. You've heard that thrown around a few times, spoken when Sebek needs a new book that he can't find at the library, or when Silver needs stamps for his letters to home. He seems to miss his family.

It might be worth your money.

If you had any of that, that is. You instinctively dig your hands into the deepest corners of your cavernous coat pockets, hoping to find a coin or two from its previous owner.

...Who must have been paranoid or fickle. You don't find anything but pocket lint.

"Shishishi. Looking for something?"

No matter how many times you're startled by a sudden sound, or a menacing smile, or the name-like noise that means someone is looking for you, you still lurch.

And you spin on your heels, surprised but prepared to run if it turned out to be someone you... simply didn't want to see. But this boy is unfamiliar- blond, bright-eyed, and trying hard not to burst out laughing at your battle stance.

No- you know him. He-

"Looks like your nose healed up. Sorry 'bout that again," he says. "You still look a little down on your luck, though. Boy troubles?"

Something like that. "I need bus fare,"

"Ah, money troubles," he nods. "That, I can help with... for a price."

Of course. Though, a part of you is relieved that he's not treating you like an escaped lab specimen, or something dead, or diseased. Are you actually enjoying being taken advantage of?

"I gotta bounce this afternoon- apple season, so I'm going picking around campus," he explains. "But I gotta shift at the Mostro Lounge and no one to cover. You take my four to nine, we'll split the profits fifty-fifty. Fair, right?"

Maybe too much so. But you don't need anything more than a few thaumarks for bus fare, so you're willing to take that chance. Half a few hours work should make a round-trip for tomorrow.

"It's a deal," you decide. "...What's the Mostro Lounge?"

You had seen Azul Ashengrotto at orientation, and not once since.

Unlike Riddle Rosehearts, whom you had also met the day you woke in Twisted Wonderland, he seemed to take no interest in your personal life- suspicious, though it reprieves you of the punishment of being known.

Though, now, standing in the darkened depths of Octavinelle in the early hours of night, in the large, empty lounge, duster in hand, you can tell why he never cared for your cause. He is terribly busy- if you'd had any doubts of a barely eighteen-year-old boy running a business, they were surely null now.

Five hours of bussing tables, breaking bread, and taking out the trash, bag after bag of trash, and you were feeling (and smelling) less than fresh. Azul hadn't wanted you to work the front- he made as much obvious from the impatient look on his face when you offered to take an order to a table.

You couldn't blame him, but you had been betting on being able to sneak a few thaumarks from the tip jar. Just enough for the bus, in the chance that Ruggie (that's what Azul had called him) backed out on your deal.

But, and thankfully so, Ruggie didn't come by to pick up his paycheck by the end of your (his) shift, and so you were called into the VIP room in his place.

"Five hours of work, split into two pays..." Azul hums, opening a low drawer on his desk. "That's just short of fifty thaumarks for you. Fair, yes?"

You nod, your eyes on the clock nearby. The hour hand is nearly past the nine- you're tired.

"Now, usually, it's dreadfully unprofessional to just give you the payment in thaumarks, but... I respect deals, and you and Ruggie had a deal, did you not? So, here," he says, handing you a few paper bills.

You take them and stand, readying yourself for the door, but he tuts.

"...On the subject of deals," Azul says, crossing his legs and drumming his fingers, finely dressed in white gloves, on the desk. "I happen to specialize in them. I could make your any wish come true- and you seem like someone who has a lot to wish for."

You still yourself. It was only an observation, and a rather obvious on at that, but it rattled you- who was he to decide what you dream of? What you desire? How carelessly he throws the word around, as if it were as weightless as water or as clean as the white of his gloves. What you wish? What do you wish for? What is it that he sees so clearly spelt across your cold, cracked lips?

You know what you dream of- death and violence and murder and pain and, sometimes, in the darkest reaches of your mind, comfort and safety in the arms of another, whose face is always different, always changing, depending on who you fear the least at that moment in the chill of moonlight and the melancholy song of morning.

But you want for nothing. You have no "wishes". You only have dreams, nonsensical nightmares of indulgence or denial or the two in tandem, intertwined, both mingling in body and breath. Your "wants" are colorless, shapeless things, the cry of some demanding child that hides itself behind your ribs when you want it, and that begs for closeness when you don't. Food, water, shelter, warmth. Paper and pen. Enough to put the child to sleep, for indulgence in your fantasies of adult violence.

But, then, a sorry, sordid thought does set itself between the tip of your tongue and the back of your throat, and you sit down again.

"I want the answer to a question," you say.

Azul brightens, becoming the lightest thing in the dark, dreary room. He straightens himself, sitting like a proper gentleman, and he sets his hands on the desk as if in invitation to take them in prayer. "Ah, then I will answer it. Anything you'd like- for a price, of course,"

That's the second time today you've heard those words, and the second time you allow them to coddle you.

"I want to know..." you say, looking anywhere but in the light of his eyes. "...If I should do what I'm told, or what I'm offered."

His smile stiffens and stifles itself. He sits up straight, though, not with excitement, this time.

"Pardon me? Could you repeat that?"

"That's my wish," you repeat. "I want to know if I should do what I'm told, or what I'm offered."

Azul thinks, though not with much care or consideration. He withdraws his hands from the desk.

"I don't do advice,"

"I'm not really asking for advice," what are you asking for? "...I want an answer."

He crosses his arms. "That's your greatest wish? Your deepest desire? The answer to a personal question?"

Something of his voice, or perhaps it's the prideful tap, tap, tap of his fingers on his sleeve, or the very impatient pout on his lips, upsets you. And you stand.

He was, like everyone else you've met in this place, expecting something of you.

"What do people usually wish for, then?"

Azul scoffs. "Exam answers, better lunches, anti-acne serum, social tips, love potions, freedom for their friends from sticky situations, tangible things like that,"

"But I don't want any of that. I want an answer. You can't give answers?"

"I'm not a fortune teller. I can't predict the future... None the matter," he sighs. "You have nothing of want, anyhow."

Those words, no matter how sweet he had tried to sell them, couldn't have been anything but intentional, meant to cut through you like you were made of mud or clay or anything soft and messy. Your fingers dig into the soft flesh of your palms, not yet scarred and hardened by your painful tenure here.

You fold your fifty (or just short of) paper thaumarks, hide them in your pocket, and see yourself out the door.

Night Raven College had become twice the length it ought to be.

The distance from the dorms to the mirror chamber to the wrought-iron gate guarding the mouth of the college is a dark chasm of cold and rain, a wild wood in which you find yourself lost, hunted by creatures of the night. Curfew has never meant so little to you than it does now.

Azul's words should not have bothered you. But they did. The fleeting normalcy of them, as fast and thin as the rain hitting you now, had hit your core, as he no doubt intended them to. Was he manipulating you into coming back with the correct wish? Was he making you into something desperate and needy for help?

You were that thing, of course. Needy and weak and distressed, no makings of necessary- but you had no want for help. Perhaps you had been spoiled by your writer, Smokey, his words and ways of supporting you, of consoling you, of comforting you. His letters smelled of firewood and a something sweet, like wine. Azul's office of perfume and burnt plastic.

It was the innocence of Azul's words that burned, that stung like poison and stunk like bloody breath. Painful, hurtful things are hidden under the assumption of innocence- things that only serve to make one feel dirty.

You shield your face from the shower of sickly cold rain with your arm, your shoulders hunched forward, your eyes burning with blight and tears. But the bus is on time, and so you can wipe your woes away on the slick fabric your sleeve in the comfort of the bright fluorescent lights. You haven't the slightest idea what you might do in town at ten at night- but anything is better than going back to your room.

He might have written you another letter, that sad little child in your chest says.

You can read it tomorrow.

Crowley may be looking for you.

He'll manage.

That light in Ramshackle might not be burning.

That thought is the most disturbing of the three, but you can't discern why. The low light in the window of Ramshackle dorm, sometimes yellow with ardor and sometimes white with death, but lonely, always lonely, has been more constant and everlasting than the letters and the Headmage.

It will be, you think. It will be burning.

The rain has put itself to bed with the rest of the world by the time your bus stops in town, letting you out by a sorry sort of inn, every door dark and boarded but one, warm light pouring out of the windows and merry laughter coming from within.

You're almost tempted to take the door handle and let yourself into the light, but you remember your uniform- no one will let you into a bar in that, no matter how old you believe yourself to be.

And so, you walk on, weighing the evils of early evening on your back, feeling the fleeting eyes of drunkards on your body. You are, at least, starting to dry; and the rain had washed away the stain of sweat from work. The sound of the sea, further than your feet could carry you now but friendly and comfortable nonetheless, beckons you from the town to the cliffs, where you might see the waves crashing against it.

But you know better than to follow the feeling of home to where there is none, and so you walk into town, not to the sea.

Had you listened to the warning calls of the waves, you might not have wandered to the surly, choleric part of the ports, and you might not have curled yourself into a ball and cried by a lobster restaurant, and you might not have met him at all.

But you did just that.

And as your feet were aching from the hour of walking and your shoulders were aching from the weight of the world, and you felt as if there could be no one lonelier than you in that moment, someone forced a cigarette into your face.

You startled, coming to the conclusion that you weren't as alone as you had reckoned as the smell of smoke finally reached your nose.

"Take it. Come on. You look like you could use it,"

You take a pitiful moment to refuse. Even if you had wanted to, you couldn't imagine smoking after crying so hard- if you started that up again, you'd vomit.

"Suit yourself," the man says, prodding the cigarette back into his breast pocket. He takes a seat next to you on the gravely ground with a proper sigh. "Bad day?"

"Bad month," you mutter.

"Bad life," he finishes, outperforming you with a fitting smile. "What's got 'ya down? Your life can't be that bad, if you're dressed in that."

You look down at yourself- the featureless, faded dorm uniform is still stuck to your skin with rain and sweat.

"It's not mine," which is technically true.

He raises an eyebrow. "Oh? Holding onto that for a friend?"

You grimace, Azul's gaudy taunt of contempt still as stuck to your mind as your clothes are stuck to your skin.

"I wouldn't be friends with anyone in that horrible place," you spit, as if the words were poison on your tongue.

The man looks a little take aback by your switch from sad, disgusting little thing crying on the street, to a steaming kettle.

And, appropriately, he then smiles. "Well, well. Then you're definitely not a student. Where'd 'ya get these? Dig them out of a dumpster?"

"...Something like that,"

"Tch, typical," he mutters, poking and prodding at your uniform, inspecting the tags and the tears in the make of it. "Throwing out perfectly good stuff. Those prep school brats wouldn't know gratitude if it hit them in the balls."

"Not a lot to be grateful for there," you mutter.

"Sure there is," he says. "For one, if you've got the talent and money to get in, you're already set. For another, three meals a day, a warm bed to sleep in, and a full ride? That's not enough for you?"

"Not what I... meant,"

The man grins, narrowing his eyes at your sorry self-defense, and he leans against your side. "Don't give me that face, honey. What, did one of those kids spit in your soup?"

He's drunk. You should've guessed from the get-go, but you were so content in drowning in your own misery that you hadn't noticed the way he smirked or smelled.

Something about it is comforting. You hate that it is. Does nothing frighten you anymore? His ears, foxlike, twitch, as if he can hear your thoughts.

"I guess I just don't have much to live for," you say, as plainly as you could put it. That thought had, of course, been in your mouth and on your mind for a month now. All you had dreamt of was hurt- of bruises and broken bones, of tears not wasted on the words of a teenage boy. It was a sickening, perverted sort of hope, but it was all the hope you had.

The man thinks for a moment, taking a hand to his chin and rubbing it. His gloves were probably white, once, but now they're worn and weary, and you can see his pinky finger coming through a perfectly round hole.

"...Then you gotta find something to live for," he says, throwing an arm around your shoulder. "Or you gotta make it."

"Make it?"

"Mmmhm," he drawls. "Make it. Find it, whatever. Not everything's as easy as it is for those little private school pipsqueaks. The rest of us- you 'an I- we gotta make ourselves a reason to live."

You try to look at your lap, but he tugs a lock of your hair back up so you can see the bright of his eyes and feel his bitter, sickly breath on your face.

"I gotta boy," he starts. "Dun'even really know the kid's age. But I gotta do things for him. He's my kid, y'know? I can't die, someone's gotta feed 'im. And I taught him all the tricks of the trade and I value independence, y'know, you gotta work for what you want, but he can't be alone. That's my reason. So what's yours?"

You hesitate. "...I don't have anyone like that,"

"Then you find one. Everyone's looking for someone,"

The man stands with some effort, and yet offers you his hand. You take it, though he stumbles back and you both almost tumble into the alley wall when he brings you to your feet.

"I don't know if I'm like you, though," you say, his hand still tightly around yours. "I don't know if anyone will ever..."

Want you. Need you. What is it? Your mouth hangs open, though no words come out. He seems to know, anyhow.

"Like me," he grins, giving you a good look at his canines. "Like me. Tch. Anyone who thinks I'm a saint has to be an angel. Or stupid. But you're not stupid, are you?"

You're not sure how to answer that.

"You should go home, if you got one. It's 'gettin late," he says, finally letting you go, the warmth of his fingers on yours lingering where he touched. "There's a lotta creeps out here."

He cackles to himself, as if he found that funny, and then leaves, stumbling back to the door of the lobster house (and bar) and letting you out in the cold.

By the time the bus has dumped you back at the overdramatic gates of the school, you're cold, you're tired, and there's a hole in your chest where your heart had been dug out earlier that day. Or that month- you can't be certain.

And yet, somehow still, your body is warm.

As you walk back to the mirror chamber, your arms wrapped tightly around your chest, you remember to check for light in Ramshackle's window.

It's there.

Dear Writer,

I'm feeling much better, please don't worry about me.

I've given some thought to your offer, but I'll have to refuse- for now. I can't explain it, but I think I'm needed here.

Yours truly.

[kinda-indecisive]

˳.⁺⁎˚ ⋆ ˳⁎˚ ⋆･˳ His Clothing pt II ˚ ⋆･˳ . ⁎˚ ⋆･˳.⋆ .˳

You (MC) unintentionally surprise the guys by wearing an article of clothing that belongs to them (for the first time (first time in a while, for Caleb)).

Part 2: The Xavier and Caleb Edition!

˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆

Xavier

When he opens his door, your boyfriend looks like he just woke up. His light, white-blond hair stands up in a few places, confirming that he had come home immediately after work, unlike you, who had gone out with friends.

You didn’t stay out late, however, since you two have had plans to make dinner together for a week now.

Excited, you raise the shopping bags with your half of the ingredients, “Are you ready?”

He smiles faintly, “Uh-huh. Come in, partner.”

Walking into the house, you’re surprised when he tenses up at your side. Looking up at him, you manage to witness the faintest of changes to his expression before it disappears instantaneously. Then his face goes unreadable.

“Xavier?”

“Hm?” he hums, then, “Let’s go.” 

He steps past you, toward the kitchen and you follow him, disappointed and confused. Did you say something wrong? You don’t know how that would be possible, as you’ve said maybe 10 words, tops. Besides, you could have sworn he’d looked happy to see you when he first opened the door…

In the kitchen, you make an effort to tease him.

Handing him the knife, you urge him toward the veggies, “You’re on chopping duty because that’s safer for all of us.”

You’re doubly disappointed when he gives you a forced smile, “Alright.”

No pouting. No teasing. He doesn’t even attempt to approach the pots and pans once they’re on the stove. 

While the food cooks, he sits at the table looking down at his phone with such intensity that you are certain he’s avoiding you. And when you test your theory, he confirms your fears when he stands abruptly.

“I’m going to buy some soda.”

“Oh?” you blink, “Do you want me to go with you?”

“No… You need to keep an eye on the food.”

It’s true, but your heart sinks anyway. And he’s out the door before you even realize.

When he returns, you’ve been stewing much longer than the food has. As soon as the door closes behind him, you trap him in place.

“Why are you ignoring me?”

“I’m… not,” he says, averting his eyes to a point just over your shoulder. He tries to take a step forward, but you step closer, his back flat against the door.

“I can leave, if you want... It’s just… we’ve had this dinner planned for a while and I was excited to spend time with you. But—”

“Are you breaking up with me over this meal?”

The question is sudden. His voice is quiet, but steady.

“I—What?”

He continues to focus on that point over your shoulder when he mutters, “Why else would you show up wearing another man’s hoodie?”

You continue staring up at him like he just sprouted antennas. Slowly, the tips of his ears turn pink.

“This is your hoodie, Xavier.”

Your voice comes out flat and he blinks, “But… the cologne…”

Your eyes widen and he deflates for a second, right before you cover your mouth with your hand to bite back your laughter, only to fail as you try to explain through your giggles.

“Remember when we went to the mall together last week? And that really pushy saleswoman kept trying to get you to try their newest cologne?”

As you speak, his ears turn redder and redder.

“By the time I managed to grab your hand to pull you away, she had already sprayed you. Twice.”

You continue and he lowers his head, resigned and ashamed of himself.

“And you got overwhelmed by the smell, so you left the hoodie at my place for it to air out.”

He slumps forward, his forehead against your shoulder, cheek warm against your own, “I might be… an idiot.” 

Still giggling, you plant a kiss on the top of his silly head.

˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆

Caleb

You are avoiding your boyfriend.

You wouldn’t have had a reason to if you hadn’t been so obviously lying in the first place. But now as you dart through the crowd in the plaza making your way to the address of the shop you’ve have only seen online up until now, you're incredibly annoyed that you might have ruined your surprise. Still, you insist on trying.

When you walk through the door, your jaw drops.

Models of every type of aircraft you can imagine hang from the ceiling of this shop, suspended in singular moments of flight. Planes, jets, helicopters—everything.

A man your age walks out of the back room, giving you a friendly smile, “PlushieKillerrr22?”

“That’s me!”

“You brought the jacket,” he acknowledges, “Your boyfriend really is DAA. I’m glad. So many people have tried to cheat me out of this model because, as you already know, they only manufactured a hundred of them way back then. But my grandpa was always insistent about who I was allowed to sell it to.”

“Your vetting process was no joke,” you agree, following him to the counter. He disappears into the back again, returning with the box that makes your eyes widen with excitement.

“Your boyfriend is lucky, having someone like you willing to put in the time and money for a gift like this,” he says, and you blush deeply. Finishing your transaction, you leave the shop carrying the gift in an inconspicuous black bag.

That’s when you see him.

He’s in the plaza you’d cut through, a whole head taller than the crowd. Quickly yanking your hoodie over your head, you otherwise remain casual to avoid his suspicion.

Parting the crowd, you head toward the boba shop you saw on the opposite side of the plaza, having noticed a back entrance you’re certain you can slip out of without being spotted.

“Lurking, are we?”

The voice is familiar and colder than expected, freezing you in place.

“I saw you trying to avoid me. If you drop the hood, set the bag down, and tell me who sent you, maybe I’ll ignore the fact that you’re tailing my girlfriend.”

Your face scrunches in confusion, then realization.

“Caleb, it’s me, dummy.”

Straightening up, you turn and look him straight in the eye as you lower your hood.

It isn’t Colonel Caleb who stands behind you, the coldness in Caleb’s expression faltering when he sees you, his brow furrowing with simultaneous confusion and recognition. He takes a step forward, staring as he takes the zip front of the jacket between his fingertips.

“Where… where’d you get the jacket, Pips?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

“It’s yours.”

“Mine?” he inquires, “That’s… I thought I lost mine, after…”

“They issued you two, remember? You sent one to me and told me to hold onto it. I think you wanted me to wear it while I was in college so people would know I had a guy friend in the DAA,” you snort, nudging him teasingly, the tenseness leaving his shoulders and a genuine smile appearing on his lips, “I’ve had it buried in the back of my closet for some time because of… bad memories. But things are different now.”

“I can’t believe you still have this,” he cocks his head, his smile putting you on edge as he teases, “Or that it took this long for you to finally get the memo and wear it!”

“I knew it! I knew that was your plan all along!” you laugh, thumping him on the chest with your fist.

Still grinning, he gestures to the bag in your hand, “And what do you got in there, hmm?”

“That’s another surprise for a later. Don’t be so nosy,” you glare, hugging the gift to your chest.

He chuckles, “Alright, alright. I’ll let it slide. For now.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Previous Post ←(･ ᗜ ･)ﾉ

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And part 2!!

taglist❤: @fallthelong

MY LOVE AND DEEPSPACE MASTERLIST

[wlw-imagines]

Eleven - JJ x Reader (Criminal Minds)

a/n: i re-read to edit (not very well but anyway) and realise i have called jj 'soft' like a bajillion times but i will not change because she IS SOFT okay? so, sorry for the repetition -- i also realised pushing this trend of '5+1' to '10+1' is A LOT and how many times can you write two people dancing around the fact that they love each other ?!?!?! but ah well, so be the prompt and i still enjoyed it!!! hope you guys do too!

summary: A classic - 10 times something almost happened + the 1 time it did.

Part of May Prompts: Day Eighteen, eleven

1.

You sit on the curb outside the abandoned warehouse, the Miami heat pressing down in waves as sweat slicks your skin.

The day had taken a turn you never would have guessed at, and your guesses have grown to be pretty wild since your work began with the BAU.

Your sleeve is stained dark red. It's not your blood, but it still unsettles you. The coppery smell sticks to your nose. You’re shaking from adrenaline, every muscle tense, but the aftershock makes your hands tremble uncontrollably.

You can't get the picture of the bloody scene out of your head. The victim bleeding out, begging you for help, grasping at you like you were a lifeline. You should ahve been. You shake your head. It's all too much.

You try to breathe through it, slow in, slow out, but the world still feels too sharp, too loud. The noise of footsteps and radios fades into a distant hum behind your closed eyes. It’s like you’ve left your body and are watching from somewhere else, and that somewhere else feels fragile, like it could shatter at any moment.

Then you feel her.

JJ’s crouching down beside you before you even open your eyes. She’s calm, steady. She's the anchor you didn’t know you were grasping for. She pulls a bottle of water from her gear and holds it out. Your hand closes around it and you send her a short nod of thanks, hardly able to look her in the eye.

Her other hand reaches up, gentle and warm, brushing a streak of grime mixed with blood from your cheek. The touch is electric, soft enough to make your breath hitch. You lean into it, your eyes fluttering open to meet hers.

"You’re okay," she says softly, voice low but certain. "I’ve got you."

Her words seep into you like warmth spreading through cold limbs. You want to believe her, want to sink into the safety she offers. For a brief moment, you imagine the way her hand might feel sliding down your jaw, the way her lips might press lightly against your skin, just for a heartbeat.

Her face is inches from yours, every breath shared. You almost taste the faint scent of her shampoo, something crisp and clean beneath the grit of the day. She looks at you with that steady, unflinching gaze. A gaze that is full of care and something more, something unspoken.

You nearly reach out, fingers trembling, to pull her closer. You nearly close the distance between her lips and your cheek.

But then there's a sharp, sudden slam of a car door breaks the spell. She pulls back immediately, hands dropping to her knees, eyes flickering away for just a second before she looks back.

"Drink," she says instead, pushing your hand to lift the bottle to your lips.

You swallow, and the moment is gone. The weight of everything still hangs heavy, but now there’s an undercurrent of something fragile and new.

You want to ask her what that was. Want to tell her how you almost felt that spark. You also want to truly let her in and tell her you've never seen anything like what you've seen today. That you need her now more than ever. But the words catch in your throat.

The team is moving again, voices calling your names. You stand slowly, knees weak but steady, glancing at JJ who is already back on her feet, scanning the scene with the same professional focus she always carries.

But when your eyes meet, there’s a quiet understanding.

You’re not okay, not really.

But she’s got you. And maybe that’s enough for now.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

2.

It's a few weeks later. The steady hum of the airplane engine is oddly soothing after the chaos of the last case. You lean your head slowly against JJ’s shoulder, eyes heavy with exhaustion that slips in despite yourself. The rush of the investigation finally fades, replaced by the pull of sleep.

You feel JJ’s body shift just slightly beneath your cheek, warm and steady. The scent of her settles around you. Her breath is calm and even, her presence steadying in the cramped space.

You close your eyes, letting yourself drift. The subtle rise and fall of her breath becomes a gentle rhythm, it lulls you and makes you feel safe. You don’t quite realise you’ve fallen completely asleep until a quiet snap and a soft giggle breaks through the airplane’s noise.

Your eyes flutter open, blinking against the dim overhead light. Penelope’s unmistakable grin is the first thing you see, phone in hand, her voice barely above a whisper but full of mischief.

"Well, well, look who finally crashed." She turned her phone to you and wiggled her eyebrows, "This is going in the scrapbook."

You straighten quickly, a blush creeping up your neck as you glance at JJ. She’s sitting very still, her eyes fixed on the tiny screen in Penelope’s hand, lips twitching into a soft smile.

"Delete it, Garcia," JJ whispers, voice calm but firm.

Penelope lets out a laugh, throwing her head back slightly, "Delete? Honey, this is evidence of true lo-"

"Pen." JJ interrupts her, giving a soft shake of her head. Garcia just hums to herself, never losing her smile.

You want to sink down into your seat and disappear, but JJ’s hand finds yours under the tray table, fingers curling around yours like a silent shield.

You squeeze back, heart racing. You'd confess to her then, in that moment. If it weren't for the insecurity holding you back. And the team's presence. And... probably more reasons than you would care to count.

Penelope’s teasing fades into the background as you rest your head back on JJ’s shoulder, feeling, again, completely safe.

The world outside the airplane windows stretches vast and dark, but here in this small space, with JJ’s steady presence beside you, it feels like the safest place in the world.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

3.

The bar is dim and quiet, the kind of place where you can almost forget the weight of the world outside. The day has stretched you thin. It had been purely long hours chasing leads, piecing together fragments that never quite fit. Your body aches, but it’s your mind that’s truly tired.

JJ slides onto the stool next to you, ordering two drinks without a word. The bartender sets them down in front of you both, and for a moment, you just sit there, fingers wrapped loosely around the glass.

She watches you with something that catches you off guard - it's all soft around the edges. "You okay?"

You take a slow sip, the bitterness of the drink spreading throughout your chest. "I’m fine."

"Yeah?" Her voice is gentle but firm. "You don’t look fine."

You laugh, a little bitter, just like the drink. "Should I be offended?"

"I'm- It's just that I want you to know I'm here for you." She bumps her shoulder softly to yours and then lets it rest there.

"You worry a lot."

JJ shrugs, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "It’s part of the job. And part of caring about you."

The words hang between you, charged and vulnerable.

You meet her gaze, and it’s like the whole bar disappears. "I know. I just… don’t want to be the person who makes you worry."

She leans in slightly, lowering her voice. "It's a good thing really. I worry because I want you safe. Because I want you here, with me," She heistates, brief but it is there, "with the team." She continues.

You swallow, heart pounding. "It’s scary."

"Yeah." She nods, eyes glinting with something unspoken. "But worth it."

You clink your glasses gently, and she smiles. "To surviving."

"To surviving," she echoes.

You almost say more here in this bar. About how much you need her, how you’re terrified of what’s growing between you, or perhaps what you're not allowing to grow between you, but instead, you change the subject.

"So, when do you think we will get a break?"

JJ chuckles softly, the tension easing just a bit. "Not anytime soon, that's for sure."

You grin despite yourself, the moment slipping away. But you carry it with you, the almost confession, the warmth, the hope.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

4.

You had finally caught a break. And it just so happened that this break coincided with a unit wedding. You'd all been invited to an agent's wedding, someone from in the office beside you in the BAU. The reception was already in full swing by the time you found JJ.

Warm light filtered through the old windows of the vineyard’s converted barn, casting soft gold across the polished wood floor. Laughter floated through the air like bubbles of champagne, easy and unburdened. This felt so rare for a team that carried so much.

You’d seen her earlier during the ceremony, seated two rows ahead, blonde hair tucked neatly behind her ear, the silhouette of her dress elegant and quiet. She hadn’t seen you arrive, but you had noticed the way her shoulders relaxed when the vows began, as if the reminder of love existing and surviving had softened something in her.

Now, as she crossed the dance floor and found you by the edge of the room, she looked like something out of a dream. The midnight-blue dress clung just right, subtle and stunning, the kind of beautiful that didn’t need to try. And her smile, when she reached for your hand, was shy but real.

"They’re playing the slow stuff now," she said, almost too casually.

You blinked, your mouth parting. "And is that your way of asking me to dance?"

She tilted her head, amused. "That depends. Are you going to make me beg?"

You laughed, breathless, surprised at how easily she could still undo you with a smile. "Not tonight. I should warn you I have high standards. I danced with Emily earlier and she's risen the bar by quite a bit." She grinned and you let her take your hand. Her palm was warm against yours, her touch gentle but sure. She guided you to the floor just as a slow, honey-smooth song began to play. It was one of those soft acoustic tracks that made time feel slower.

You moved together without speaking, arms folding naturally around each other. JJ’s hand settled at the small of your back, her other holding yours loosely but securely. You could feel the tension in her slowly melt away, like warmth soaking into you both.

"You clean up nice," she murmured, gaze soft as she looked up at you.

You smiled, teasing. "You almost sound impressed."

She didn’t look away. "I am." Her voice was quiet, intimate in a way that made your pulse flutter. Then she added, barely above a whisper, "But you know me... I always am."

It hit you then, the weight of her words. The way she said them like a secret she hadn’t meant to share, or maybe had meant to, just not like this.

You didn’t reply, not with words. You just looked at her, long enough that she started to blush and glance away. You wanted to say everything: I notice you too. I’m always watching you across rooms, in briefing sessions, in the way you worry about all of us more than you let on. I’ve loved you quietly for so long I don’t remember what it felt like before.

But someone brushed past too close, jarring the moment. You both stepped slightly apart, your bodies still touching but your bubble broken.

She didn’t meet your eyes again, not directly.

Instead, she rested her head lightly against your shoulder, and you closed your eyes to memorize the feel of her there, how natural it felt, how right. The music played on. Your feet moved gently with hers. And it was enough, for now, just to hold her. To let the quiet weight of almost fill the space between your heart and hers.

You would hold this night close. The song. The way her voice trembled when she told you she was impressed. The way she didn’t need to say the word beautiful for you to feel it humming underneath her every glance.

And the way, if you hadn’t been so afraid of ruining the fragile thing between you, you might have kissed her right there, in the golden light, surrounded by strangers and music and maybe-miracles.

But you didn’t.

You just kept swaying, letting her stay close, memorising the way she felt in your arms. Because you were still waiting for the moment that would finally tip everything over the edge.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

5.

You’re still in your Kevlar when the clock ticks closer to midnight.

The BAU bullpen is quiet, the kind of quiet that follows a long, soul-draining case. Everyone should be home. No one should be working on New Year’s Eve. But the case wrapped late, and no one had the energy to do much more than change into clean clothes and gather upstairs.

You and JJ are the first to be ready. It's 11:55 and you are sure the rest of the team are going to miss the new year. But it feels safe with JJ here. She’s leaning against the wall beside the BAU doors, arms crossed, her profile lit up by the blinking red digits of the wall clock.

You step outside with her, breathing in the crisp December air. It's colder than you expected, and your jacket’s still inside, but you don’t want to go back in. Not when she looks like this, her hair loose around her shoulders, cheeks pink from the wind, a quiet something in her eyes that tugs at you.

You manage to avert your eyes, checking your watch as an excuse: 11:57.

"They say how you spend midnight sets the tone for your year," you say, just to fill the silence.

JJ glances sideways at you, smiling faintly. "So… freezing outside the Bureau after a murder-suicide? Sounds promising."

You huff a laugh, the breath visible in the cold. "Maybe we should focus more on the present company than the vibes."

She looks at you fully then. And the smile doesn’t leave her lips, it just softens.

"You think?"

"Yeah, I think," you say, smiling.

You glance up and suddenly, fireworks crack the sky open above the city. Loud bursts of color and sound scatter the quiet. Reds, blues, golds. It’s jarring, a little surreal, but you can’t take your eyes off it.

Neither can she, or at least that's what you think. She’s not watching the fireworks. She’s watching you.

Your heart stumbles. There’s something in her gaze, it's open, intense, full of all the things she doesn’t say.

Your fingers brush against hers. She doesn’t pull away. Her breath fogs in the air between you, slow and steady.

You step closer.

She doesn’t move.

Your chest brushes hers with every breath, and your hand finds the side of her coat, gripping the fabric near her waist. You tilt your head just slightly, just enough that your nose grazes hers.

Her eyes flutter shut.

And then-

"Happy New Year!" Morgan’s voice cuts through the night, loud and oblivious.

You jerk back like you’ve been burned.

JJ blinks fast, clearing whatever had just clouded her expression. The moment shatters like glass, fragments of something that almost was.

The rest of the team spills out of the building, Garcia in a glittery jacket, Emily holding champagne in paper cups, Reid offering scientific trivia about the origin of fireworks. Laughter rises into the night. Music blares from a car stereo somewhere nearby.

JJ takes a small step back, her arms wrapping around herself. You shove your hands in your pockets. She doesn’t meet your eyes.

Garcia flings an arm around your shoulder and hands you a cup of champagne. "You almost missed it!"

"Almost," you echo, gaze flicking to JJ. "Seems to be a theme."

Garcia doesn’t catch the undertone, but Emily does. Her eyes narrow slightly as she looks between you and JJ. She doesn’t say anything. Just smirks knowingly and sips her drink.

JJ retreats toward the edge of the group, slipping on her quiet, polite smile like a mask she’s worn too many times before.

You don’t follow.

Not yet.

Instead, you take a sip of the lukewarm champagne, watching fireworks burst and fade in the sky, beautiful and gone before you can really appreciate them.

Later, when everyone’s started to drift home and Garcia’s hiccuping over a resolution list no one asked for, JJ finds you again.

You’re sitting on the steps outside the Bureau, arms braced on your knees.

She sits beside you. Doesn’t speak for a while.

Then, softly, "Sorry, about earlier- I..."

"Yeah, no, completely." You agree, just to fill the silence really, but you're not entirely sure what you are agreeing with.

"I think we just kind of got swept up... by it all." She doesn't look at you.

"Oh?" You fidget, "Right, yeah. I know what you mean. Big case, big fireworks, new year... all that stuff." You nod along as if what you're saying and what you actually feel has any connection or meaning here.

"Happy new year, Y/N." JJ puts her hand on your shoulder as she stands up and lets it linger there for a few moments.

You try to smile as she leaves, "You too, JJ."

xxxxxxxxxxxx

6.

You were trying to act like everything was still normal, like you were okay. You thought you'd done an alrihgt job so far. Nothing felt too weird since the almost-kiss and you thought you may have gotten away with it. You had taken the time to retreat in private and lick your wounds.

And besides, most of the time, you were never alone with JJ.

Clearly, this time, you were out of luck.

But it felt just like old times, maybe you could relax a little back into this friendship.

The apartment was quiet except for the flickering glow of the TV, the sound of a horror movie droning softly in the background. The rest of the team had bailed on movie night, either exhausted or caught up in other things, but you and JJ had forged on.

You felt the buzz of wine warming your cheeks, the kind of soft, relaxed feeling that only comes when the world slows down enough to let your guard down. JJ was curled up beside you on the couch, her head resting lightly on your shoulder. Her sock-covered feet were tangled with yours beneath the blanket, and you could feel the steady rhythm of her breath against your skin.

She sighed, a small laugh escaping her lips. “Why do we always pick the worst horror movies?”

You glanced over at her, catching the sparkle in her eyes that had nothing to do with the movie and everything to do with being here, now, back together.

You turned your head slowly, meeting her gaze. She was already looking at you, her eyes soft and warm, the kind of look that still made your heart skip, even though you knew it shouldn't.

For a long moment, the only sound was the movie’s eerie soundtrack and the occasional creak of the apartment settling around you. Then JJ spoke, her voice a whisper, "You know, I never get tired of this."

You swallowed hard, feeling the words settle deep inside you. "Me neither."

She smiled shyly, brushing her fingers against your hand, sending an unexpected jolt through your entire body. The closeness was electric, and suddenly the space between you felt charged once more with all the things neither of you dared say aloud.

The movie played on, but your focus was entirely on JJ, the way her lips curved in that soft smile, the way her eyes held yours with unspoken meaning. You felt the warmth of her body pressed against yours, steady and reassuring.

The night stretched on, full of quiet moments and the kind of intimacy that doesn’t need words. Every glance, every touch was a promise waiting to be fulfilled, a secret kept between just the two of you.

As the credits rolled, you found yourself leaning into her again, heart pounding, breath catching. JJ’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, it felt like the world had shrunk down to just the two of you.

But then her phone buzzed on the table and she laughed softly, pulling back just enough to break the spell. "Bet you it's Pen with major regret on missing out."

"Well, I'm glad you didn't bail." You smiled, giving her space to read her message, not wanting to press in on her personal space. "It's- I'm glad I have you as a friend." You winced slightly, did that seem too obvious? Did she now know you clearly did not want to be friends with her? "I mean-"

JJ's head snapped up slightly and an eyebrow quirked up, "Yeah, one hundred percent." She smiled and shifted on the sofa, typing out a reply on her phone, "I'll always be here for you- for whatever you need."

You let out a breath and turned the TV off before stretching out on the sofa, not sure you could trust your voice to correct your previous fuck up without making it ten times worse.

Eventually, JJ had walked you to the front door and pulled you close, "You get home safe, you hear me?"

"I'll text you." You nodded, hardly able to look her in the eye as your mind was on other things. You were already preparing to kick yourself the whole way home for the stupid comments your brain manages to produce. She does not like you like that. If you could just repeat that mantra enough times, it was bound to stick, right?

xxxxxxxxxxxx

7.

This time, i starts with a bottle of wine (or two) and a night that goes sideways.

Garcia had planned a team dinner, her usual bright, glittery affair, full of mismatched cushions and rainbow-coloured charcuterie boards. But then a case came through and almost everyone was pulled in five different directions before dessert could be served. Everyone, that is, except you and JJ.

You had both managed to sneak away early. Garcia insisted you take the wine she'd picked especially for the night, waving you off with a wink and a "Have fun, my little delinquents."

So here you are, hours later, curled up (again) on JJ’s couch, legs tangled beneath a shared blanket (again), both of you more than a little tipsy and flushed (again). The second wine bottle is nearly empty. Her living room glows with the soft light of a single lamp, and some quiet folk song hums in the background from her speaker.

She’s leaned back beside you, hair down and loose, eyes a little glassy from the alcohol and the hour. You think she’s never looked more undone. Or more beautiful.

You’re warm in that way where your thoughts start spilling out without warning. Dangerous. Familiar. The kind of spilling out you have been trying desparately to keep in. But you are way too drunk to remember this in the morning so... who cares?

"I like your stupid throw pillows," you mumble, nudging one that says Wine Not? with your foot.

She lets out a low laugh, the sound vibrating in your shoulder where her head is resting. "That’s the wine talking."

"Maybe," you say, tipping your head toward hers, "I also like your face."

JJ snorts, then lifts her head to look at you. "Are you drunk?"

"Definitely, but I’m not blind," you counter, grinning. "You’re really pretty and I didn't mean to say that you're my friend." You rush out, "I don't want to be your friend. I want... more. And I want you to want that too." There's a moment of silence and you think... fuck it, let's go all in, "And I should have kissed you on New Year's."

Her smile falters just slightly. Just enough that something shifts. She studies your expression with more seriousness than the moment deserves.

"You’re very drunk," she says softly. "You won't remember this."

You lean your head against the back of the couch, closing your eyes for a second too long. "That doesn’t mean I’m wrong."

She exhales. "If it helps, I agree."

You blink your eyes open at that, you are drunk and things are muffled and you're not entirely sure what is real and what is not any more, "Wait… what? With what?"

JJ shakes her head, laughing under her breath. "Nothing. Bed."

You groan. "You can’t just say something cryptic and then send me to bed like I’m a toddler." Your eyes close again, the alcohol in your system preparing you for shut down.

"You’re not a toddler," she replies, standing slowly, balancing herself by putting a hand on your shoulder. "You’re a drunk profiler who doesn’t know when she’s about to say something she can’t take back."

You look up at her, blinking slowly. "I’d never take it back."

There’s a silence that settles then. Soft and heavy. Her hand is still on your shoulder. She’s looking down at you like she might say something else, something that could change everything.

Instead, she just says, quietly, "Come on. You’ll thank me in the morning."

You let her help you up, even though every part of you wants to stay in the warmth of the moment, clinging to the almost.

She leads you down the hallway to her guest room, flicking on the bedside light with the same kind of careful gentleness she always uses with you. She tosses you a soft T-shirt from a drawer, something lived-in, something that smells like her shampoo and something else warm and safe.

"You okay to change?" she asks, hovering in the doorway.

You nod. "Yeah. I think so."

JJ lingers. Like she doesn’t want to leave just yet.

Then, finally, she offers a small smile. "Sleep well."

As she turns to go, you call after her, voice barely above a whisper.

"JJ?"

She pauses.

"If I wasn’t drunk… would you have kissed me?"

She hesitates for longer than you expect. Then she glances back at you, eyes unreadable in the low light.

"Go to sleep," she says again, but softer this time. Like she wishes the answer were different. Like she wants you to ask again in the morning when your heart is still brave but your mouth isn’t slurring.

And then she’s gone.

You sit on the edge of the bed, the room spinning slowly around you. You don;t manage to change into pyjamas in the end, too drunk to even attempt it. Instead, you bury your face in the fabric of the new shirt. You don’t sleep for a long time. Your mind keeps playing back her voice, her hand on your shoulder, the almost that hangs there between her words.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

8.

It's been a few weeks. You've been trying to balance the feelings you have for JJ, the bits and pieces of memory of that night after Garcia's party, and the way that she has been handling you since - still soft, loving in a way, but maybe more distant. You wish you could remember what happened properly, what had made her change.

You had probably said something stupid, you often find yourself doing that around her.

It's been a tough couple of days, you're hardly sleeping. Normally, you would immediately call JJ - the perfect parnter of insomnia. But this time you haven't, not yet.

You don’t remember falling asleep. Just remember waking up, sweat-soaked, tangled in sheets, heart in your throat.

Your mind is a battlefield. The dream is already slipping through your fingers, but the fear lingers like smoke. Blood. Screaming. The sound of JJ’s voice calling your name, distant and desperate. And then silence.

You sit up fast. The room is too quiet. Your hands are shaking.

You reach for your phone without thinking about the past, without even checking the time. The contact is muscle memory.

JJ.

It rings twice before she answers. Her voice is sleepy but alert beneath it, like she’s already preparing for the worst.

"Hey… you okay?"

You don’t speak right away. Can’t. The sound of her voice cracks something open in your chest. You inhale sharply, trying to keep it together.

"Hey," she says again, gentler this time. "What’s wrong?"

"I…" You close your eyes. "I didn’t know who else to call."

There’s silence on the other end for a beat. Not hesitation, just quiet understanding.

"You did the right thing," she says, already moving. You can hear it, the rustle of her blankets, the creak of a floorboard. "I’m on my way."

"I didn’t ask you to-"

"You don’t have to."

You grip the phone tighter, grounding yourself in her voice.

"I don’t want to be alone."

There’s a pause, just long enough that you think maybe you said too much.

Then, steady and sure, "You’re not."

She’s at your door twenty-two minutes later.

You open the door and she’s there in sweatpants and a hoodie, hair pulled back, keys still in her hand. No makeup. No pretense.

Just JJ.

Her eyes sweep over you quickly, gently. "Bad dream?"

You nod.

She steps in without waiting to be asked. You close the door behind her and the lock clicks into place. You don’t speak again until you’re both seated on your couch, knees almost touching. There’s a blanket across your lap. JJ’s brought two mugs from your kitchen although neither of you really drinks the tea.

"I was bleeding," you say quietly, staring down at the untouched mug. "In the dream. It was my blood. You were trying to stop it. And I was trying to tell you it was okay, but you couldn’t hear me."

JJ doesn’t speak. She just nods, her eyes on yours.

"And then it got quiet. Too quiet. Like the end of a case when it’s over but not really. And suddenly you weren't there and I didn’t know if you made it out. Or if-"

Your throat closes a little. You hadn’t meant to say all of it. You hadn’t meant to say any of it.

But JJ reaches out, her hand finding yours under the blanket. Her thumb traces the back of your knuckles slowly.

"You’re safe," she says. "I’m here."

You want to believe her. The last few days, it hasn't felt like she's there. It feels like she's pulling away. You don't know how to say that part of your fear, you've already said enough.

You want to sink into her voice and pretend that the dream wasn’t a mirror of something real. That you haven’t come too close too many times. That JJ hasn’t nearly died for you more than once. You can't handle her giving you some space, let alone leaving you completely.

"I just think I’m falling apart," you whisper.

"No, you’re not."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know you," she says simply. "And I’ve seen you hold yourself together when no one else could. I’ve seen you take hits no one else would come back from. I’ve seen you save lives in the middle of hell."

You squeeze her hand, just to remind yourself she’s real. "What if-" You stop yourself, knowing there's no point in 'what if' questions. "I’m tired, JJ." You mumble instead.

"I know," she nods. "Me too."

And you leave it there. You don't talk about anything else. You don't talk about drunk words or missed chances. Instead, JJ sits by you and waits for you to fall asleep again.

She's gone by the time you wake up, but you have to admit that you feel more rested than you have been for a while.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

9.

The case isn't quite over yet. For now, you all need a moment. You don't know it yet, but the case will turn, and so you might as well enjoy the time untainted by what is to come.

You’re still wound tight from the week - the lack of sleep mounting on top of the pressure of the job, but you’re also starved for something normal. Something that doesn’t involve blood or bulletproof vests.

Which is why you end up in a dive bar near the local precinct. The place is dim, worn in around the edges, with sticky floors and a jukebox that plays too many Springsteen songs. JJ and Emily are already there when you arrive, drinks in hand, nursing beers and the familiar buzz of post-case relief.

"Look who finally joined us," Emily calls, raising her glass.

JJ turns toward you, smile warm, eyes softer than you expect from her after the past few weeks. You feel it land, low in your chest. It's been weird between the two of you and you ache for it to return to normal.

You slip into the booth beside her, close enough to feel the press of her thigh against yours. The contact should be accidental. It’s not.

And then, maybe to make this small, good thing worse, maybe just to make it interesting, or maybe because you are sleep deprived and you think you've already fucked up the one good thing you had going in your life, you let a random girl buy you a drink.

She’s tall. Brunette. Nice enough in that I’ve-never-seen-a-bad-day kind of way. She’s not pushy. Just chatty. You let her talk while your eyes flick over to JJ now and then, hoping to catch her gaze. You're being childish really.

She’s not looking at you.

But her jaw is tight.

Eventually, you return to your table. Emily gives her a long look across the table. "So… new friend?" she asks you, tone light, some slight teasing.

You shrug. "She offered me a whiskey sour. Felt rude to say no."

JJ’s eyes finally flick toward you. "She seems... nice." You meet her gaze. Something sharp glints behind her words. "But she wasn’t your type," she adds, too casually.

Your eyebrows raise. "Oh? And what exactly is my type?"

JJ opens her mouth, then closes it again, jaw tensing once more.

Emily raises her eyebrows and mutters, "And I suddenly need to check on the jukebox," before slipping away.

The air between you and JJ turns heavier. Louder, even in silence.

You lean forward slightly. "Seriously. I want to know. What’s my type, JJ?"

She looks at you then, really looks. Her lips part like she’s going to answer, but it takes her a moment. Too long.

"Someone who doesn’t flirt for sport," she says finally, voice low and even. "Someone who means it."

You blink. The words land sharper than expected.

"And what if I did mean it?" you ask. "Would that make it worse?"

JJ stares at you, unreadable. "With her? Or with me?"

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you push your glass toward the edge of the table, watching the condensation trail down your fingertips.

"With you," you say, barely more than a breath.

There’s a long silence. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

Then her voice comes quiet, tight. "You shouldn’t say things like that if you don’t mean them."

You sit up straighter. "But what if I do, JJ?"

JJ looks away. "Then you’re two months too late."

Your stomach twists. "What does that mean?"

She doesn’t answer at first, just runs a hand through her hair. Her voice, when she speaks again, is soft but firm.

"It means I’ve been trying not to want this. You. For a long time. And it’s getting harder every day."

You feel your heart stutter. "Then why haven’t you-"

"Because we work together. Because it’s messy. Because you can't seem to tell me anything without having a drink first. Because you flirt with girls like her when I’m sitting right next to you."

"I- I wasn’t flirting really." You respond, meekly.

She turns to you again, blue eyes steady. "You were."

You sigh. "Okay. Maybe I was. But not because I wanted her. I was just—"

"What? Testing me?"

You blink. "No. God, no. I just… you've been ignoring me and I... I wanted to see if you’d care."

JJ lets out a sharp breath. "Of course I care."

That silences you. Not because it’s shocking, you’ve suspected for a while, but because of how quietly devastating it sounds coming from her lips.

She shifts closer, so close her knee presses firmly against yours. Her voice drops to a whisper.

"You don’t get it, do you? You’ve been in my head for months. Every look, every laugh. And tonight… watching her smile at you like she had a chance?" Her throat works around the words. "It made me want to punch something."

You don’t know whether to smile or apologise. So you fuck something else up and do neither.

"I'm sorry," You eventually find your voice, "I didn't think-"

Her fingers curl lightly around yours. But her voice is still cautious, cutting you off. "No, you don't think." She frowns.

You hold her gaze. "That's not fair, I've tried-" You hesitate as her eyes bore into yours, "I'm trying to figure it out but you're..." You hold your breath before bursting out with, "you didn't kiss me."

"What?"

"New Year's. And then you ignored me."

"Oh my god." She lets a small laugh out. For a moment, it feels like she’s going to kiss you right there in the booth to make up for it. Her eyes drop to your mouth. Your heart trips.

But then the bartender calls out last call, and someone bumps your table, and reality slips between you again.

She lets go of your hand - slowly, like it costs her something. Then she leans in, her breath brushing your ear.

"I’m going to walk you home. And tomorrow, when we’re both sober, we talk about this."

You nod. You don’t even hesitate.

Because this time, there’s no almost.

Just a promise.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

10.

You wake up the next morning, sober. You meet JJ at the precinct, ready. You will tell her the truth. You will talk about how you feel. You will be honest.

But first, the case throws some left hooks your way. You're thrown into chaos before you can really take a breath.

The city was a mess of sirens and shouting. You could barely hear your own thoughts over the cacophony, but you knew you had to stay focused. The sober talk with JJ could wait, must wait, for work.

The team was spread out, moving like a well-oiled machine, but the chaos was unpredictable, and your instincts told you to stay sharp.

Your pulse hammered in your ears as you dashed down the sidewalk, heart racing with the urgency of the moment. JJ was just a few steps beside you, her presence grounding even as adrenaline surged through your veins. Your eyes locked for a split second, an unspoken understanding passed between you, fierce and raw.

The world around you slowed, the sounds dimming to a distant hum. Her face was so close, breath mingling with yours in the cool air. You were so glad to have her in your life, watching your back. You could almost blurt out I love you right there-

A shout echoed from down the street, a teammate signaling a threat, a break in the scene. Instantly, you were pulled apart, both of you snapping back to reality. You took a step back, chest heaving, trying to steady yourself.

JJ’s eyes searched yours, full of something you couldn’t quite name, concern, maybe, or something deeper that hovered just beneath the surface. She looked away quickly, jaw tightening as if holding herself together.

You wanted to say something, to break the silence before it dragged on for another three weeks like last time. More fool you for not being brave enough to face your fears.

The adrenaline faded, replaced by a pounding ache in your chest. You moved away, each step heavier than the last. Now was not the time, not when there was still a killer out there. You needed to get your head screwed on properly. Focus.

You glanced back once, catching the same flicker in JJ’s eyes before she turned to follow orders.

The city’s chaos swallowed you whole again, but inside, you carried the weight of that almost - too close, too real, and yet still just out of reach. Not for much longer.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

11.

It’s quiet.

You’re in the incident room. The team is gone. Files boxed up, evidence logged, statements signed. Another case closed.

JJ is wiping down the board. She looks tired, her shoulders tight with the kind of tension that doesn’t ease with sleep.

You’re sitting at the long table, sorting through victim statements, not really reading. Just… touching each paper like it might make you understand something deeper.

It’s been a long one.

Too many kids. Too much loss.

You don’t know why you’re still here. Maybe you just didn’t want to leave her.

JJ glances over her shoulder at you. "You don’t have to stay, you know."

You nod. "I know."

She hesitates, then sets the marker down. "You okay?"

You almost lie.

You almost say yeah, I’m fine or just tired or been worse.

But you don’t. You've promised yourself that there will be no more lies.

Because you’re so far past pretending you can’t feel it, this ache, this exhaustion, this quiet, blooming thing between you that has survived every almost for so long it doesn’t feel like it’s hiding anymore.

"No," you say softly. "I’m not."

JJ nods like she understands. Because she does. Of course she does.

She walks over, sits across from you at the table. Close, but not touching.

"I keep thinking about the little girl," she says. "How calm she was. Like she’d already made peace with dying."

Your throat tightens.

"She didn’t even cry," you whisper.

JJ’s eyes glisten. "You held her hand the whole time."

"She reminded me of Henry."

JJ reaches across the table and rests her fingers over yours.

You look down at your hands. Her thumb brushes your knuckles. It feels like breathing again.

"I can’t keep doing this," you say, voice barely audible. "I can’t keep pretending I don’t love you."

There it is.

Not soft. Not careful. The truth, laid out bare.

JJ doesn’t speak. She just rises slowly, walks around the table, and stands in front of you.

She reaches down, cups your face in both hands.

Her thumb brushes under your eye, catching a tear you didn’t know had fallen.

And then she kisses you.

Not a rush. Not a crash. Just lips on lips, it's gentle and sure, like she’s kissing you the way she’s always meant to.

It’s soft. It’s sad. It’s everything you’ve both been too afraid to say for far too long.

You don’t move for a moment after it ends. Your foreheads touch. Her hands still cradle your face.

You whisper, "I thought maybe I fucked it, maybe we missed our chance."

JJ shakes her head, eyes closed.

"No. We just had to actually communicate. Who knew that was a thing?" She asks, sarcastically, a laugh breaking through.

Later, at her place, the quiet returns.

But this time it’s different.

You’re in her kitchen. She's in sweats, hair damp from a shower, bare feet padding across the tile as she pours tea for both of you. Her presence is warm, grounding.

She hands you a mug. Your fingers brush, like always.

But this time, she holds on.

"I love you," she says, just like that. No preamble. No fear. Just truth.

You blink at her, stunned by the simplicity of it.

"Say it again?"

She sets the mug down, steps closer, and cups your face again, that same steady way she did in the incident room.

"I love you. I have for far too long without saying it once. I’m done waiting."

You kiss her.

This time, it isn’t sad.

It isn’t haunted or hushed.

It’s real. Present. Alive.

You hold onto her like you’ve waited a hundred lifetimes to get it right, and maybe you have. You don’t need words after that.

Not right away.

Because her arms are around you, and you’re still standing, and this time, nothing pulls you apart.

[milgram-en]

MILGRAM Novel 1: Chapter 1

T/N: Any additional Translator's Notes will be found in the replies. Check the original post before reblogging as TLs are occasionally revisited and edited.

A strangely chilly air caressed my cheeks. I slowly opened my eyes. It seems I had been asleep. A cold, white light illuminated an unfamiliar room. I was lying on my back in a large, soft bed. I had no idea why I was sleeping in a place like this. “Where am I?” This was not my room. The unnecessarily spacious room seemed to be about ten tatami mats big. There were extremely few things in it. Besides the bed, there was just a simple, steel desk. The room felt overwhelming with its size, raw concrete walls surrounding me, buzzing an eerie silence. Normally, if I’d woken up in such a situation, I’d be panicking. But, I just lay in bed, gazing around blankly. Why was that? —I couldn’t remember anything until I got to this place. I couldn’t even say my own name. Everything was vague as if I had no true sense of reality. So, even though I woke up in this unfamiliar place, I wasn’t disturbed; rather, I felt more confused about my loss of memory. As I slowly propped myself up, a voice came from somewhere. “You finally woke up,” a taut, dignified female voice spoke. T/N: 「やっと目を覚ましたわね」is the original line. The わ adds a feminine voice to the speaker (Jacka). There was no shadow of a person around me, but that voice I heard was clearly one in reality, not something coming from a speaker. I squinted slightly in confusion. Then, something the size that could be held within my hands jumped onto the bed with a soft thud. “I’m right here.” T/N: 「アタシはここよ」 is the original line. This Jackalope uses “atashi” pronoun, a feminine way of referring to oneself. It seemed that the thing that had come to me was speaking with the same feminine voice. I could hardly believe it. It was covered in soft, white fur. Two large, long ears protruded from its head as if asserting its presence. Just below the ears were two round eyes. It had a cute little body and a mouth. At first glance, it looked like a well-known animal. “…A rabbit?” As I said this, I understood that my words were inaccurate because the creature in front of me, in addition to the familiar physical features of a rabbit, had two magnificent stag-like antlers growing from its head. …And normal rabbits don’t talk anyways.

“I’m not a rabbit. I’m a Jackalope. Please don’t confuse the two,” the jackalope corrected me, slightly annoyed. Maybe she was often mistaken for a rabbit. I’d heard the name “Jackalope” somewhere before. It was definitely some sort of mythical creature. I couldn’t remember the exact details right at this moment but I knew for sure that it wasn’t a real creature… probably. “You can call me ‘Jacka’ for short,” Jacka said while scratching behind her ears with her hind legs. That gesture was so cute, but I debated whether or not to point out how rabbit-like it made her look. “Am I dreaming?” “No, this space truly exists. It’s not a dream. The fact that there’s beings like me who can speak human language is, well, just a margin of error. It’s nothing to be concerned about.” “If I shouldn’t worry about animals speaking fluently, then it seems I don’t have to worry about most things in the world.” “Well- Could you please get up now instead of lying in bed?” Jacka abruptly changed the subject and jumped off the bed. There were a lot of questions in my mind. Actually, I had nothing but questions. But, in that moment, I had no choice but to obey and follow Jacka. I couldn’t remember who I am and I’m in an unknown place; Jacka has complete control. I didn’t think that resisting in this situation would change anything so, I did as I was told and got out of bed. “Oh, you’re quite obedient.” Jacka looked at me as if she was curious about my obedience. “There’s no point in resisting, is there? I don’t remember anything about what happened before I got here, I don’t know if Jacka is a friend or foe. Until I fully grasp the situation I’m in, I thought it’d be best to do according to what Jacka says.” “Hm. You’re quite calm. You might be the ideal candidate for the role I’m about to assign to you.” “…Role?” “From now, you’re going to meet five people. Just like you, they all have their memories locked.” “Memories locked, huh?” Jacka’s wording made sense. When I tried to remember something, my mind felt foggy and I couldn’t find the relevant memory. It’s not that I’ve lost my memory, but it’s more so that it’s locked in some way. When I think about it like that, it makes sense. “I think that you can’t remember anything right now but, when the time comes, the key to your memories should be safely unlocked. Though, before that, I want you to complete some tasks.” “You mean I’m going to meet five people and then do something to them?” “You’re sharp— That helps. Yes, the people you’re going to meet are people who are significant to you. Just be careful— They’re not ordinary humans.” “What do you mean?” Jacka chuckled at me for asking a question—when I didn’t know anything—then responded. “The people you’re going to meet are all murderers.”

◇ As Jacka led me out of the room we found ourselves in a long hallway, footsteps echoing unnervingly. I silently glanced at my outfit. When I got up from that bed, I realized that I wasn’t wearing normal clothes. I was in a black, collared shirt and comfortable pants. I also had a cloak on and, additionally, a black brimmed hat that Jacka told me to wear while leaving the room. The clothes were adorned with golden embroidery all over, making it look like some kind of authoritative uniform. “Your role here is Warden. You will go by ‘Warden Es’.” Jacka’s voice echoed down the hallway. “Warden Es? That’s not my real name, is it?” “The rule here is that everyone must keep their names a secret. From now on, you will act as Es. You should think of it as something separate from your original self.” I nodded. Besides, I couldn’t even remember my real name anyway so I felt no resistance in using a different name. Still- the term “Warden” was something I wasn’t quite familiar with. When I looked back at my attire, now knowing that I would be playing the role of a Warden, I realized that the authoritative and overbearing design perfectly suited the image of the role of one. “The five murderers are waiting for you in the hall ahead. They—the ‘Prisoners’—and the hall—the ‘Panopticon’. Interact with them as you see fit. You can be intimidating or you can be friendly.” As ominous words lined up one after the other, I couldn’t help but grimace. “Wardens, Prisoners, Panopoticon— Jacka, what’s your aim here? Are you locking up a group of people in this creepy facility to play a game?” “A game, hm? To be precise, it’s more akin to an experiment… that I won’t deny. You can interpret it however you like, Es.” It didn’t really matter whether it was a game or an experiment. The important thing was that we were imprisoned in this place for something we didn’t know and even our memories got locked up.

◇ “Now, we’ve arrived at the Panopticon.” At the end of the long corridor stood a large, closed iron door. Jacka, who had been leading the way, stopped in front of it. As it recognized her presence, the heavy door slowly opened to the left and to the right. Beyond the door was a wide, circular space. In the center was a large, white, round table, surrounded by narrow cells that were divided by iron bars. It resembles a prison, I thought to myself, but then I remembered what Jacka had said earlier about the roles of Prisoner and Warden. Then, it clicked. This place truly was a “prison”. The ceiling was so high that it was impossible to see. Even if I squinted, all I could see was a dim darkness. It seemed that the panopticon was a huge cylindrical building that stretched vertically. Seated around the white round table were five prisoners, all dressed in white prison uniforms, and all watching me silently. As Jacka approached the table, her voice grew colder and more authoritative as she addressed the prisoners. “Warden Es has awakened. From this moment, the new era of ‘Judgement’ to judge the Prisoners’ sins begins.” I swallowed hard and walked over to the table where the prisoners were waiting. Each of the prisoners wore iron bracelets on their left wrists with a chain about 50 centimeters long extending from it. The chain was connected to a thick black book with a black spine. All the prisoners had a black book in their possession. The book appeared to have sturdy restraints, making it seem as if opening them freely was impossible. This combination of the white table and black books tethered by chains created a surreal atmosphere. “Hey- They call us prisoners but, in this situation where we can’t remember anything, it doesn’t really feel right to be told that we’re guilty of something,” a boy who looked to be in high school spoke up. There was a lightness in his tone that was out of place in this heavy and intimidating atmosphere of the panopticon. He let out a sigh, releasing tension, and leaned back in his chair. “But turns out it’s fine. I was kinda scared what kind of dangerous guy would come since they’re called ‘Warden’ but she’s around the same age as us. She seems harmless.” With those words, the tense atmosphere that had been ebbing between the four of them eased. It seemed that the prisoners hadn’t been told what kind of person the warden was. They were quite wary. When I entered the room, everyone stared at me in silence, not out of hostility but out of a strong sense of caution. The boy’s attitude became completely relaxed and he called out to me in a familiar manner. “My name here is Two-Side. Nice to meet you, Es.”

Two-Side smiled, his white teeth showing. He carried himself with a light-hearted attitude even in this unknown prison, but it didn’t seem like he was the type to be frivolous. It would be more accurate to describe him as friendly. It felt like he was showing his weaknesses on purpose to make the other person feel at ease. I could tell at a glance that he paid attention to even the smallest details of his appearance. He made no basic mistakes like shaving properly and even nails were polished and shiny. Considering that he was a boy around my age, he was well groomed. Combined with his handsome features, I thought it wouldn’t be surprising if he was popular with all the girls at school if he was a student. “You guys also have no memory of anything, right?” I asked just to make sure. “When you say ‘you all’, does that mean the Warden doesn’t remember anything either?” A short, pretty girl joins the conversation from the side. She wore glasses with indigo-colored frames, giving off a clean impression. Her shiny black hair reached down to her waist, without a single split end, I couldn’t help but want to touch it. “Yeah, I can’t remember anything before I got here either.” “In that case, we’re the same. None of us can remember anything, and we’re confused because that rabbit over there suddenly started calling us ‘Prisoners’.” The short girl, referred to as “Nervous”, smiled wryly, her gesture adorably innocent. I struggled to associate the word “murderer” with the small girl before me. They are called “Prisoners”, but could they really have committed murder? If they were really murderers in the first place, the police would’ve arrested them before taking them to such a suspicious place. “Nervous, let’s keep the chatter to a minimum.” Jacka shot a look at Nervous. “And I’m not a rabbit.” Nervous quickly covered her mouth in surprise. “Es, please take a seat. I will now begin a brief explanation of this prison.”

Prompted by Jacka, I shifted my gaze to the white round table where one seat remained vacant. Unlike the plain white chairs the prisoners were sitting on, the chair was adorned with the same golden ornaments as my uniform. That was my seat, it seems. The obvious luxurious design was probably to distinguish it from the Prisoners’ chairs. As I obediently took my seat, Jacka moved across the top of the table to stand right in front of me and surveyed the Prisoners. Then, she began to speak. “Now that the warden is here, I’ll say it again. Welcome, Prisoners, to MILGRAM Prison. This is a place bound not by the framework of a traditional judicial system; this is a place to redefine what crime and sin is.” MILGRAM. That seemed to be the name of this bizarre prison. However, all of this felt suspicious. Despite all those grandiloquent words being used, in a country governed by law, isn’t redefining crime outside of that system essentially lynching? “As you all know, all of you Prisoners here are murderers. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that your actions will be deemed ‘Unforgiven’ in this place.” The prisoners had various reactions to Jacka’s incomprehensible explanation. Some tilted their heads in confusion, unable to understand it. Some glared sharply. Some were waiting almost emotionlessly for Jacka’s next words. I stared at the fluffy fur on the back of Jacka’s head. “Whether to ‘Forgive’ or ‘Unforgive’ the Prisoners’ crimes is a decision entrusted to Warden Es. Her sole judgement will determine whether a Prisoner is guilty or innocent.” A deep sigh echoed. Among the four, the only one who seemed to be older by three years, a young man, was glaring suspiciously at Jacka. “Who on earth came up with such a system? Judging people based on one person’s subjective opinion doesn’t seem reasonable at all.” “Stop showing your hostility, Gentle. I don’t answer when it’s not necessary.” Jacka didn’t seem inclined to address Gentle’s remark head-on and brushed it off lightly. Then, she narrowed her eyes slightly. “Here, MILGRAM deals with crimes that the conventional judicial system cannot accurately judge. Crimes that are undoubtedly guilty, crimes that are undoubtedly innocent—such mundane cases don’t exist here.” “So, does that mean our crimes are ambiguous in terms of good and evil?” Gentle asked, continuing the discussion. This time, Jacka nodded, seeming to appreciate the question. “That’s right. Depending on the observer, the judgement of whether to ‘Forgive’ or ‘Unforgive’ your crimes may differ. Someone who knows the full story, someone who knows only the basic facts, or someone who strictly adheres to the legal standard—each person may come to different conclusions.” “I think that the current judicial system exists to eliminate that variability in conclusions.”  “In reality, each person inherently has many different answers but people are forced into a uniform judicial system for judgement. Is that truly sound? For instance, if a murderer is acquitted by reason of insanity, do you think the victim’s family members can accept that the murderer is innocent? I, personally, could never accept that. And if everyone can’t agree, it indicates a flaw in the system. That is why MILGRAM exists; as a stepping stone to a new justice system.” The panopticon fell silent. Gentle, too, refrains from speaking.

I found myself somewhat understanding Jacka’s perspective. Or so I think. Maybe the other Prisoners did too. Say that there’s a murderer who has gone completely insane. In accordance with legal procedures, a judge will declare them Not Guilty due to the lack of mental competence for responsibility*. However, given the feelings of the victim’s surviving family, no reason would justify a verdict other than Guilty. Depending on one’s position or standards of judgement, the decision to “Forgive” or “Unforgive” the person changes. [T/N: Japan’s Legal Competency/Ability to Fulfill One’s Responsibilities A person who lacks the capacity to be responsible cannot be blamed for their actions, thus it is meaningless to impose a penalty. The insanity defense is founded upon the idea of legal competency, specifically that insanity is the lack of legal competency. Insanity is defined as a state in which a person lacks the capacity to reason—discerning the right and wrong of a situation; discerning the propriety (conventionally accepted standards of behavior or morals)—and/or the capacity to control behaviour, the ability to act appropriately—or act with propriety—to a situation due to mental illness/disability/or other reasons (pathological reasons). Penalty is a consequence to a violation of responsibility and those judged to lack the capacity to be responsible cannot grasp the meaning of penalties.] Indeed, that may be true—Jacka turned to me, her small body looking up at me with a cute gesture—but the contents of her words were anything but cute. “Warden Es is free to use whatever criteria she would like for the basis for judgement. Law, sensibility, common sense, ethics, morality, instinct- It doesn’t matter. My job is to guide and observe you.” “...That’s quite an unpleasant situation for me,” I sighed. Jacka, unaffected by my reaction, simply waggled her short, round tail. “The sins and memories of the Prisoners are engraved in the ‘Book of Sins’ each of them were given. When the time comes to pass judgement, the Book of Sin will open automatically. Until then… That’s right.” A heavy atmosphere filled the room as Jacka spoke. With everyone’s attention on her, she announced something unexpectedly with a straight face. “Everyone, why not enjoy your free time?”

[seokminfilm]

stars in your eyes — lee seokmin

PAIRING 𐂴 lee seokmin x reader

TAGS & WARNINGS 𐂴 non-idol au, short, no plot, fluff, implied friends to lovers, physical touching, seokmin secretly admires you, soft seokmin hours are back

SUMMARY 𐂴 you and two seokmin were just two lost stars trying to light up the dark.

LYR'S SIDENOTES 𐂴 felt like writing something cutesy for seokmin so here we are!! i've been listening to the song 'clocks' by coldplay on repeat recently so this fic is supposed to be inspired by it!! its also inspired by dk's cover of 'lost stars' by adam levine 😭 hope you all enjoy!

(edit: we're one follower away from 600 so i'm just going to say my thanks ahead of time!! thank you all for the love and support 💗you all are the reason i keep writing)

NOW PLAYING 𐂴 clocks (coldplay)

WORD COUNT 433 𐂴 FOR @kstrucknet

seokmin could see the stars in your eyes.

he could see every speck, reflecting softly in your pretty eyes as you stared at the pitch-black sky. each star seemed to have its own life in your eyes as you scanned the never-ending horizon with wonder, and seokmin made a mental note about how you made even stars pale with how bright you shined.

"you're studying me like i'm a star or something," your voice is light as you thread your fingers through the cold grass under you. seokmin is smiling from ear to ear, a light blush dusting his cheek as he shrugs.

"you are a star though. to me, anyways." seokmin adds quickly, brown eyes crinkling at the corners as he notices how warm your laugh sounds when it lilts and tilts, mixing in with the summer night breeze.

if this is what love felt like, seokmin wanted you to be able to feel it too.

"can i hold your hand?" seokmin's eyes are on yours before you can open your mouth to speak, and all of your thoughts fly out the window before you can answer the question. your heart seems to slow down, beats coming minute by minute as the world freezes around you.

seokmin's already drawing towards you, inches away from your face as he tucks a piece of loose hair behind your ear. the feeling of his finger lightly tracing your ear feels different, and you nod, letting seokmin's warm hand engulf yours as the two of you sit silently.

"you know, i've wanted this for a long time."

seokmin's voice is so soft you can barely believe it's him, and he sets his camera down on the grass, making the move to scoot closer to you. his warm cologne washes over you the second he moves, and you can smell it in his hair as he turns to you.

"you have?" you ask simply, too enamored in the way seokmin's looking at you. "i have."

"i've wanted to hold your hand and tell you how much i love you for god knows how long." seokmin's eyes go from your blushing face to your hand in the grass, and your heart flutters at the sight.

"i'm glad you did," you say softly, smiling at seokmin before you bury your face into your jacket.

even though it's silent between you two, you can tell something has changed; seokmin's grip on your hand feels more sure now, and you can lean your head on seokmin's shoulder with a clear conscience as the two of you stare up at the sky.

[beggamoth]

To Wed A Dragon. pt 2

summary | Viserys I Targaryen, being geopolitical genius he is, arranges a marriage between his dangerously serpentine second son Aemond and a wildling of pure First Men blood: the elusive Omega daughter Daemon left rotting in Runestone. It’s all bread and circuses and targcest.

pairing | alpha!!aemond targaryen x fem!!omega!!reader with implied social anxiety

parts | 1 2 3

tags | TW!!! OMEGAVERSE!!! VERY OOC AEMOND!!! not proofread. i wal half dead when i was writing it so. slowburn (sort of). very very chopped english. consists of aemond’s journals. also vague helaegons in this part.

wordcount | 3,3k

any kind of feedback is highly appreciated!

______________________________________________________________

1st Moon, 128 AC. Three days post-scenting. The wind was rattling the windows. I was in a mood for conquest

It is time to court her.

As per tradition, both Andal and Valyrian, and as demanded by decorum, I have begun the official pursuit of Lady [name] Royce, my betrothed, my mirror opposite, my current academic project disguised as a person. Courtship, according to both the maesters and my mother, must be gentle. Considerate. Intentional. Signs of attention should not be suffocating so that the future mate does not leap headfirst but leave enough room for them to have a misconception of having a choice in the matter.

They have clearly never courted a creature who looks like she might bolt at the sound of her own name.

ADVICE RECEIVED (Most of it Unasked For, and All of it Questionable):

Alicent, exasperated, very opinionated on the matter of courtship but barely experienced one of her own:

“Ask about her interests. Write her a short poem. Compliment her mind. She may appear shy, but she’ll highly appreciate your attention.”

Yes, Mother. I shall compose an ode to her inability to make small talk.

Criston Cole (eternally bitter and inexplicably proud of it):

“Be gallant. Provide gifts of use. Things that show you think of her needs.”

I considered giving her a ten foot pole or a thick veil so she’ll have more ways to avoid eye contact.

Aegon (for some reason shirtless, half-lying on a chaise, playing with Helaena’s hair):

“Just pin her to a wall and tell her she’s pretty. Worked for me.”

Yes, brother. And now you have enough bastard children for us to never worry about the end of the Targaryen line. Helaena (lying with her stomach on Aegon’s lap, reading a book upside down)

“Make a trail of honey cakes from her solar to yours. Can’t promise that she’ll be smitten, but you’ll have her attention.”

…All right. This one may be the most efficient I’ve received so far.

COURTSHIP STRATEGY, WEEK ONE:

Gift #1: A first edition on Old Vale legends. With vivid illustrations that prevailed their first colours.

She received it with the enthusiasm of a tree being shown fire. Mumbled “thank you” like it was putting a strain on her vocal cords.

Gift #2: A small potted herb known to soothe nerves.

She asked if it was “meant to imply something.” I said yes. She did not laugh. Neither did I.

Gift #3: A dragon figurine carved from obsidian.

She flinched when I handed it to her. Not because it frightened her—because she thought she might drop it. I told her it was just stone. She looked like I’d insulted its honor.

SOCIAL EXPERIMENTS (Results Inconclusive):

It'd been a surprisingly hot winter. Anemic, you might say. The paths in godswood in the Red Keep were eroded by the rain and became wet as clay. The Weirwood tree was rustling above us. I sat beside her on sprawling white roots. Close. Not indecent, but enough that our sleeves brushed and I found myself in a vacuum of her scent - maple and that sweet thing whose name is unlikely to be found in any language. Anyway, it made the hairs on my scruff stand up.

Meanwhile, she began reciting trade routes aloud under her breath, as if invoking shipping lanes would exorcise my proximity.

I asked her about her favorite book.

She blinked once. Said:

“The one where everyone dies before the ending. No one talks in it.”

(She is either a genius or indeed mentally challenged. Possibly both.)

I offered to spar in the yard, half-joking. She responded:

“I’d rather be hit by a carriage.”

I liked that one, actually.

If some brave fool finds this journal and decides to laugh at my failed transgressions-- I dare him. Because criticism is something we can avoid easily by saying nothing, doing nothing, and being nothing.

Either way, I can't call it a failure.

At no point has she refused me. That is the linchpin in this operation. She has not said no. Has not run. Has not, to my knowledge, attempted escape via hidden passage or came to my mother begging to annul the engagement.

This is tacit permission.

I think she simply doesn’t know what to do with me. Most don’t. She is disoriented by my attention – like a little shivering rabbit pulled out of its hiding place by a fox. (There’s something beautiful in that. In being someone else’s overwhelming.)

I believe it is working.

Not quickly. Not visibly. It would be the peak of naivety to expect her to throw herself at my neck and shower my face with kisses if I handed her a dandelion or a recite stanza of Fyron's in Common Tongue adaptation. Not at all.

But I see the signs:

She no longer looks mortified when I sit beside her.

She only stammers when spoken to directly, not peripherally.

And from what her maid said, she keeps the dragon statue I gave her on the mantelpiece. The most prominent place in the room.

A lesser man might interpret her discomfort as rejection.

But I am not lesser.

Her uncertainty is not refusal, but it is formation. A thing taking shape under pressure.

She will come to want me. Perhaps already does.

And if she doesn’t… well.

I am very good at making people think they do.

[margin sketch] Aemond’s drawing of the courtyard: himself in elegant posture, offering a book. [name]: hiding behind a bush, labeled “Bush of Emotional Avoidance.” Caption: “Courtship: Going Very Well.” ____________________________________________________

1st Moon of 128 AC, midday.

She did it.

She reciprocated. Or tried to.

And gods help me—I responded with all the grace of a marble statue nodding at a crying child.

She wants to match me. I can see it. The hesitance isn’t fear now—it’s shame. Performance anxiety. Which, I must say, is fascinating to watch in real time.

Today, it happened.

THE CONTEXT:

It was the beginning of the year. It was warm, hot even. It was as if evil forces had tempted the spring to show a sign, and it had rushed into the red keep a few moons early to make a commotion.

I was in the library. Alone, ostensibly. I had no desire to go outside to look at the buds bursting prematurely. And then there she was, hovering near the fireplace like the ghost of Hamlet's father. No retinue. No buffer.

She was holding—gods help us all—a sachet.

Cloth. Stitched. Ridiculous.

One of those scent pouches maiden Omegas sometimes make when they’re still fresh from their moonblood and haven’t yet learned shame. But this one had effort. Clearly stuffed with herbs and—something richer beneath. Her. Not in full heat, but close enough that the scent had ripened into maple.

She held it out.

“I…” she began. “I thought… you might want this. It’s not strong. Just—something for when you’re away.”

The earnestness. The sheer catastrophe of it.

She was blushing so hard she looked sunburned. Her fingers, исколотые иглой, were trembling slightly—likely from nerves, or effort, or from the sheer strain of doing something. Her scent was pulled taut like a bowstring.

And what did I do?

MY RESPONSE (EXACT QUOTE, HANDWRITING SHAKY FROM LINGERING SHAME):

“How quaint.”

HOW QUAINT.

I said it. I said it. With the tone of a lord admiring a child’s clay dragon with four legs and one wing.

I never meant to mock it. I was—impressed? Amused? Touched, in the way one is touched when a bird lands on your shoulder and doesn’t shit on you?

But the words came out wrong. Or perhaps perfectly in keeping with who I am: someone so used to asserting authority that sincerity baffles me.

HER REACTION:

She blinked. Her eyes veiled with tears

Her mouth opened, then closed, and she gave a nod that was meant to be a shrug and failed at both. Then she set the sachet gently on the table beside me—like an offering at a tombstone—and said:

“Sorry. That was stupid.”

She turned, fast. The movement snapped. Like she’d been hit.

I didn’t stop her. I should have. I did try, belatedly, to say something—anything—but she was already halfway down the corridor, walking too fast, head ducked low.

Her scent lingered.

But it had changed.

No longer maple and warmth.

Just something sharp.

Like embarrassment.

Like trying not to cry.

[three paragraphs heavily blotted. Next page, written hours later]

I am not sorry.

Let me be clear.

I am not sorry for what I said, only for the response it provoked. There is a difference.

Her attempt—sweet, strange—was admirable in the way fledgling efforts often are. But it was not what I’m accustomed to. I did not scorn her. I simply reacted as I would to a performance unfit for the stage it presumed.

Apparently, this was the wrong approach.

Apparently, she is the kind of girl who mistakes discomfort for failure.

Fine.

Let her learn through spectacle.

OPERATION: APOLOGY,

Mission Objective: Show Lady [name] that I valued her gesture.

Subtextual Objective: Reassert dominance. Reclaim the narrative. Burnish my image as both romantic and superior.

What would most men do?

A letter? Weak.

A verbal apology? Unmemorable.

A second gift? Uninspired.

What did I do?

THE GESTURE:

I commissioned a tapestry.

Not a small one. A full-wall Vale-work tapestry, stitched by three master weavers overnight, featuring:

Her sigil entwined with mine. A map of Runestone rendered in gold thread. A seven-pointed star replaced with a stylized dragon eye. Vhagar’s, for the ones who know.

A line of text beneath, in High Valyrian:

“She Who Is Seen Shall Be Feared Not.”

(Because subtlety is for cowards.)

It was unveiled—publicly—during midday meal, hung behind her designated seat in the dining hall, with an appropriate flourish of music and actual scented petals scattered by handmaidens trained in choreographed petal-distribution.

I may have stood as it was revealed. And may have said aloud:

“For Lady [name], my betrothed. That she never doubt her place beside me.”

HER REACTION:

To call it “poor” would be like calling dragonfire “warm.”

She froze.

No. Worse. She locked. Every joint seized up. Her expression did not contort—it vacated. Her eyes widened, but there was no expression or rational thought behind them, only raw animalistic panic trying to claw its way out.

She stood. Abruptly. No curtsy, no word. Her chair scraped violently against the stone floor, a sound that seemed to rupture the air.

And then—

She bolted.

Half-walked, half-fled. Past lords and ladies. Past Alicent’s gasp and Aegon’s snort and Criston’s narrowed eyes.

I watched her go.

MARGIN SKETCH:

A very large tapestry with dramatic flames and glowing embroidery. In front of it, a stick-figure of [name] drawn mid-sprint, labeled “fleeing the scene of emotional crime.”

POST-MORTEM:

Mother came to my chambers that evening. She was... not pleased.

“You terrified her, Aemond,” she said, hand clutching the seven pointed star on her chest like she was considering whacking me with it.

“It was a grand gesture, a part of the courtship,” I said.

“It was a spectacle,” she snapped. “That girl can barely speak above a whisper, and you turned her into a performance!”

We ended up in an argument that led us nowhere, except my mother snatched all the hair oils back in retaliation. Woman’s pettiness knows no bounds, indeed.

BUT.

I do not regret the gesture.

It was labourious. Artistic. It was precise. It elevated her. It told her: you matter enough to move me to grandeur.

If that frightens her, then let her learn to stand taller.

Let her understand that being desired by a dragon is not a gentle thing. ______________________________________________________________

1st Moon of 128 AC

She is avoiding me.

Not subtly. Not in an attempt to play coy.

Systematically.

I have not seen her in three days, despite orchestrating half a dozen “accidental” routes through the Keep, the library, the godswood, the corridor that leads past the kitchens where she sometimes steals honeycakes, as Helaena had told me. She walked like a shadow among shadows and I would admire her art of folding herself like parchment if it didn't annoy the fuck out of me.

At first, I thought it was shyness. Shame. That I had overwhelmed her with my affections (true), and she needed time to recover (also true). So I gave her space.

Three days.

That was a mistake.

Because today, I heard something I was not meant to hear.

LOCATION: Alicent’s solar.

METHOD: Standing outside the partially open door under the pretense of inspecting the embroidery on a nearby tapestry.

WHAT I HEARD:

[name]. Speaking. In whole sentences.

“Please, Your Grace,” she said.

“I understand the arrangement was forged with intentions that—politically—seemed sound. But I do not feel safe. Not because he’s cruel. But because he’s so much. I’m not—I’m not strong enough to share a life with someone who ticks when my stitches are uneven and makes me look like a laughingstock to prove a point.”

I froze.

She wasn’t stammering.

She wasn’t whispering.

“I’m asking you—not out of disrespect, but fear—can you annul the engagement? Quietly? Please.”

My heart went very still.

ALICENT’S RESPONSE:

“[name]. Listen to me. This match came from the King’s own lips. He wanted Aemond to have something—someone—to anchor him. He believed your blood, your temperament, might calm him. Might balance him.”

“He said it would unite the family again. That you were a bridge.”

There was a pause.

“I don’t even know if he remembered which son he was talking about,” Alicent added, softly. “He may have meant Aegon. Or… gods, perhaps he thought Daeron was Aemond. But the decree was made. And it will not be unmade. You must—you must try. You won’t be the first woman and Omega in history to step over yourself for a man. If it will make you feel any better.”

Then silence.

Then—something even worse.

The sound of her crying quietly. The kind of crying where nothing moves except the breath.

And I stood there, behind the tapestry, like a complete fool, oblivious to the life of the Keep bustling around me. Enraged or embarrased – it is still hard to tell what I was supposed to feel.

______________________________________________________________

I met her in the inner yard the same day. She tried to walk past me with her head bowed, but I grabbed her forearm – firmer that I’ve expected from myself.

THE CONVERSATION (If One May Call It That):

Me: “So this is it? One little halt, and you’re sobbing on the knees of a Queen like a little girl? Do you really think that hiding like a rat will somehow make all the pressing matters less pressing?”

Her: “You’ve heard it.”

Her voice had heat in it. For once.

Her: “You don’t think you did anything wrong, do you?”

Me: “Lady [Name]. I think I did everything exactly as expected. If it wasn’t what you wanted—why didn’t you say so earlier?”

Her: “Because I didn’t know how to say, ‘you scare me,’ without you taking it as a compliment.”

I opened my mouth. She interrupted me before a word fell from my lips.

Her: “You look at me like I’m a part of some grand scheme that exists only in your head. You don’t actually see me. You see—some version of a wife who makes you feel like a king. And that’s not me.”

Her: “You don’t talk to me. You talk at me. Like I’m a locked door you’re very proud to be kicking in.”

Her: “I tried, Prince Aemond. I made that stupid sachet, and you laughed at it. You probably didn’t mean to, but it doesn’t matter. You think you’re being kind when really you’re just—overpowering. All the time. And you always look at me like I’m supposed to be grateful.”

She laughed. Laughed, short and disbelieving, the kind of laugh people give when something breaks clean in the chest.

Her: “But I’m not. I’m not grateful, damnit! I didn’t want this. I didn’t want you. I didn’t want to be married to the one person in the Seven Kingdoms who makes me feel like I’ve been handed a blade and told to hold it by the edge.”

“And gods help me,” she added, voice rising, cracking open, “I think I like you, and that makes it worse. Because you’re the worst man I could possibly be besotted with. And I hate it. I hate that you’re so convinced you’re always right.”

“And I hate that you’re not always wrong.”

THE MOMENT (Capital T, Capital M):

She turned around, her hair whipped in the air. With quick, jerky steps, she started walking away. I grabbed her shoulder.

Everything that followed it felt like some weird haze.

She pushed me. I clutched at her palm. She scratched me. I grabbed her chin.

It devolved into a childish brawl with the servants and courtiers looking on helplessly, because even in my weird state I would never have seriously hurt her, but I couldn't let her hurt me - just as I couldn't let her go. The mere thought of it made my teeth ache.

At one point, she sank her teeth into my palm. I hissed. And on inertia, I bit her shoulder, tearing through the fabric of her dress with my teeth.

We were breathing like animals. Both bleeding slightly. My fingers dug into her shoulders, bunching up thick woolen fabric I somehow managed to bite through. My mouth tasted like wool. Her mouth left a shallow mark on my palm.

Then it happened.

The scent broke.

All of it. Instinct.

I smelled her—maple and warmth, the damned sweet-throb of it—and it responded in me like a flare catching oil. My pulse kicked. My eye sharpened. My hands trembled like a boy’s.

It was a pulsing wave that starts low and rolls over the bones. A tightness in my spine. A need to punch a wall and then kneel in the Sept near the statue of Maiden until it wears off.

My body locked. My breath caught.

I released.

Not rut, not fully—but the prelude to it, sharp and possessive.

My scent wrapped around hers. She inhaled. Hers answered.

Permanent markers.

Teeth. Blood. All this and that..

Not enough to seal a mating bond—but enough to make it clear to any Alpha, Beta, or high-ranking bastard with a working nose:

She is no longer unclaimed.

We are scented.

Publicly. Permanently. Irreversibly.

Just scent and heat and the knowledge that if anyone touched her now I’d cut their fingers off.

Her face expressed absolute, abject horror.

She pulled away, slow, like she thought moving too fast would trigger an explosion. Her eyes were wet, wild.

“You—you ruined it.”

“You made it real.”

And then she ran. Again. But her scent clung to me like smoke on a burned house.

We were meant to suffer in symmetrical silence, not accidentally become half-mated in the middle of a shrubbery.

I cannot undo it.

And more than that—

I do not want to.

Now she’s mine. mine. mine.

[written with a lot of pressure on the quill, all letters of different sizes]

She can weep. She can beg. She can try to scrub me from her skin.

It’s too late.

We’ve begun.

And I intend to finish it.

MARGIN SKETCH: Aemond sitting in the dust, raising one hand in the air, face solemn. Labeled: "Silence, brain. Cock is thinking.”

[mrsdickey]

max epilogue edit

i am so very bad at editing but i thought it would be cute and tried 😭😭

anyways umm yapping about my headcanon for me and bills family 🤭 read more if you wanna cringe

ive decided to retcon my story for my ocs, i originally wanted to make it edgy and "canon-like", as i felt bill just wouldn't be a family guy

but lately, ive been so insanely in love with epilogue bill, probably more than i have been ever, and now, i just cant imagine my old story/headcanon to fit with what i want. bill is a soft family man now, but only towards his family. and that's how i want him to be if we ever actually had a family, lmfao (WHY IS HE NOT REAL 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😥😥😥😥😥😥😥😭😥😭😭😥😭😥)

of course i really want to keep the grunge of max and bill. hes soft to spencer and their daughter lila but he was very very strict on max, only because he didnt want max to turn out like he did. max grew up thinking it was because bill hated him and favored lila, and no matter how many times that was proven false or told it to him, he still thought bill just hated him and that he was a mistake. yeah max was a mistake, and they didn't celebrate him before he was born because bill really just...didnt want max nor was he excited. but that didnt mean bill doesnt love him. bill knew spencer really wanted to have this kid, but bill was worried that he couldn't be a good father. he never ever brought up getting rid of it to spencer, even though it lingered in his head for a good while

until max was born, bill was completely in love with him, but he struggled with actually taking care of him and even looking at him, thinking he looked too much like himself. he wanted to help spencer raise him, but his insecurities and fears that he'd be too soft or too harsh got to him. spencer wanted to get counseling for him but he thought therapy was for pussies

max took all of their attention but spencer got pregnant again when max was 2. it was a girl, bill desperately wanted to get rid of it, asked her, but spencer told him no.

it was a girl, and they named her lila (its pronounced ly-lah). lila was born 2 months premature, so bill and spencer had to put 90% of their focus onto her. which made max feel upset. he was only 3 at that time and he celebrated his 3rd birthday during the worst of it, causing them to be unable to have a party for him.

growing up, max and lila never had a good relationship. max despised her and bill for taking bill's attention away from him. bill was soft to lila and gave her what she wanted, but max had to work for whatever he got. it created tension within the family

lila at 21 is a spoiled brat and takes any chance she gets to talk down to max or make fun of him. she's really into comic books and super heroes, bill wanted to raise her right if he was gonna have a girl after all. she got increasingly bratty as she got older and always used her vulnerabilities against max

her orange flannel is bills when he was a teenager (THAT SHIT STANK)

[yuh13lo]

She’s like queer royalty

It was a chill Friday night, and the Sturniolo Triplets were live on Twitch, their screen split between a chaotic Fortnite lobby and their webcams. Chris was locked in, headset on, controller in hand. Matt was mid-rant about how his build got sniped, and Nick was laughing so hard he’d nearly fallen out of his chair.

“Bro, Chris, revive me!” Matt shouted, as his character flopped dramatically on the ground.

“I’m literally being shot at by like five people, hold on!” Chris yelled back, eyes squinting in concentration.

The chat was flying by — donations, emotes, and fan questions popping up like fireworks. As they hit the lobby after a hard-fought win, one message caught Matt’s attention.

“Yo, wait — someone in chat just asked who our celebrity crushes are,” Matt said with a grin, turning to face the camera.

Chris groaned. “Nahhh, skip that one.”

“No way,” Matt teased, elbowing Chris. “You answer first. You always dodge these.”

Nick smirked. “Yeah, you got someone in mind, don’t lie. Let’s hear it, lover boy.”

Chris rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll say it. Y’all probably don’t even know her anyway.”

Nick leaned forward dramatically. “Try us.”

Chris sighed. “Alright… there’s this model, Lexi. She’s 20. She’s done runway for Versace and Prada, and like… I don’t know, there’s just something about her. She’s like, stunning, but still seems so normal? Down to earth. Not fake at all. Just vibes, you know?”

Matt raised an eyebrow. “Wait, wait, Lexi? The one with the bleached brows and that Versace campaign where she wore the chainmail dress?”

Nick’s eyes went wide. “LEXI?! CHRIS. You’re telling me you are into Lexi? Like Lexi who’s besties with Drag Race legends and literally reposted Sasha Colby last week? That Lexi?”

Chris shrugged. “Yeah… I guess? I didn’t think y’all actually knew her like that.”

“Dude. She’s like… queer royalty adjacent,” Nick said, nearly yelling. “She’s in every pride campaign and always advocating for queer rights. She’s been on like ten vogue covers in the last year. What do you mean ‘you guess’?!”

Matt was laughing now. “Bro, I thought you were gonna say like, Zendaya or something. But you just dropped a full fashion icon out of nowhere.”

Chris looked a little red now. “I mean, I don’t know. She just seems cool. She followed me on Instagram last week, no big deal.”

Nick’s jaw dropped. “EXCUSE ME?!”

“Chris,” Matt said dramatically, “are you saying Lexi — runway-walking, Prada-wearing, RuPaul-hyping, LGBTQ+ queen ally — follows you?”

Chris smirked. “Yeah. Guess I got that Versace energy.”

The chat was exploding now, full of fans screaming, spamming Lexi edits, and begging Chris to DM her.

Nick fanned himself with a piece of paper. “I can’t. I’m done. I need to recover.”

Matt leaned into the mic. “Everyone’s gonna clip this moment right now. Chris got a model crush and a follow. This is history.”

Chris just shook his head and picked up his controller again. “Y’all are way too extra.”

But behind the jokes and chaos, even Chris couldn’t hide the slight smile pulling at his lips.

──── ✦ ────

It had been three days since the Twitch live, but fans were still losing it over Chris’ surprise crush reveal. Clips of the moment were trending on TikTok, fan edits were everywhere, and somehow, someone had already made a mashup of Lexi walking for Versace to the sound of Nick yelling “QUEER ROYALTY!”

Chris pretended to brush it off, but every time he opened Instagram, his DMs were flooded with “DID SHE SEE IT?!” and “CHRIS YOU HAVE TO SHOOT YOUR SHOT.”

Meanwhile, Nick was living for the drama. “I swear, if Lexi ends up on stream with us, I will combust,” he said during another live.

Then, it happened.

Lexi posted to Instagram.

A carousel of effortlessly cool photos — backstage at a shoot, a candid of her laughing in a hoodie, and then the one that broke the internet:

Slide 3: A close-up selfie of Lexi holding up a tube of Nick Sturniolo’s Space Camp Wellness Chapstick, with the caption:

“Recently, only thing helping me survive is this bomb chapstick”

tagged: @nicksturniolo @spacecampwellness

Nick saw it first.

He screamed so loud, Matt thought someone had died.

“GUYS. SHE POSTED. SHE’S USING MY CHAPSTICK. CHRIS. SHE TAGGED ME.”

Chris was sitting across the room, scrolling TikTok when his phone buzzed.

Lexi [9:42 PM]:

hey… saw the stream.

honestly? kinda honored.

you’re cute. and your brothers are hilarious.

also space camp chapstick is elite.

Chris stared at his phone in disbelief. He even refreshed it to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating.

Then he casually walked back into Nick’s room like nothing happened.

“What?” Nick asked, still high off the tag.

Chris sat down. “Nothing. Just got a message from Lexi.”

The room went silent.

“You WHAT?!” Nick shouted, nearly dropping his water bottle.

Chris showed them the screen. Matt let out an audible “NO WAY.” Nick reread the message five times, pacing like a detective uncovering a scandal.

“She said you’re cute? She said she’s honored? Oh my God. We need a joint live. We need to make this happen. Chris, this is bigger than us.”

Chris tried to play it cool, but the blush on his cheeks gave him away.

Matt grinned. “So what now? You gonna reply?”

Chris smiled at his phone. “Yeah. I think I will.”

──── ✦ ────

Lexi [9:42 PM]:

hey… saw the stream.

honestly? kinda honored.

you’re cute. and your brothers are hilarious.

also space camp chapstick is elite.

Chris [9:44 PM]:

okay first of all

you saying you’re honored might be the wildest thing i’ve heard this week lol

Lexi [9:45 PM]:

what can i say… i’m a humble icon

but really, didn’t expect you to name-drop me like that

Chris [9:46 PM]:

i panicked

matt cornered me

nick was screaming

i blacked out

Lexi [9:47 PM]:

honestly? iconic performance

should’ve won an oscar

Chris [9:48 PM]:

you using the chapstick tho?

10/10 product placement

nick’s been unwell since you posted

Lexi [9:49 PM]:

good. tell him he’s a genius

also i wasn’t kidding, that stuff’s actually fire

might bring it to milan next week

Chris [9:50 PM]:

my brother’s chapstick in milan is not something i ever thought i’d say

but i support the vision

Lexi [9:52 PM]:

sooo

do i get the honor of knowing your epic fortnite username?

or do i have to win a Versace campaign for that too?

Chris [9:53 PM]:

hmm

i don’t just hand that out to anyone

but for you?

maybe i’ll make an exception

Lexi [9:55 PM]:

omg i feel so special

Chris [9:56 PM]:

i mean…

you did survive the nick sturniolo reaction

that alone earns you a VIP pass

Lexi [9:57 PM]:

perfect

i’ll bring the chapstick

you bring the chaos

Chris [9:58 PM]:

deal

also

just saying

you calling me cute is still playing on a loop in my brain rn

Lexi [10:00 PM]:

don’t worry

i meant it

and i don’t throw that word around lightly

Chris [10:01 PM]:

gonna need you to stop being perfect

this is unfair

Lexi [10:03 PM]:

nope. get used to it

also…

Text again sometime? I have to be up early soo I’m calling it a night

Chris’s [10:04PM]:

Yeah of course

Sleep good

[the-chromawheel]

Good morning Sweden, welcome back to another episode of

-//- Groomberg News -//-

In today's session we'll be covering more about our favorite esteemed gamedev groomer! If you're afraid of monsters, be wary! Todays story might make you cry of fear

So Andreas' TikTok account got deleted

(This is a dead link)

This was likely because of his allegations getting very wide coverage as a result of LeonTalksAlot and Sileskios making videos about him

One of which he ironically tried to take down

This is fascinating since his TikTok is definitely the account he relies on censorship the most - As it allows creators to delete comments on their posts entirely, including ones calling them out for grooming He has done this a lot

It appears he got tired of spending 26 hours a day censoring people, searching his name up all across social media and deleting comments to defend himself - So he just deleted his TikTok entirely. Less work to do I guess?

EDIT: (This was already outdated by the time I decided to post it but he revealed on instagram that the reason was because of a false report! my headcanon is that TikTok's algorithm does not like groomers. But it was probably just that people learnt what he did and reported his old videos)

Anyway in the time since my last post, he became moderator of his subreddit (r/cryoffear) and has banned multiple users for mentioning the allegations (me included lmao)

(Previously he would just command his mods on what to do, now he's there directly to ban people himself! Efficient!)

Just hoping he doesn't make some response like "I am sorry to say but I have deleted my TikTok account... The witch hunting has gone too far, the hate is too much for my mental health" He will likely say something like that IF HE DOES talk about it since he loves to play victim

(Now that he HAS made a response, he did take quite an emotional route with his explanation. Poor guy lost the TikTok account he used to manipulate his audience, very sad sad news)

This is painfully ironic as his victims received far worse hate from obsessed Cry of Fear fans for quite literally getting groomed by him. One of his victims abandoned all their accounts and has no publicly known social media presence anymore I guess he almost knows how it feels now

Be sure to tune back to Groomberg News in probably multiple months when I remember this account exists again. I'm afraiding my monster so hard right now

[eydilily]

would you bite the hand that feeds you?

[kitcatia]

"JESS: A mais esperta. Descobriu como (?????) Portal dimensional. Ficou esperta demais. Quem precisa dela? Ela tinha olhos demais."

HELLO! I'm kit, I'm Brazilian and abnormal about obscure gravity falls women. Back in February 9th of this year, I attempted to decipher what was under the scribbled text, but I had a powerful weapon in my hands: the Brazilian translation of TBOB! Thank you Buisi for time and again being the best boyfriend ever and giving me this for Christmas.

I'm presupposing the adaptation team didn't bullshit this and this is an accurate translation of the text in English. The translation teams of tbob seemed to be much more in tune with the USAmerican writing team than the teams for J3 (there's so many mistakes in brazilian J3 with the codes, i really need to go on a tirade about this another day). But everything about TBOB Brazilian edition oozes care and attention to detail. There's even a code in our version that seems to be present only here! What I'm saying is, it's highly likely that this Portuguese text is accurate to what rhe original version wanted to convey.

Okay, so.

Due to differents word sizes and languages in general being different amidst each other, the parts obscured by the scribble (which is the same scribble) are slightly different. This allowed me a better chance at figuring out the meaning of some parts that are completely scribbled over in the English version.

This is a free translation of the Portuguese text:

"JESS: the smartest one. Figured out how to (????) dimensional portal. Got too smart. Who needs her? She had too many eyes."

Btw, bill is using the correct pronouns for Jhes here: ela/dela, the feminine pronouns in Portuguese. Portuguese is one of those languages where basically every word is either feminine or masculine. Take the second usage of the word "esperta", for example, which we can clearly see the end of. By ending with an "a" and not a "o", we can notice bill gendering the adjective how you gender it to refer to a woman.

I don't have the English version physically but I do have a pdf. I took a picture directly of my tablet screen instead of like. A print. Don't ask why.

“The smartest one. Figured out how …… dimensional portal. Got too smart. Who needs her? Too many eyes anyway!”

Here's my attempt at a reconstruction based on what I could gauge from the meaning in the two versions. I did this with my own handwriting by writing over the text.

Maybe we could ask for other ESL gf fans for pictures of their versions? so see if we can get any more additional information to work with? Idk that could help

Redone version

Trying to figure out what's under the Jhesselbraum crossed out text in the Book of Bill

Dunno if anybody's done this before but I figured I'd give it a shot. This is the original image.

I first went and found the font used for this. I think it's DIN Condensed Bold. This font unfortunately costs money to get onto your computer, but it is included with Adobe Suite software so if you have Photoshop or are silly like me and used Illustrator, you can access it (I know Illustrator isn't great for this stuff but I generally use GIMP and didn't feel like installing Photoshop for this one thing).

And this is the image with the letters I can figure out.

If I got this right, there are a couple of things in here that are huge.

Bill thinks (or at least thought) very highly of Jhess. He describes her as the smartest Henchmaniac. Depending on how you interpret that comment about the eyes, he either let her into the group despite not liking how many eyes she has or has sour grapes about her leaving.

Jhess did a ton of the heavy lifting for the portal project. Bill is often presumed to simply have the multiversal know-how for a lot of the physics and stuff behind the portal, but this implies that Jhess was actually the first one to figure much of this stuff out and Bill went off of what she told him.

I also want to draw your attention to a tiny detail I noticed in the name Bill gives her. It's so small that it might just be me just seeing a pattern where none exists, but I thought it worth mentioning anyway.

My first thought was, obviously, that the name given was "JESS." The first two letters are clearly J and E and the character is called Jheselbraum so that would track. But then I noticed this tiny squarish region that does not line up with how the red pen's stroke normally tapers off and is slightly whiter than the pen. It is exactly where another letter would be... and it does not line up with DIN's capital S! The capital letters in DIN that it lines up with are B, D, E, F, H, I, L, M, N, P, R, and T. The name looks like it cannot exceed 5 characters given the position of the pen stroke.

In terms of plausible names in there, these are the options:

Jeb

Jed/Jedi

Jet/Jett/Jete

Jeff

Jerry

Jerk (lol)

Jelly

Jem

Jen/Jenn

The majority of the plausible names, as you can tell, are either masculine or ungendered. Which makes me wonder-- is Jheselbraum the Unswerving trans??

Because that implies a lot. For one, I have to question why Bill is deadnaming her in that case. Is it to be hurtful or did he just legitimately never figure it out? She went on the run from him so it's likely she never updated him on her live-name. (And I mean, let's face it, "Jheselbraum" is not that far off from some of the live-names trans people choose for themselves. You guys are reviving antiquated names one transition at a time. \pos)

He also speaks rather admiringly of her, which would be odd if he was trying to insult her with her deadname, so I think it's really highlighting how little Bill actually knows-- and might underlie the real reason he crossed it out. He literally just found out she transitioned and he doesn't even know her live-name. Really undermines the whole "unlimited being with knowledge and answers" thing he claims about himself.

It would also explain what drew her to Bill in the first place. Bill already believes in 14 million genders, and he was offering to smash all the norms and rules. What have norms and rules ever done for the trans community? Seldom anything good is my impression.

Hell, maybe she wound up doing her own sex change surgery, because nobody else would do it for her, and that's why she has the skills to install a metal plate in Ford's head. (Pure speculation of course)

Or maybe I'm just overthinking a print error or false pattern or something! Who knows?

Anyway, I thought this was interesting enough to share. Not important my tailbone lol.

[clownowo]

been replaying the Portal series I think this is where its heading

[abstractfrog]

Happy 1 year anniversary to Mr Sherlock Holmes! Here's a litttleee celebratory comic from me