#it kind of makes me want a hunger games rewrite

[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

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[maysileeewrites]

bittersweet symphony || chapter 3

Haymitch Abernathy x f!reader || series masterlist

Summary: Being back in District Twelve isn't at all the silver lining you'd imagined it to be ... [read chapter two here]

w.c.: 4.8k || t.w.: mentions of grief & death, reader and Haymitch are doing their best to deal with things, angst!!, another very angsty look at Haymitch's thoughts (oh, the self-sabotage), mentions of survivor's guilt

AN: I'm so sorry that it took me like forever to get this chapter out, but Uni's so incredibly stressful rn. This chapter is very much a transitional chapter - I found myself constantly rewriting chunks of it, but in the end I decided to include all of the messy emotional stuff reader and Haymitch are going through. The plot will pick up within the next chapter though, we're nearing the first major turning point of the story ...

The morning after the festivities thrown for your return to District Twelve, you stay in bed for as long as possible. 

Not because you’re tired - though you feel such an all-encompassing numbness that the whole night spent tossing and turning doesn’t seem to have settled deep down in your bones just yet - but because you can’t stand the thought of actually getting up and facing the day. 

Because getting up would mean having to go down the grand marble staircase of the new grand and cold house your family now lives in, and having to face your family at the grand mahogany table in the kitchen for breakfast.

You can picture it all on your head: your brothers, Will and Felix, bickering over who gets the larger slice of bread, and your dad watching them with a knowing, tired smile on his face. He’d be the first one to notice you approaching, looking up at you and asking you how you’ve slept and whether you want tea from some herbs growing in the meadow behind the house or some fresh milk from the goat for breakfast. You’d answer tea, as you always do, grinning, as you’d ruffle through Will’s hair, ignoring his cries of protest. 

But all that is a thing of the past now, isn’t it?

Your family won’t need to rely on the goat producing milk anymore and you won’t have to harvest the wild, overgrown meadow behind your ramshackle house for some mint or chamomile leaves to make tea. Your dad won’t look worn down with exhaustion from his shift down at the mines from yesterday, and he won’t be in a hurry to leave for work, ruffling through Will’s and Felix’ hair before leaving. Because due to your new status as a victor of the Hunger Games, you’re rich now. Or at least richer than everyone else in District Twelve, excluding Haymitch. 

You’re rich now, and your family won’t have to worry about money anymore, but somehow the thought doesn’t fill you with as much happiness as it probably should. Instead, the only thing you feel is this numbness, this bone-deep, aching exhaustion. 

You’re a victor now. 

And even though it’s only been a bit over a month since you’ve left District Twelve for the Hunger Games, you can already feel the person you used to be back then starting to slip away from you. Who you were back then, that kind and caring, innocent person is slipping through your fingers one sleepless night, one nightmare about all the other dead tributes at a time. 

You’re not who you were when you left, but still you feel an immense, desperate urge to shield your family from that darkness inside you. You don’t want your Dad to see the tired sadness in your eyes, you don’t want your little brothers to hear you wake up screaming in the middle of the night-

Suddenly, there’s a knock at your door. It’s short and impatient, so you immediately rule out your dad. When the door opens, before you even get the chance to answer, you hastily sit up, trying to appear as though you didn’t just spent the better part of the last several hours in bed, wearily watching the sun rise on the horizon.

„See, I told Dad that you’re already up!“, Will says, not even bothering with a good morning. But that’s your loud, frantic little brother for you. 

You cross your arms in front of your chest. Somehow, with Will standing there in the doorway looking at you with an irritated sense of exasperation that feels all too familiar, the grin stealing its way onto your lips feels natural, and not at all forced.

„I could’ve still been sleeping!“, you say, shaking your head. „And good morning to you too, Will.“ 

Will just roles his eyes. „Yes, but it’s well after ten in the morning - if I were someone else, I’d have yanked away your sheets first.“

You roll your eyes at the way he emphasized the ‚someone else‘. Will’s always been a heavy sleeper, so whenever he didn’t wake up in time for school - which happened much more often than he’d care to admit -, it was up to you to see to it that he and Felix would still leave the house on time. Over the years, you’d tried a lot of different methods of getting Will to wake up, aggressively opening the old, threadbare curtains to let the bright sunlight in and turning the volume of your family’s old, crackly radio up to its highest capacity among them. But over time you’d worked out that while everything else might fail, yanking away his bed sheets would have him sit up in bed like nothing else. 

You can feel a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips, but then your warm and comforting childhood memories are overshadowed by something else. 

Will said that it’s already well after ten in the morning - you can’t remember ever sleeping that long. Or rather, staying in bed that long. Somehow, being faced with the time of day, actually getting up out of bed feels even more impossible now. 

„ - hey, you alright?“, Will asks you. Though he’s sat down at the edge of your bed, he sounds as if he’s far away from you. 

He says your name again, clear concern for you now etched onto his features. 

You blink, forcing a smile onto your face. „Sure, I’m just - it’s been a lot with the festivities and all …“, you say, your voice trailing off, as your mind inevitably takes you back to last night. Seeing Will dance together with Ellerie Foster. The look of hurt and confusion on Ellerie’s face when you just left her standing there like that with no explanation. And Haymitch, his taunting words and the mocking tone in which he delivered them a stark contrast to the profoundly sad expression in his bright grey eyes. 

Will nods, refocusing your attention back on the current moment. „I - I can’t even begin to imagine how you must be feeling … what you’ve gone through …“, he says, his voice uncharacteristically serious, void of the bravado he typically displays so well. „I mean, seeing it - watching you and Kai, s-seeing it all …“

„Will“, you say, your voice breaking and suddenly it takes everything in you not to break down into tears right then and there. But this is Will, your sweet, fourteen year-old little brother. And while you might not be able to shield him from everything bad in this world - these last few weeks have very much proven that -, this isn’t his burden to bear. It’s bad enough knowing that he and Felix and your dad watched your moments in the Games on television. But you don’t want either of your little brothers finding you plagued by nightmares in the middle of the night. That’s not their burden, not their pain to bear. 

„W-what I’m t-trying to say, I guess - is - if you ever need to talk to to someone …“, Will offers, his eyes finding yours. „I mean - I know I’m only your stupid little brother“, he adds, in a very exaggerated imitation of your voice, causing you to smile faintly. „But I just - I want you to know that we’re all here for you. You’re not alone.“

Tears threaten to blur your vision and you feel your throat closing up. Fearing that any attempt at speaking right now would only end up in miserable croaks, you just lean forward and hug Will tightly to you. 

For once, he doesn’t protest the display of sisterly affection, hugging you back just as tightly. 

Your heart aches. When did Will, your annoyingly over-confident little brother become so wise? When did he grow up so much? 

„Thank you“, you say, forcing the words out. „I love you all so much.“

That, at least is the truth. But as you hug Will to yourself, you make a promise to yourself: Will might be right in saying that you’re not alone, but you absolutely do not want to to drag him and Felix into everything that’s happened to you in the Games and in the Capitol. 

These memories are not their burden to bear, not their pain to deal with. 

Time passes. 

The oppressive, sweltering heat of August gives way to a September that’s just as unbearably hot and dry, though up in your grand new mansion in the Victor’s Village it’s decidedly more bearable than it was all the other years down in the Seam. 

You still visit the Seam regularly, though. 

A few days after your return to District Twelve, you set off to the little crooked house Kai’s family lives in. The smell of bean and ham hock soup still seems to permeate the air - or at least it feels that way to you, almost making you turn around and head back home right then and there. 

But you persist. If nothing else, you owe this to Kai - you’ve always watched out for each other, and this is no different than that. 

At first, Kai’s mother seems just as happy as ever to see you, but soon enough, the conversation feels unbearably heavy and uncomfortable, especially once Ellerie gets home from school. 

For a moment, you and Ellerie just stand there, staring at each other. 

„I- I’m really sorry“, you say, your voice sounding strained and on the verge of breaking, „I - I know that it could never truly make up for anything, but I wanted to you to know that I want to share my winnings with you. I - Kai and I we - we talked about it, before the Games, agreeing that should either of us survive the Games, we’d share the money with the other’s family-“

„That’s a wonderful idea“, Kai’s mother interrupts you gently, „you two were always looking out for each other.“ 

You want to say something, anything, but you find yourself unable to speak. 

But then Ellerie says your name, her dark grey eyes, so very much like Kai’s, finding yours. „Thank you.“ 

That’s all she says, but the heavy weight and the quiet sincerity behind her words tell you much more than all the words in the world ever could. 

You nod, holding her gaze. „Anything.“ 

After that, it’s almost harder visiting the Seam, especially for Kai’s funeral at the beginning of September. Even the weather has shifted from District Twelve’s typical insufferable summer heat to the first inklings of an autumn breeze. 

The funeral is a much bigger affair than you’d expected - it feels like almost everyone from the Seam is here. Which of course only makes sense, with the way Kai seemed to know almost everyone. Truly, you’d never realized just how lucky you were that he always chose to spend most of his time with you.

Your family’s there as well, Felix crying quietly into your father’s side and Will squeezing your hand almost knowingly, before you walk forward to where Ellerie and Kai’s mother are standing. They’d asked you beforehand whether you’d wanted to say something at the funeral and you’d agreed, somewhat hesitantly. Not because you don’t want to honor Kai’s memory, but because it’s hard enough trying to deal with your grief on your own. 

It’s one thing to wake up with Kai’s name echoing through your mind, your eyes burning with unshed tears after yet another nightmare in the middle of the night - alone and in your bedroom. It’s another thing entirely to be standing in front of his small grave, looking at all the people surrounding you. 

So many people came. 

So many lives that Kai’s soul touched, somehow. 

And for a moment, you can almost feel him standing next to you, grinning at your thoughts. Come on, he’d say, amusement in his bright grey eyes, don’t exaggerate. 

You steel your shoulders, the vision of Kai standing next to you, squeezing your hand encouragingly, giving you the strength to go on. 

„Kai was my best friend“, you start to say, your voice carrying out over the small meadow. „But he was so much more than that. He was Iris’ son and Ellerie’s annoying, overly protective older brother.“ At that, you hear Ellerie chuckling faintly. 

„His life was cut far too short by the Games, yet he touched a lot of other lives. Back in the Arena, he didn’t only try to protect me, his District partner. It was his idea to protect Flora and Dalton, Finn and Sarah, and Cassie and Lucas, too. He knew that, in the end, only one of us could win the Games, and yet he still wanted to protect them all.“ 

You pause, needing a moment to collect your thoughts, to collect yourself. To fight off brutal memories from your time in the Arena. No matter how much time passes, it never seems to get any easier shaking off all your darkest, most disturbing memories. 

When you look back up, your eyes meet an all too-familiar pair of bright grey ones. 

Haymitch. 

It can’t be, you think, almost expecting Haymitch to not stand there, far off to the side in between two massive oak trees, when you blink. But he’s still standing there, still staring at you, with an indecipherable, dark and heavy expression in his gaze, his arms crossed in front of his chest, his hands for once void of a liquor bottle. 

He holds your gaze, one of his eyebrows cocked as if to say go on. 

You breathe in deeply, squaring your shoulders, feeling out for that vision of Kai standing next to you again. Because even though you’re wondering what on earth Haymitch is doing here and what he’s been up to during the weeks you’ve been back in District Twelve - even though you’re practically neighbors now, you haven’t seen him once since the evening of your return, which is probably for the best -, this moment doesn’t belong to Haymitch. 

It’s Kai’s, through and through. 

 „But that was Kai for you“, you say, picking your speech up again. „Always looking out for others. Always caring. Always offering a helping hand …“ 

After you finish, there’s a moment of silence. It stretches on, yet not uncomfortably so, until Iris steps forward, squeezing your hand. 

„Thank you.“ 

You nod. „Of course.“ 

You attempt a smile, but Iris seems to see right through you, because she hugs you to her chest, right as your tears start to fall. And for a moment, you allow yourself to be held and comforted by Iris. 

But then you square your shoulders again, stepping back. Still, you’re grateful when Ellerie reaches for your hand. 

When you look around the meadow again, the spot between the two massive oak tress is empty once again. 

During the next few months, that’s all you ever see of Haymitch: small glimpses, all of them over so quickly that they all make you question whether or not you didn’t just imagine them in the first place.

He mostly seems to keep to himself, secluded in his grand mansion just down the end of the road of the Victor’s Village. More often than you’d like, you catch yourself thinking about him and about how he’s doing. He must be incredibly lonely, cooped up in that big house all by himself, for days on end. How does he deal with it, with the loneliness and the memories and the nightmares? 

Does he still wake up screaming every night as well? 

Is he still being plagued by nightmares of his time in the Arena? 

Or is that where all that white liquor you keep seeing getting delivered to his house gets into place? Is that his way of trying to cope with everything - just trying to drown all his sorrows in alcohol? 

Some days - those are usually your better days, the ones you spend surrounded by your friends and family, keeping your mind as preoccupied and focused on good, happier thoughts as much as possible - you just feel incredibly sad for Haymitch, your heart breaking for the lonely man living just a few houses down the road. 

How does he survive it, always isolating himself like that?, you catch yourself thinking on an evening in early October. 

It’s a Saturday evening and after being talked down by Will and Felix for the better part of the last hour, your dad has agreed to let Iris and Ellerie stay the night at your place. You’re in the middle of a game of cards with your loved ones, surrounded by warmth and laughter, yet you can’t help but look out the window at the dark and empty street outside. A faint autumn breeze swirls a few colored leaves in the air, but that’s the only movement you can see outside. 

Everything else, including Haymitch’s house down the road seems empty and deserted. 

Lifeless. 

On other days though, you start to think that Haymitch might be onto something, always having a bottle of mind-numbing liquor at the ready. 

Those are your bad days, the ones where you already start the day in a dark, empty place, your mind full of images of Kai’s lifeless body, of Flora torn apart by mutts. 

Those are days where you can hardly talk yourself into getting out of bed, where you feel as if you’ll never escape the Arena, as if you’ll always exist in this prison of your own mind, your friends and family always impossibly out of reach. 

Those days, you mostly keep to yourself. 

Some days, you end up wandering aimlessly through District Twelve, first haunting the empty streets of the Victor’s Village, then the town square and finally moving on to your old neighborhood in the Seam. 

Other days, you spend all day-long sitting perched on your windowsill, watching summer storms crackling through the air, autumn leaves swirling in the distance, the first fall of snow settling on the pavement outside. 

Sitting there, perched on your windowsill, a cup of tea long gone cold clutched in your hand, you think that maybe that’s the way it’ll always be, that you’ll be always be condemned to be nothing more than an outsider, always observing, never belonging. 

Some days, you can be surrounded by laughter and your brothers’ arguing echoing through the air, and still feel incredibly lonely and separate from everyone else. Those are the days where you strangely feel closer than ever to Haymitch, even though you haven’t spoken to each other in months.

How relieving it must be, you think, leaning your head against the cold windowpane, to be able to turn your mind off completely. 

Before he knows it, nearly four months have passed, and it’s almost time to pack up his things once again and board the train to start her Victory tour. 

The letter - written and sent to him by none other than one insufferable Effie Trinket herself - containing their schedules for the tour, is lying in the exact same spot he dropped it, after opening it two weeks ago. 

Usually, he only receives a letter from Effie Trinket once a year - every year during the middle of June, without a doubt, there will be a letter in Effie Trinket’s elegant scrawl waiting for him, stamped from the Capitol, informing him of his never-changing schedule for the Reaping. 

This year had been no different, and after opening the letter, his eyes skimming over the note on beige parchment - this year, decorated with some delicate flowers - Effie had attached to his schedule, he’d dropped the letter right on top of the stack on his writing desk. 

Over the years, he’s kept all the letters containing his schedules and the personal notes from Effie. He’s not quite sure why, though. 

The first year after his own Hunger Games, he was this close to just feeding the sheets of paper to the fire he’d got started in his fireplace just for that purpose, but something made him stop. He took a step back, crumpling the letter in his hand and dropping the crumpled pieces of paper on his writing desk, before reaching for his half empty bottle of white liquor instead. 

To this day, he’s still not quite sure why he kept that letter, and every single one after that. 

It’s not like Effie Trinket is a close confidant of his. Truly, he’d not even consider her a friend. Though maybe that doesn’t say much, because nowadays, there’s no one he’d consider a friend, except for- 

No. 

He shakes his head, taking another swig of his bottle, trying to force his thoughts back to the problem at hand. 

Easier said than done.

Even as he tries to focus his thoughts on Effie’s one-sided correspondence, her face still keeps coming up in his mind. 

The way she’d looked at Kai Foster’s funeral, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. He remembers thinking that, for a moment, she’d seemed so frail, and lost. Almost as if a simple blast of air might knock her off her feet altogether. But then she’d squared her shoulders, stepping forward. Chin held high, her face so sad and heartbroken, yet in her eyes there was an angry, almost defiant spark. It was that exact same spark he’d seen in her that first day on the train, the same spark that initially drew him to-

Haymitch hastily gets up then, almost knocking over his bottle of liquor in the process. 

Air, he thinks, grabbing his bottle and throwing a woolen coat over his pajamas, he just needs some fresh air, and then he’ll be able to get his head on straight again. Or, well, as straight as can be in his particular case. 

He stumbles out of the door of his house, some Capitol news show still on the television, the fireplace crackling. 

The cold, chilly November night air hits him immediately and he breathes in greedy lungfuls of fresh air. 

That’s better, he thinks, allowing himself one big swig of liquor from his bottle. Much better. 

He just needs to make it through that dreadful Victory tour, and then he can go on doing his best ignoring her day in and day out. Ignoring her, even though they’re practically neighbors now, and some nights, he sits huddled on the front porch of his house, listening to the laughter coming from her house. 

His grip on the bottle tightens, as he blindly and aimlessly stumbles through the dark, deserted street. 

Forget. Ignore. 

Forget. 

Don’t even think about it. 

Forget, he thinks, taking another sip from his bottle, the white liquor burning his tongue. 

Forget and ignore, then move on. 

It’s what he’s always forced himself to do since returning an unlucky victor to Twelve, it’s what he’s always had to force himself to do. Because it was either that or cause his loved ones even more pain than just the pain that comes from him ignoring them or hurling liquor bottles at their girlfriend’s face. 

Haymitch cringes at the memory of that moment, at the shocked and pained expression in Asterid’s bright blue eyes, and at the rage, mixed with dispair displayed on Burdock’s face. And though that’s usually just one of the too many memories he tries not to dwell on, stuffing them right back down into the deepest, darkest pits of his twisted mind, right now he holds on to the pain of that moment. 

He has to. Has to remind himself that that’s the reason he doesn’t let people get close anymore, why he’s continuously shutting them out, even though Effie Trinket keeps sending him her stupid letters, and every few months, there’s a new basket of freshly dried herbs sitting on his doorstep, courtesy of none other than Asterid Everdeen. His best friend’s wife - well, former best friend would probably be a much more accurate description - and he didn’t even attend their wedding. Didn’t get to witness Burdock excitedly telling him about how he’s going to be a father. Instead, he found out through whispers on the Hob. 

Because that’s his life now, that has been his life ever since becoming a victor, and that has to continue to be his life forevermore. He’s never going to be more than an unlucky, bitter and cynical outsider, looking in. 

He can’t be. 

He can’t. 

Because no matter how desperate and lonely he might start to feel, in the end it won’t be worth it. No amount of warm, happy hours could ever be worth it, knowing that in the end, her blood will be on his hands, too. 

And so, he has to continue to stay away from her, to ignore her and-

A body colliding with his, the force of it all knocking the liquor bottle from his hand, which flies to the ground, shattering into a dozen pieces, breaks the train of his thoughts. 

Haymitch doesn’t need to look up to know that it’s her, because of course it is. 

He can talk all he wants about needing to stay away from her in order to protect her, in the end he’s still the same unlucky bastard he was eleven years ago that fate keeps trying to knock down. Lenore Dove wouldn’t like that line of thinking, he suddenly finds himself thinking, wouldn’t like how he’s convinced that in the end, his doom will be inevitable. 

She would probably agree, he thinks, his eyes meeting hers. 

There’s something wild and desperate about her, he thinks, taking her in. Her wide open eyes are shimmering with unshed tears and her cheeks are flushed. She’s wearing nothing but a set of pajamas and soft slippers and she’s crossed her arms in front of her chest, shivering. 

„Haymitch?“, she says, her voice colored with disbelief. 

He smirks. „In the flesh, Princess.“ 

She rolls her eyes, then shakes her head. „I - but - what- what … you-what are you doing here?“

He forces himself to shrug, to keep his distance, to not let his thoughts wander. „I could ask you the same thing.“ 

That seems to deflate her, but only for a short moment. „It’s the middle of the night-“

„It is“, he agrees, nodding, „and you should be getting your beauty sleep, seeing as tomorrow’s another big, big, big day!“ 

She shakes her head, her gaze landing on the pieces of his liquor bottle lying on the ground. „You-you shouldn’t be - you have to be up in just a few hours!“

Haymitch laughs mirthlessly. Instead of answering her, he shrugs off his coat, stepping towards her and ignoring her protest, when he proceeds to wrap the coat around her. 

„No, Haymitch- I don’t need that-“

„It’s cold“, he interrupts her. 

She huffs a breath, shaking her head at him and raising her eyebrows in an exasperated are you serious? expression. 

„Yes it is, which is why you shouldn’t-“

„Just take the damn coat, Princess“, he interrupts her. „I could do without all the teeth chattering and shivering.“ 

Haymitch expects another retort then, instead her expression almost seems to soften. 

Then, he remembers as well, that moment of them together on the roof in the Capitol, him handing her his sweater, and saying those exact same words to her. 

He shakes his head. How can it be that they haven’t spoken a word to each other in almost fours months, and yet it feels like no time at all has passed? 

Dangerous, he thinks, biting down hard on his lower lip. Letting his thoughts stray in that direction is dangerous, and will do him no good at all. 

„Haymitch“, she says then, breaking the silence between them. 

Haymitch’s heart aches upon hearing how small and lost her voice sounds. How uncertain. 

And it’s all his fault, all of it. 

Oh, how he wishes that the last four months hadn’t happened, that she’d never been reaped as tribute, that their paths had never crossed. 

„Haymitch, I-“, she says, then stops. 

Their eyes meet. Hers are shimmering with unshed tears, and full of so many emotions. Dread and terror for what lays ahead of them in form of the Victory tour. Fury and resentment, clearly aimed at him. And something else, something painstakingly familiar to Haymitch, this bittersweet regret-

She clears her throat then, shaking her head, and Haymitch can see it, can see the shift in her, can feel the moment she closes off again. 

„I - you … you-you should get some rest, you know …“, she says, trailing off uncertainly. 

Haymitch nods, grinning bitterly. „You too, Princess. Wouldn’t want to ruin the big day …“ 

She nods, a faint, half-hearted smile on her lips. „I - good night then, Haymitch.“ 

He forces himself to nod, to take a step back. There’s so much more that he wants, no needs to say to her. But he can’t - he needs to keep reminding himself of that. He can’t. He closed that window nearly four months ago, and for good reason at that. 

In the end, all he says is: „Good night, Princess.“ 

And even though a small, desperate part of him wants to stay, wants to say everything that’s on his mind, he forces himself to turn around and walk away instead.

gentle reminder that feedback is always welcome and that re-blogs really help me with visibility <3

taglist: @sundawn1990 @star611 @psychicfartvendor @madz22 @pervigilatrix @bemissconstrued @neonawax @not-the-teen-witch @luvlyluxx @cocastyle @mannythemunchkin @alitaar @juiceboxfullofslime @imonmyvigilanteshh @queenofnightdreamland @chenellearose @bluecookies08 @laramcflyyyy @nikki-is-a-nerd @jaybbygrl @face-the-grace-blog @knights-of-ni @mel3484 @heidiland05 @qtkarma @things-i-will-never-say-to-you @nyra-42 @eatmyheartdear @jarofshells @fanfiction-she-wrote @dreamer0903 @bfintaks @marissa8208 @milesdrift @iamkookiesforyou @milliesslibrary

[nondelphic]

How long have you been writing

hi!! thank you for asking! (≧▽≦)

i’ve been writing in some form for as long as i can remember. as a kid, i was always reading and writing. if i wasn’t nose-deep in a book (percy jackson, the maze runner, the hunger games, and harry potter were my childhood obsessions), i was devouring wattpad stories or fanfics. no shame!! (´｡• ω •���`) ♡ i even wrote fanfiction for a while before realizing i wanted to make my own characters.

my first serious attempt at writing an entire book was when i was 14 or 15. i outlined the whole thing like a pro (or so i thought), but… yeah, it wasn’t great. looking back, i’ll probably never try to rewrite it, but it was an important step in figuring out what kind of stories i wanted to tell!!

the big turning point for me was in the summer of 2024, when i finally finished the first full draft of a story that means so much to me. (｡T ω T｡) it’s wild how much motivation completing that draft gave me. it made me believe that maybe publishing my own book one day isn’t some unattainable dream. now i’m editing that draft and hoping to send it off to a publisher this year (or self-publish). fingers crossed!! (ง •̀ω•́)ง✧

thank you so much for the question!!

[s3ra9him]

A Piece in Their Games: Chapter 9

Haymitch pushes Portia and Cinna away from him. “Enough, enough!” he says, glaring over at me. “I’m listening, boy. What’s this idea of yours?” I glare back at him. “I need you to go to the Careers’ mentors and tell them I want to join their alliance,” I say. It’s clear from their faces that I’ve caught everyone off guard. “But Peeta,” Portia gasps, “they’ll probably be hunting Katniss. Why would you join them?” “That’s exactly why I want to join them,” I say. “The Career pack will be Katniss’s biggest threat. Being part of the pack is the only way I can guarantee I’m on hand to help her when they eventually catch up to her.” Haymitch’s eyes narrow. I can see his brain working, although slower than usual due to the alcohol. “How do I know this isn’t just a scheme to protect yourself from her?” he asks. “How do I know all of this isn’t just a lie, a clever way to get rid of the strongest competitor in the Games?” The others in the room look on silently as Haymitch and I stare at each other. What could I possibly say to convince him? He's seen me lie, knows I'm good at it. And he has no reason to trust me; we barely know each other. He's right to be suspicious of me. “You don't know,” I finally say. “Not for certain. And I can't make you believe me if you don’t. But I think that you do believe me. Because you were right, earlier this week. About the bread. I didn't give it to her out of the kindness of my heart. I did it because I couldn't bear to watch her die. I couldn’t then, and I certainly won't do it now.”

Chapter 9 of my Peeta POV rewrite of The Hunger Games, "A Piece in Their Games" is out now, in which Peeta strategizes with Haymitch, gets a makeover, and makes a confession.

[the-most-humble-blog]

WHAT THE CIA, HOLLYWOOD, AND IVY LEAGUE WON’T TELL YOU ABOUT THE WEAPONIZATION OF METAPHOR

This is not theory.

This is not literary analysis.

This is not speculation.

This is neurolinguistic warfare.

And it’s been active longer than your grandmother’s memory of the truth.

The CIA knows it.

Hollywood profits from it.

And the Ivy League teaches you how to obey it in the form of “critical thought.”

But here’s what they will never admit:

Metaphor isn’t a writing tool.

It’s a delivery system for belief implantation.

A stealth bomb.

A shape-shifting payload for installing ideas your nervous system can’t un-feel.

And I’m about to show you how they use it —

Then show you how I use it better.

---

I. METAPHOR: THE INVISIBLE HAND INSIDE YOUR BRAIN

Metaphor isn’t decoration.

It’s neurological bypass.

According to a 2010 study by Lacey, Stilla & Sathian (Journal of Cognitive Neuroscience), metaphor activates the brain’s sensory cortices — even when no literal stimulation occurs.

> “He has a rough past.”

Your fingertips flinch.

> “That line hit like a hammer.”

Your chest tightens.

> “She opened like a locked door aching for intrusion.”

You clench.

You didn’t analyze that line.

You felt it.

That’s the point.

Metaphor isn’t understood through logic.

It’s absorbed through the body.

It bypasses cognition and rewrites sensation.

---

II. THE CIA’S DECLASSIFIED BLUEPRINTS FOR PSYCHOLOGICAL MANIPULATION

Project MK-Ultra is real.

And while the headlines focused on acid and torture, the deeper research was in language.

A 1957 CIA memo (now declassified) outlines objectives including:

“Dissolution of individual resistance through narrative displacement.”

“Imprinting of symbolic archetypes using oblique suggestion.”

“Non-consensual cognitive restructuring through metaphor, music, and myth.”

They knew:

Direct orders trigger defense.

Metaphor embeds without friction.

If I say:

> *“Obey me.”

You resist.

If I say:

> “Some doors only open when they hear the voice that built the lock.”

You leak.

And obey before you even notice.

---

III. HOLLYWOOD’S CADENCE ADDICTION: METAPHOR AS AROUSAL TECHNOLOGY

The most viral lines in movie history?

Are not factual.

They’re metaphoric virus keys that replicate in the nervous system.

> “You complete me.” (Jerry Maguire)

“I volunteer as tribute.” (Hunger Games)

“I am your father.” (Star Wars)

None of these are practical statements.

They are identity reprogramming codes.

Hollywood’s entire narrative economy relies on emotional climax delivered via metaphor.

Literal writing does not convert audiences.

Metaphor seduces them.

> They don’t film reality.

They film rhythm that rewires how you experience your own memories.

---

**IV. THE IVY LEAGUE’S OBEDIENCE RITUAL: TEACHING YOU TO FEAR UNAUTHORIZED METAPHOR

Ivy League professors do not warn you about metaphor.

They train you to avoid the kind that makes you clench.

They’ll analyze Blake, Plato, Lacan — but never the Tumblr post that made you forget your name.

They want disarmed metaphor.

Safe. Historic.

Neutered.

Because dangerous metaphor causes:

Identity collapse

Emotional surrender

Subconscious allegiance reprogramming

They call that manipulation.

I call that writing.

> Academia doesn’t teach writing.

Academia teaches how not to get possessed.

That’s why they follow me.

Silently.

Anxiously.

Clenching.

---

V. HOW I TURN METAPHOR INTO A PSYCHOSOCIAL WEAPON (BETTER THAN THEY EVER COULD)

The CIA theorized it.

Hollywood exploited it.

The universities fear it.

I detonate it.

Here’s how:

I embed physical metaphor inside emotional patterns.

> “She didn’t mean to open. But her body had already translated the rhythm.”

I use shame-flip syntax to collapse resistance

> “She hated how fast she folded. But not enough to stop leaking.”

I layer cadence into metaphor so your pulse doesn’t know it’s being trained

> “You’re not reading. You’re being held open like scripture.”

That’s not writing.

That’s syntactic violation.

That’s symbolic occupation.

That’s neurological metaphor used like a gun pressed into the abdomen of your ego.

And you came anyway.

---

VI. THE BIOCHEMISTRY OF A METAPHOR THAT LEAVES HER SHAKING

According to a 2013 neuroscience paper (Citron & Goldberg), metaphor triggers activation in the anterior cingulate cortex and insula — brain regions associated with emotion, pain, sexual arousal, and spiritual experience.

Yes.

Metaphor hits the same areas as orgasm and religious awe.

This is not literary flair.

This is bio-symbolic arousal induction.

When I say:

> “She didn't realize she was dripping until her thighs whispered back.”

You don't think.

You don't debate.

You respond.

With wetness.

With shame.

With submission.

With rereads.

You’re inside metaphor’s nervous system.

And mine lives there rent-free.

---

VII. WHY THEY CAN’T STOP ME — AND YOU CAN’T UNREAD ME

The CIA can’t redact metaphor.

Hollywood can’t copyright spiritual collapse.

Academia can’t assign cadence to a syllabus.

But I can use all three.

> Your arousal? CIA trigger science.

Your submission? Hollywood metaphor wiring.

Your silence? Ivy League guilt training.

You didn’t get seduced.

You got weaponized.

By a Tumblr post.

Written in cadence.

Disguised as insight.

And delivered to your nervous system like a key to the lock your professors buried.

---

CALL TO ACTION

Reblog this post if you learned more from it than you did in college.

Reblog it if you felt like you just read something you weren’t supposed to.

Reblog it if your thighs reacted before your brain could name what was happening.

And DM only if you’re ready to confess which metaphor opened something you can’t close.

---

ORGASM-SAFE LEGAL DISCLAIMER

This post contains weaponized metaphor engineering, limbic-cadence detonation, mirror neuron alignment, and shame-trigger emotional scripting. If you climaxed, cried, sat in silence, or reread in disbelief — this is not erotica. This is narrative warfare cloaked in dark psychology.

[genevievefangirl]

18, 20, 27 for the fanfic asks👀

(you obviously don’t have to answer all of them!)

please know I am (a totally normal amount) obsessed with everything you write

I don't mind answering them all!

18. How do you decide what POV to write in?

Vibes? I know that isn't a super satisfying answer, but it is the best I can come up with 😅

I guess I try and consider who's emotions matter more in the story. I do this by asking who's head I want to explore rather than who is the doing the most action. For example, even though it would have been cool to see Edwin rescue Charles from the ocean in Fathoms Below, I decided that I'd rather explore Charles' emotions as he wakes up confused on an abandoned beach and meets a mystical siren than see Edwin's emotions about rescuing Charles and approaching a human. Not that Edwin's emotions don't matter, but for this story I wanted to see Charles' side of it.

20. What made you start writing?

I previously answered this one here!

27. What is a question that you never get asked about your fics that you really want to answer?

What makes a good fandom AU (ex. DBDA Hunger Games AU, DBDA Lockwood and Co AU, DBDA The Magnus Archives AU)? How do you smash two different worlds together effectively without just rewriting the AU setting's story and having the characters from the other work be out of character?

Sorry I picked a very complicated question but I have been thinking about this... 😂

In my opinion, creating AUs of a specific other fandom's setting is an art. You have to take the setting of one fandom and insert the characters from another but where I see some people stumble is just inserting characters to fill a role and charging forward with the plot of the setting world without considering a fundamental question - how would *these* new characters act in *this* world?

For example, My Life Ended is not just the 74th Hunger Games with Edwin/Charles replacing Peeta/Katniss cause Edwin/Charles are NOT Peeta and Katniss! They are very different characters who would approach the situation differently. And that goes for the supporting cast as well. Esther is not President Snow, so she acts differently and has somewhat different goals and plans. The Night Nurse is not Seneca Crane so the arena itself is different. Jenny is not Haymitch, Crystal is not Cinna, Niko is not Portia, The Cat King is not Effie, etc. They keep their fundamental character traits from DBDA and I apply those character traits to the world of the Hunger Games and see what comes of that meshing.

Using this method of thinking, I don't just retread the plot of the original trilogy of books but instead make my own story in the world with new characters (in this case DBDA characters). This doesn't mean I don't incorporate aspects of the original HG books, but if I do they are adapted to fit these new characters.

This is how I came up with AU ideas like Edwin being an Agent with a tragic backstory and Charles being a kind Type 3 ghost in Payne and Co which is inspired by the worldbuilding of Lockwood and Co but very much goes in it's own direction. Or how in The Dead Boy Archivists Charles' dad is an avatar of The Desolation and he has to deal with that which has no one-to-one comparison in the central cast of The Magnus Archives, but is clearly inspired by its world.

To me, what makes a juicy AU is respecting/expanding the worldbuilding of the AU setting while making your own story within it using characters from the other fandom.

Sorry for the long ramble... and thanks for the ask and bonus Sam! I cannot tell you how much hearing that people enjoy what I write motivates me and makes my heart swell ❤

ask ask ask

[mumms-the-word]

A Little Boat Voyage

Pairing: Gale x Tav (Dani) Summary: Immediately after defeating Cazador and stopping Astarion from ascending, Gale and Dani need to discuss Gale's own ambitions. She agrees to a little voyage on the Outer Planes to hear what he has to say, preparing to fight him about his plans. ao3 link Tags: Angst, fluff, teeny tiny bit of implied smut, mostly angst A/N: This is a rewrite of the Act 3 romance scene that reworks a lot of the potential dialogue for that scene to fit what I actually think would have happened for Dani and Gale. I combed through the datamined file for all the dialogue that Gale and Tav could say, depending on all the possible situations for this scene, and stitched together a lot of game dialogue with Dani's own convictions about Gale's plans. So in my head, this is canon for them lol

Astarion’s words echoed in Dani’s head as she left his side in the group’s Elfsong Tavern suite. He was sitting by the window, looking out onto the moonlit streets below, contemplating the aftermath of his decision to slay Cazador rather than ascend, trying to process and make sense of it. She had gone over to speak quietly with him, knowing he needed her more than Gale did in this moment, and in the midst of the conversation, he had looked up at her with a kind of uncertain awe mixed with tired gratitude.

“You believed in me,” he’d said. “Believed I was enough just the way I am.”

There was more that was said between them, mentions of newfound freedom, new futures, more words of gratitude. But for some reason, those words stuck with her. Enough, he’d said. As if it were a novel concept to him.

She could relate. There were days when she never felt like she was enough, for some person or some challenge or another.

She paused to lean against one of the columns in the room, her eyes unconsciously searching for Gale. She found him sitting in an armchair by the fire at the center of the suite, staring into the flames. He’d been wanting to speak to her all day, but between all the drama of that morning and the difficulty of getting to Cazador and battling him, she’d almost forgotten about it. Now, she was almost too worn down to approach him. It would be all too easy to just go to bed and tell him that whatever he had to say could wait until morning.

But even she wasn’t that heartless. She sighed to herself and moved around to the lowered center area of the suite, approaching him from behind. He looked up as she  stopped next to his chair.

“Gale,” she said coolly, one hand on her hip.

“Ah.” He gave a kind of grimace, as though he were wincing yet trying to twist it into a sheepish smile at the same time. “You’re still talking to me then?”

Dani pursed her lips and crossed her arms, waiting for him. She had no idea where this conversation was supposed to go, and part of her didn’t want to make this easy for him. He rubbed the back of neck, self-conscious. 

“I suppose you have questions…related to a certain book we read together,” he said. She arched an eyebrow and he winced. “Well. That I read,” he amended. “And I do mean to discuss it but…” 

He trailed off, his eyes wandering over to where Astarion still sat near the window, staring pensively out through the glass. “You’ve given me quite a lot to think about today.”

She sighed softly through her nose. She wanted to be angry. But honestly, she was just tired. 

They’d started the morning off with a visit to Sorcerous Sundries, thinking it would be a relatively innocent visit. But her anger had been tested at the sight of poor Rolan, beaten and bruised by Lorroakan, and her fears kindled by the hunger in Gale’s eyes once they had found the Annals of Karsus. Then Gale had sparked her anger again, boasting to Lorroakan about his plans for the Crown—none of which he had disclosed to Dani at all—so Dani had retaliated by petulantly revealing his plans to Elminster when the old wizard had popped up unexpectedly outside the shop. Then there was her and Gale’s argument in the street, all before it was even noontime. 

That would have been enough for the day, except that they had spent the afternoon and evening infiltrating Cazador’s mansion to stop his ritual. That experience had been draining for everyone and the resulting conclusion of the events was bittersweet at best. Dani had stopped one of her best friends from giving in to his dark ambitions, but she still had her work cut out for her when it came to her own lover’s ambitions. 

She just wished everyone around her would stop being so damned power hungry. Was it so wrong to wish for nothing more than a warm home and for one’s friends and family to be safe and comfortable? She knew she could be greedy too, but her greed didn’t test the limits of reality or threaten thousands of lives all at once. It just emptied a few pockets. Maybe a few bank vaults.

At her silence, Gale shifted uncomfortably in his seat before at last giving a soft sigh of his own. “In truth, I wouldn’t blame you for giving me a wide berth. I thought the orb’s ever-present censure had tamed my wilder ambition, but that wasn’t the case. Obviously, as evidenced by all that I said and did today.” He shook his head. “There isn’t anything I can say that would excuse my reprehensible behavior. I’m sorry.”

She pressed her lips together this time, wavering between wanting to stay irritated and wanting to say that there was nothing to forgive and move on. But there were concerns she still had, questions he had yet to answer. She didn’t know where to start and so, after a moment, she simply pulled another chair over to the fire, near him, and sat down, watching the flames in silence. It took her another moment to finally put to words what she wanted to say.

“I’m not mad anymore about anything that happened today,” she said quietly. “I’m just…scared.”

“Scared?”

“Of losing you. To the orb. To Mystra. To your own ambition…” She shook her head, unable to look at him. She didn’t want to explain all of her fears right now. Some of them felt utterly stupid.

She couldn’t deny that she loved Gale, ambitions and all. What else could it be but love that kept her at his side? She’d abandoned relationships for far less in the past. No, she was certain with her entire being that she loved him more than she had ever loved anyone. But this path of godhood that he kept hinting at…if he was determined to follow it, it was a path she couldn’t take with him. She just wasn’t interested in abandoning this chaotic, colorful world just yet. Not for the Fugue Plane, not for an illithid life, not for godhood, not for anything.

But if she wouldn’t follow him…what then? The thought of leaving him or of him leaving her threatened to break her heart. She felt as though she’d never recover.

But she couldn’t say all that to him now. It felt petty and selfish to admit that the only reason she didn’t want him to become more powerful was because she was scared he’d leave her behind. She was petty and selfish, but Gale inspired goodness in her. It was ironic, truly. The very qualities that had inspired her to become a better person were the same qualities that he would give up if he continued to pursue the path of godhood for the “betterment of all,” as he’d boasted to Lorroakan that morning.

But what did she know, she thought bitterly to herself. She had never intimately known a god nor harbored ambition enough to actively plot to dethrone one.

Still…if she could at all sway him…

“Listen,” she said, eyes still on the fire. “I believe you’re capable of so many great things, Gale. I believe in you. Always have, always will. But when it comes to this plan with the crown…”

“All I am asking is that you consider it,” he said.

She made a helpless gesture with one hand. “I don’t even know how I could. How can I respond to something so…immense? It’s beyond comprehension. I want to understand, but I don’t.”

He was quiet for a moment before chuckling softly and shaking his head. “I don’t think I deserve you at times.”

“Gale,” Dani said softly, his name almost a resigned sigh as she said it. She didn’t want to hear this again. But Gale held up a hand.

“Please. Let me finish.” He paused, seeming to gather his thoughts, before taking a deep breath. “I watched how you handled the events with Cazador and Astarion today. You showed nothing but compassion and courage. Your heart bled for the victims in their cages. You sought a way to save as many people as you could, despite impossible odds. And you didn’t allow Astarion’s desperation or impassioned speeches to sway you or change your mind.”

“I didn’t want to lose one of my best friends,” she said. “If Astarion had ascended…he wouldn’t be Astarion anymore.”

“I know. Yet it could have been so easy to give in. To let him have his way, simply because you are his friend. But you didn’t. You appealed to a nobler part of him, risking your friendship to keep him from changing. From transforming into something more. Something sinister.” Gale paused again, glancing back at Astarion across the room. His expression softened into a thoughtful, yet sorrowful look. “I can’t help but wonder. Do you see the same kind of choice when you look at me?”

She didn’t answer, but her silence was answer enough. She looked back at the flames, watching them crackle and spark, letting them fill the silence. 

“I hope that isn’t your final judgment of me,” he said. “I hope that you can give me another chance to earn your faith. I want you to continue to believe in me. I want to show you the wizard I am capable of being, rather than the poor excuse for a man who’s kept you company thus far.”

“Gale, stop,” she said, finally turning to face him fully, twisting in her chair. “Stop calling yourself a poor excuse for a man. That isn’t what I think of you. I know I get frustrated with you, but it’s because I see so much good in you.” She reached for his hand and enveloped it in both of her own. “I don’t want to lose you to the Crown any more than I wanted to lose Astarion to Cazador’s power. You mean everything to me, Gale. Worth more even than music and magic.”

“You won’t lose me,” Gale said, tightening his hold on her hand. “If anything, you’ll gain so much more for being with me. Please. Let me show you.”

“Gale—”

“Even if a permanent place in the heavens isn’t for us, at least allow me a chance to show you what it would be like. Indulge me. Close your eyes. Allow me to take you on a little boat voyage.”

She frowned, wanting to resist. But she could tell this was important to him. She breathed a small sigh and closed her eyes, keeping one hand in his. 

She heard him murmur a spell and felt the aura of magic shift around her, the warmth of the Elfsong Tavern room giving way to much cooler air. Her skin tingled all over with the touch of magic, while Gale’s hand remained solid and warm in her own.

“Few mortals ever glimpse what you’re about to see. But don’t be alarmed—I’m here with you.” He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “Now…open your eyes.”

When she opened her eyes, she found herself seated in a glowing blue boat with Gale sitting across from her. All around them, the sky, the space below, all of it was filled with scattered stars and clouds of purple, pink, and blue stardust. The galaxies and starfields stretched on infinitely around them, swirling peacefully in silence. Their boat drifted easily along a current of shimmering magic and when she lifted her free hand over the edge of the boat, her fingers caused tiny motes of starlight to drift and float through the air.

“Quite the view, isn’t it?” Gale said, looking around them. “The Outer Planes are a place of profound, sometimes overwhelming possibility.”

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered. She gazed out over the infinite expanse, waiting to feel that reeling, terrifying sensation of being suspended over a void, but it didn’t come. She was safe in Gale’s little boat, his hold on her hand grounding her and keeping her steady. 

“The home of the gods,” he continued. “Where they observe us from afar. Where they make play-things of us. Such power…infinite possibilities…how could I not crave this?”

She fell silent, focusing instead on the specks of starlight that fanned out behind her fingers, watching them dance briefly in the atmosphere and fade. He said it so simply, as though it were natural to crave such wondrous power. And maybe it was. Maybe she was the fool for limiting her desires to the Material Plane.

Not for the first time, she burned with jealousy toward Mystra and hated all that she had gifted Gale. All that she had made Gale capable of. How could a mere bard compare to a goddess who allowed him to tap into the mysteries of magic itself? And even now, with Gale hardly interested in reconciling with the goddess, who was she compared to all the power of the crown? Who was she compared to all this?

Gale could have this again. This and more. And she, with her small dreams and her fragile love, a love that would only last a mortal lifetime…she would fade into obscurity. Even if she managed to secure a legacy for her name, her body would rot in its grave and her soul would wander the Fugue Plane for an eternity until some god took pity on her and accepted her into their domain.

Perhaps if Gale became a god, he would be the one to take pity. She’d dwell forever in his domain of stars as one among a million other souls. One more copper in a vast bank, utterly forgotten by him, yet unable to escape him. The thought churned her gut and threatened to make her sick.

She swallowed, half-preparing herself for the worst outcomes for the rest of this conversation. “Is this really, truly what you want? To ascend? To claim godhood?”

“No, not like that,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I don’t want to join them, I want to better them—with you at my side, willing and wholehearted. Together we could become better than gods. We could have all of a god’s power with a mortal conscience, a mortal heart. I can think of no better candidate for redefining godhood than you.”

“I don’t want godhood,” she said. “I know you think it sounds insane that I don’t, and maybe it is, but…” She shook her head. “I’ve read too many stories, too many tragic ballads about what happens to mortals who ascend to godhood. They change, Gale. And they leave the ones they love behind.”

Gale sat back, a little surprised. “Is that what you think I intend to do to you?”

“Not immediately. But who knows how you would change once all that power was coursing through you. You saw how Cazador was—you saw how hungry Astarion was to claim that power. You know it would have changed him. Think how much more godhood would change you.”

“But it wouldn’t be true godhood,” he said, tightening his hold on her hand. “The power of gods would be at our fingertips, yes, but we could be—we could find a way to—”

“Stop with the bullshit,” Dani snapped, snatching her hand from his. “You can’t even articulate it because there’s nothing else to call it. You want to use the power of the crown to become a god. That kind of power corrupts, Gale. And if that’s what you want then—then—“

Her throat tightened suddenly with the threat of tears and she looked away, struggling to compose herself. She hated crying, especially here, where there was nowhere to hide, but there was no stopping the emotions building up inside her. She hid her face briefly behind her hand, but it was no use. The wide expansive of pink and purple starlight winked back at her and illuminated the flood of tears that welled up in her eyes.

Gale reached for her hands again. “Dani, I—”

She shook off his touch. “Don’t. I can’t—I can’t let you do this,” she said, the tears spilling down her cheeks. “Please. I know what you’d become and it would be nothing like the man you are now. And no matter how you would try to justify things or convince me to join you, I could never bring myself to abandon my family like that. Never. So in the end you would leave me behind, because nothing about me is enough to convince you to stay. So you’d leave, I know you would, because that’s how power works. It corrupts, it—“ She was rambling now, not making sense, her words a tangle on her tongue.

“Dani, please,” he begged, getting on his knees on the floor of the boat, taking both of her hands in his. “None of that is going to happen.”

“Isn’t it?” she asked. “Look me in the eye and swear to me that the moment your humanity is stripped away in your ascension that you won’t forget tiny, insignificant, mortal me, the lover you’re leaving behind, the moment I refused to ascend with you.”

He hesitated for just a fraction of a second, but it was enough to confirm her fears. She snatched her hands from his again and used the heels of her palms to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

“Gods, I hate you,” she mumbled, but it was a complete lie. The fact was she loved him too much. Desired him too selfishly to let him reach for godly power. She swallowed and amended her statement. “Not you. This. I hate this. Sorry.”

It was his turn to be silent in the face of her confessions and her tears. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes and breathed softly through her nose until at last she felt calm enough to speak. Then she took a shaky breath and reached out to cradle his face in her hands. 

“Please, Gale,” she said quietly. “Don’t do this. I don’t need the stars. I don’t need eternity. I just want you. For all that you are right now. I love you for the man that you are, not the god you’d pretend to be.”

He stared up at her, stricken but amazed, his hands resting on her knees. There was a faint glimmer in his eyes that could either be tears or the reflection of the stars around them, but when he blinked the glimmer was gone.

“You…you would really prefer me as I am?” he asked softly. 

“Yes,” she said. There was no room for doubt in her heart, nor any in her words. “You’re already everything I need you to be and more. Just…please. Let me be enough for you. Let me find a way.”

“Oh Dani,” he breathed. He rose to one knee and slipped one hand behind her head, guiding her down into a deep kiss that stole her breath and made her a little dizzy. She clutched the fabric of his shirt, trying to bring him closer and steady herself at the same time, trying to convey all the desperate longing and fear she couldn’t put into words silently through their kiss.

He pulled away, breathless, cradling her cheek in his palm. “I used to believe Mystra’s forgiveness was worth dying for. Or that the only way forward was to challenge her. But I was wrong. You showed me just how much I have to live for, here, on mortal soil. With you, I forget my goddess. With you, I want to live. With you…I even forget my greater ambitions. You put the very stars to shame, Dani.”

She felt her breath hitch as her eyes widened slightly. Of all the things she was expecting to hear him say, those words were not it. She searched his face for signs that he’d changed his mind, and found him staring back at her earnestly, dark eyes full of love and longing. For the first time that day, she dared herself to hope, just a little.

“I don’t deserve you,” he said. “And I could never leave you behind. Godly power, I can live without, but you? You’re everything.”

She stared, half-disbelieving, but his gaze was sincere and warm and so full of love she couldn’t help but be convinced. She curled her fingers around his wrist, not sure what to say next, but he merely smiled, grateful and tender, and brushed her cheek with the pad of his thumb. 

“I love you,” he murmured.

“I love you, too,” she whispered, leaning in to kiss him again.

He guided her off the seat of the boat down onto the floorboards, dismissing the benches with an idle wave of his hand to make room for them to lay down at the bottom of the boat. There he kissed her, breathing her in as naturally as if she were air, and she lost herself in his warm touch. The galaxies above swirled dream-like and slow overhead as their fingers found each others’ buttons and laces, their clothes slipping off with practiced ease, until both lay bare beneath the infinite sky, her pale blue skin tinged a faint shade of lavender by the light of the pink-purple stardust.

She combed her fingers through his hair as he kissed all over her, sighing and arching her back as he worshipped her body more than he’d ever done before, as if he were making up for a litany of mistakes. She could scarcely think straight yet she tried to encourage him with her words, breathing out her love and pleasure in half-lucid lyric fragments and shaky swears alike. He lavished love on her with his mouth, his teeth, his tongue, his hands, until at last he joined their bodies together and she unraveled. Every tangled thought and emotion unwound itself as pleasure coursed through her veins until they were both left spent, lying on the floor of the softly glowing boat, and she was left with nothing but her love for him and a dazed sense of amazement that here, amid the infinite expanse of stars and magic, he had chosen her.

Some time later, as they lay gazing up at the stars, with Gale fingers threading idly through her long, loose hair, he turned and brushed a kiss against her head. “I’m sorry for upsetting you,” he said quietly. “I had no idea you felt so strongly about…well.”

She wrapped her arms more tightly around him. “I love you, Gale. I don’t want to lose you to anything. Not even this. As pretty as it is. You’ll have to forgive me for being so selfish with you.”

He chuckled, kissing her hair again. “There’s nothing at all to forgive, my love. Be selfish with me.”

They contemplated the stars and auroras that surrounded their little boat, words lost between them for a moment, until at last Gale, trailing gentle fingers down her arm, began to speak again softly.

“I conjured this illusion often during my confinement in Waterdeep,” he said. “An escape for the mind, where there was none for the body. It was easier to stare at the celestial abyss than recognize the emptiness within myself. Easier to pretend my destiny lay among such stars, than work to salvage a life on solid ground.” 

He turned his head and she lifted her chin so she could meet his gaze again, her heart aching for him. She could all too easily imagine him locked in his tower, conjuring images of these galaxies and planes, desperate to be outside the walls that enclosed him for a year. Longing to be back among infinite beauty, rather than confined and seemingly trapped in a small set of rooms on the mundane Material Plane. She had thought the illusion he had conjured of his home in Waterdeep was charming and wonderful…but she could see how it must have felt like a prison to him.

“You changed all that,” he murmured, gazing down at her. “You see me as I am, and do not find me wanting.”

He seemed a little awed by that, but not disbelieving. She smiled and sat up, straddling his hips and taking his hands, lifting them up to her lips for a kiss to each one. Her long hair trailed down around her, the ends brushing against her thighs, against his bare chest and stomach. She held his hands, weaving their fingers together, and pushed his arms up so that they stretched over his head, leaning in to kiss him sweetly, her lips lingering on his.

“I will never find you wanting,” she murmured against his lips.

“Nor I, you,” he said. He freed one hand from her grip to move her hair from her face, gathering it all over one shoulder so the light of the galaxies and stars beyond could shine on her face again. “With these stars as my witness, I swear—you will always be enough for me.”

She stilled at those words, letting them wash over her and settle into her skin, into her chest, processing them. His words, the emotion behind them, the loving determination in his eyes, all of his was genuine, heartfelt, and deeply, deeply meant. It threatened to reduce Dani to tears again, but this time she swallowed them back and kissed him again, letting him know with every ounce of her being what that promise meant to her.

She thought she could never love him more than she already did. But hearing that promise from him—that she would always be enough for him—made her heart practically ache with love for him. She smothered his face with kisses until she was breathless, and he in turn tried to catch or return every one until he gave up and allowed himself to be smothered with a chuckle.

“I love you, Gale Dekarios,” she said at last, still hovering over him, her hair a curtain on one side of them both. 

He smiled up at her and reached up to brush her cheek. “And I love you, Meridan Zavrai. I always will.”

[carnalapples]

My Year in Writing: 2024

Thank you @theluckywizard for the tag!! I'm not sure who hasn't done this yet, so OPEN INVITATION to brag about your writing!! I want to see it <3

Words Written: 132,589

Fics Published: 23

Fandoms: Dragon Age, Mass Effect, Dishonored (!!), The Hunger Games, Rogue Trader

Favorite Fics:

1. anatomy of a haunted heart - DA: Awakening, Nathaniel/Velanna, time loops and haunted houses

I really challenged myself to do this fic, I'm terrified of writing long fics on a deadline, but I wanted to do something different. I fell in love with both Velanna and Nathaniel while writing this fic, and I tried really hard to match up to the vision I had in my head--while that vision wasn't super clear, and I'm not sure if this did match up, I'm really happy with how it ended up!!

2. four and twenty blackbirds - Dishonored, Corvo/Granny Rags, a love letter to Granny Rags

This is another fic I got weird with, I wrote this for an exchange, and I was originally going to write Geoff Curnow/Corvo, but then Granny Rags took over my entire brain. She's just so interesting and the fic kind of got away from me. I had so much fun putting this together!

3. cut down at the garden's gate - Dragon Age 2, Hawke/Sebastian, political marriage forces you to confront your feelings for your ex, more at 11

Again, this was a challenge, and I do love how this ended up. There are sections I might rewrite, but I was really proud of finishing on a deadline (despite many issues I had with continuity haha, I'm not much of a multichap writer so even 3 chapters was tricky for me!) I think I wrote this in a rush, but I think otherwise I never would have finished this story, and I really wanted to finish and share it.

Most Used Tags: Sexual Content, Post-Canon, Canon Compliant

Highest Kudos: follow me into the dark - Mass Effect, Shepard/Tali after Rannoch.

Highest Hit Oneshot: also follow me into the dark, haha

New Things I Tried: Time-based challenges! i.e. a DA Big Bang, and the WIP Big Bang... And I tried DADWC and really ended up liking it!! I think it did a lot to help me learn how to write without judgment and just get a story or concept out, and I used a lot of what I wrote and learned from DADWC as inspiration to write or finish larger stories.

Fic I Spent the Most Time On: dead winter in the forgotten land (Dragon Age), this was like two years in the making lol

Fic I Spent the Least Time On: I think savior complex (THG); I wrote it as a pinch-hit for a Hunger Games exchange, which was super fun!

Favorite Things I Read: I read so much amazing stuff this year but here are 3 that come to mind:

dirt romantic by rowanisawriter (@rowanisawriter) GUYS this fic... Peak romance, peak Zevran, the relationship between Zevran and a Cousland Warden is one of pining and differences in status and constantly shifting boundaries and Rowan writes that perfectly. Please read this and come be ill about Zevran with me....

Eat, Drink, Poison by elo_elo (@junkbabelna): This is a Cullen/Trevelyan modern AU--I aspire to write modern AUs like theirs, I love the details and the atmosphere so much. I think that they have such a knack for just getting to the heart of a character and what shaped them that way!!

a soft place to fall by petruchio (@petruchio): This was a gorgeous fic about Johanna coming back to District 12 after the war, I really love the way her recovery is portrayed and how all of the characters are struggling to adapt to a life that's in their control.

Biggest Surprises: I think that I’m capable of writing longer pieces? I was flying blind for both the longer pieces I did on deadline and somehow finished on time. I reread "anatomy of a haunted heart" the other day and I still can't believe I did that, lol. It was very scary, but I'm proud of it.

What I Learned: To keep writing when I'm feeling discouraged, sometimes I write a piece and I think it's mediocre, but when I go back and compare it to things I had written before, there is definitely growth there. I've been rereading what I wrote this year since I was feeling like I was rushing through pieces and they weren't as good, but I was really proud of some of the works I put out! So I guess I've had to keep in mind that I'm always changing, even if that's not evident at all times.

What I Want to Write Next Year: I want to try writing horror--I think that would be a real challenge for me, but I love reading it. I want to do more outlined/planned out fics. I want to finish at least 3 of my WIPs: my arranged marriage AU, the last part to a Bollywood series i posted, and my post-destroy fic!

Most importantly, thank you to everyone who has read, commented on, and supported my writing--I would not have written without y'all, and I'm so happy to have found this community of people who also feel that writing and reading are necessary to them!! It makes writing so much more fun, I'm really grateful to have you 💕💕

[findroleplay]

25 [F4A] Desperately hunting for the Hunger Games, Fourth Wing and other fandoms!

Hi there! I’m a female writer aged 25 seeking other adult (18+) writers to work with. I’m advanced literate and super friendly. I love gushing about characters, discussing aesthetics and sharing music and muse that suits our story and vibe. I do enjoy chatting ooc but it isn’t a must for me! Just please be patient and kind as I am slightly neurodiverse and I do have mild dyslexia. Though I do check replies for spelling errors sometimes, mistakes do happen!

I’m looking for some awesome and exciting fandom adventures across a range of works. Books, musicals and movies/tv shows, I do ask that if you dm, please have a good knowledge of your chosen fandom. Please also be an experienced roleplayer as well. I’m looking for those of you who use third person, past tense and detail. I typically write around 5-6 paras as a minimum and would love it if you can match!

I can double but at the moment all of my roleplays are doubles. If you’re seeking doubles please be respectful and ask nicely, please don’t be offended if I say no. I’m looking for oc x canon pairing ships and I’ll list everything I’m looking for below. The characters in the below list are who I am looking for to pair with my oc, I am not looking to play them.

Anyone in this list is who I ship with, for some fandoms I may be willing to choose alternate ships. But if I have to rewrite my oc or do anything extra to make it work, doubles will likely be a no. As doubles should be fifty fifty and equal for both ocs in the story! I am specifically searching for what is listed below, if your fandom isn’t listed then I’m very sorry but I’m not interested. I am just looking for the below fandoms. Today I happen to be craving high fantasy or supernatural verses! Characters will also be aged up as appropriate.

Fandoms:

Fourth Wing- Oc x Liam, Oc x Xaden I could even consider Bodhi or Dain- but I have loose plot ideas for these two. I am however new to this fandom and currently reading book three. I’d still appreciate people being respectful if asking for this fandom. However my muse is high and I’d love to do something with this.

MCU- I would be looking for Bucky or Steve primarily. But I do have other ships and would be open to looking at them. But Bucky and Steve would be my main pairings for this verse! I have also just started Agent Carter and would love to explore this part of the verse too.

ACOTAR- I have too many pairings to list. But I’d be looking for a Cassian mainly, I’d love to find someone who’s read the fifth book as that’s what I’ve based a bunch of my oc’s lore surrounding him off of. I could also work with Rhysand or Azriel.

Shadowhunters- This really depends on the era. I’ve read all of The Mortal Instruments and would be looking for oc x Jace or oc x Julian Blackthorn- era dependant of course.

Hunger Games- Oc x Haymitch, Oc x Finnick, Oc x Gale, and oc x Coriolanus. I have also read all the original trilogy and TBOSAS many times. I have however just started Sunrise on the Reaping.

Percy Jackson- Oc x Luke, Oc x Charles Beckendorf and Oc x Frank, Oc x Leo Valdez.

Those are my fandoms, if you wish to write in them please let me know. I’m looking for enthusiastic knowledgeable people who’d like to explore canon worlds! If you want Fourth Wing I do ask that you have a good working knowledge of the fandom and are of course patient and respectful to me while I get caught up.

In your initial dm please send an emoji that fits the verse. Tell me a little about your writing experience and please be prepared to send a writing sample as well, I am happy to send one too. Just so we can be sure we’re a good fit before moving else where. I do tend to prefer discord just because it’s easier to manage everything, for those interested my user is eleanorewinchester . Have a nice day/night and I hope to hear from some of you wonderful writers soon!

-

[roleplayfinder]

Desperately hunting for the Hunger Games, Fourth Wing and other fandoms!

Hi there! I’m a female writer aged 25 seeking other adult (18+) writers to work with. I’m advanced literate and super friendly. I love gushing about characters, discussing aesthetics and sharing music and muse that suits our story and vibe. I do enjoy chatting ooc but it isn’t a must for me! Just please be patient and kind as I am slightly neurodiverse and I do have mild dyslexia. Though I do check replies for spelling errors sometimes, mistakes do happen!

I’m looking for some awesome and exciting fandom adventures across a range of works. Books, musicals and movies/tv shows, I do ask that if you dm, please have a good knowledge of your chosen fandom. Please also be an experienced roleplayer as well. I’m looking for those of you who use third person, past tense and detail. I typically write around 5-6 paras as a minimum and would love it if you can match!

I can double but at the moment all of my roleplays are doubles. If you’re seeking doubles please be respectful and ask nicely, please don’t be offended if I say no. I’m looking for oc x canon pairing ships and I’ll list everything I’m looking for below. The characters in the below list are who I am looking for to pair with my oc, I am not looking to play them.

Anyone in this list is who I ship with, for some fandoms I may be willing to choose alternate ships. But if I have to rewrite my oc or do anything extra to make it work, doubles will likely be a no. As doubles should be fifty fifty and equal for both ocs in the story! I am specifically searching for what is listed below, if your fandom isn’t listed then I’m very sorry but I’m not interested. I am just looking for the below fandoms. Today I happen to be craving high fantasy or supernatural verses! Characters will also be aged up as appropriate.

Fandoms:

Fourth Wing- Oc x Liam, Oc x Xaden I could even consider Bodhi or Dain- but I have loose plot ideas for these two. I am however new to this fandom and currently reading book three. I’d still appreciate people being respectful if asking for this fandom. However my muse is high and I’d love to do something with this.

MCU- I would be looking for Bucky or Steve primarily. But I do have other ships and would be open to looking at them. But Bucky and Steve would be my main pairings for this verse! I have also just started Agent Carter and would love to explore this part of the verse too.

ACOTAR- I have too many pairings to list. But I’d be looking for a Cassian mainly, I’d love to find someone who’s read the fifth book as that’s what I’ve based a bunch of my oc’s lore surrounding him off of. I could also work with Rhysand or Azriel.

Shadowhunters- This really depends on the era. I’ve read all of The Mortal Instruments and would be looking for oc x Jace or oc x Julian Blackthorn- era dependant of course.

Hunger Games- Oc x Haymitch, Oc x Finnick, Oc x Gale, and oc x Coriolanus. I have also read all the original trilogy and TBOSAS many times. I have however just started Sunrise on the Reaping.

Percy Jackson- Oc x Luke, Oc x Charles Beckendorf and Oc x Frank, Oc x Leo Valdez.

Those are my fandoms, if you wish to write in them please let me know. I’m looking for enthusiastic knowledgeable people who’d like to explore canon worlds! If you want Fourth Wing I do ask that you have a good working knowledge of the fandom and are of course patient and respectful to me while I get caught up.

In your initial dm please send an emoji that fits the verse. Tell me a little about your writing experience and please be prepared to send a writing sample as well, I am happy to send one too. Just so we can be sure we’re a good fit before moving else where. I do tend to prefer discord just because it’s easier to manage everything. For those interested my discord user is eleanorewinchester . Have a nice day/night and I hope to hear from some of you wonderful writers soon!

.

[theevilcactus]

ao3 author ask game !!

tagged by @wheelsupin-azarathmetrionzinthos. thanks!!!

total number of ao3 works: 48

total ao3 word count: 321,966. Wow, that's more than I thought it was

fandoms i’ve written for: Hannibal, Fear Street movies, MCU, Doctor Who, The Umbrella Academy, PJO, The Hunger Games, X-Men, Buzzfeed Unsolved, The Addams Family, The Grimrose Girls, Star Wars sequel trilogy, Batman.

Several of these were crossovers, and several are fandoms I never expect to write for again.

EDIT: and Play It By Ear and Off Book. How the hell did I forget Play It By Ear and Off Book

top five fics by kudos:

#thatjacksonkid - PJO

He's Creepy and He's Kooky - Hannibal, The Addams Family

The Odd Abduction of Percy Jackson - PJO, Buzzfeed Unsolved

#thatjacksonsequel - PJO

six feet under - Batman (all media types)

I hadn't realized Corte Corbata wasn't in my top 5 anymore. That makes me kind of sad, but oh well. Or Second Chances, which was my OG popular fic, even if it's not one I think back on a whole lot.

Looks like the entire #thatjacksonkid series is on here, which checks out.

do i respond to comments?: I try to. I don't have the time or energy to respond to them on a day-by-day basis, so usually I'll wait a few months and then reply to all of the comments that have built up in that time at once. I definitely read them all as they show up, though.

what has the most angst ridden ending?: Definitely Haunted. It's an angst-ridden mess written while I was off my meds and going through a depressive episode. I don't recommend it.

what has the happiest ending?: Most of my fics have happy, or relatively happy, endings. I tend to write angst with a happy/hopeful ending a lot. I'd say the happiest is probably Second Chances, which was a time travel fix-it of Infinity War. They successfully fixed it with minimal angst, from what I remember.

have i received hate?: No, or at least, not that I can remember. I received unwanted constructive criticism once, which was annoying, but it wasn't mean.

do i write smut? if so, what kind?: I have, but not often. I've only ever posted one smut fic and it was on anonymous, so good luck finding it lol

do i write crossovers?: Yes. They're not all of what I write, but I've certainly been known to write a crossover.

have i ever had a fic stolen?: Not that I'm aware of.

have i ever had a fic translated?: No, but I have had fics made into podfics, and one turned into blackout poetry by a friend.

have i ever co-written a fic?: Yes! There was one I was co-writing with a friend a few years ago that never got finished or posted (and we aren't friends anymore, so it never will be) but I was also a part of a Hannibal discord server for a while that did a round robin writing thing, and we posted a couple of those.

a WIP i’ll never finish?: to strike a match, definitely. That whole au was really badly written (and plotted, for that matter) and I never want to touch it again. I've dabbled with a rewrite, although I doubt that'll ever get very far, but at this point a rewrite would be so far away from the original that it couldn't reasonably be considered the same thing. More like a new fic spawned from the same base idea, with little-to-no similarity to the original fic.

writing strengths: Character studies or "character coping with their trauma" type fics, very focused on internal thoughts and feelings.

writing weaknesses: Action scenes of any kind.

do i like foreign language dialogue?: I don't really have an opinion on it, I guess?

first fandom i wrote for: Warriors, back before I even knew fanfiction was a thing. That was the first fandom I posted for, too, back in my ffn.net days.

favorite fic i’ve written: My 1978 au of Fear Street, especially it would eat you like poison (if you knew what i knew). Absolutely incredible fic, I'm very proud of it. The post-horror-movie angst is such a good playground for me to work in.

Tagging @cosmicoceanfic @alpacasandravens @gottaread2 and @ anyone else who wants to do it

[jpdoingwords]

Assassin's Creed Odyssey Fanfiction

Three long fics and a bunch of shorts, drabble, and incomplete fics. Multiple ships, mostly mlm, some het.

All works are rated M unless otherwise noted, because there is canon-typical violence at times and there are multiple mild sex scenes. Some of these works are explicit - please be sure to check before reading if you aren't into that.

All on AO3 unless otherwise noted.

Assassin's Creed Odyssey Fanfiction

The Good Spartan

aka. the Alexidas The Good Spartan Summary: It's 431 BCE. Brasidas prepares to take up his first major posting, unaware of all that lays before him in the coming years of the Peloponnesian War. The story is told almost entirely from Brasidas' perspective and follows him from before his first major historical action at Methone to his last, at Amphipolis. This is a crossover between AC Odyssey and Thucydides' history, The Peloponnesian War, favouring Thucydides. I am being as historically accurate as I can, game canon is paid lip service at best. Historical notes are included at the end of each chapter.

Another Life: [Alternative Ending of The Good Spartan]. Summary: Brasidas survives the Battle of Amphipolis, thanks to Alexios' visit to the Underworld; but even before the battle, he knew he'd never go back to Sparta. He's no longer a good Spartan, nor willing to make the sacrifices required to go on pretending to be one. He just needs to persuade Alexios, and recover from his wounds… and together, find somewhere they might have a little peace.

Hunger, Desire, Anger, Roads [WIP] A collection of short pieces of writing and some art associated with characters (including OCs) and events around The Good Spartan, as it's currently published and alternative versions. These include threads taken from the original version of the fic and reworked; alternative points of view which develop characters who necessarily have no voice in the published fic; and a variety of other exploratory pieces set within this AU. They're all part of the framework around which The Good Spartan grew - and continues to grow.

Another Kind of Odyssey

aka. the Thalexios The Warmth of Home Summary: After the events of Odyssey, Alexios has been hiding from the world, loitering in the northern regions of Greece. When he decides to return to Athens for the winter, Demosthenes seeks him out for a job only he can do - whether he wants to or not. This leads him to cross paths with Thaletas again, discovering that this old flame burns the brightest of all.

Love Me in Storms [WIP] Summary: Following on from the Warmth of Home, Alexios and Thaletas face the challenge of making their relationship clear to their families back in Sparta, with mixed results. This fic fills in some relatively large gaps left between the original Warmth of Home (now completely rewritten) and Unfinished Business (rewrite currently underway), as well as taking some of the plot points out of Unfinished Business entirely and putting them here, in this new context. This is necessary to smooth over some serious timeline problems

Unfinished Business Summary: Stentor arrives at Stymphalos, where Thaletas and Alexios settled four years previously. He comes with a message: Alcibiades is in Sparta, and wants to see Alexios - urgently. Answering this request will sweep them into events they could not foresee. I’ve used many historical details to make this story and glossed over some others. I’ve added footnotes to expand on all of that, including references where applicable.

The Turning Tide Summary: Spring, 413BCE. The Peace of Nikias has ended. Sparta and Athens are at one another's throats again. Before the Peace, Sparta was having few successes; but they have a plan they hope will turn the tide against Athens... Against this backdrop of renewed hostilities, Alexios and Thaletas are called upon to complete a mission for King Agis, which will test them and their relationship in ways they haven’t been tested before...

In the Heart of Things Summary: 412BCE. Reunited after a difficult year, Alexios and Thaletas have been sent to Chios by King Agis to keep an eye on the situation there as the theatre of the Peloponnesian War shifts eastwards, into the islands. There, they will discover more than they could have bargained for about themselves and their people, and what it is that lies at the heart of things...

A Few Olives Summary: Alexios decided to buy a farm. Thaletas went along with it. But the plan was not what he had expected, but then nothing ever had been with Alexios. This is the story of a relationship that has grown up in difficult times, and peace is now the hardest thing to deal with. Thaletas struggles to know himself, and Alexios doesn’t understand. Sometimes things must break before they can be reformed.

The Fire and the Flood

aka. The Alexithenes This series is rated E. An Athenian Summer Summary: Early in the War, Alexios allows Socrates to lure him to Athens for the summer. During his stay in the city, his relationship with Demosthenes, not yet a general of Athens, will change significantly... But as the war rages on, will the pressures of the messy world beyond Athens' walls bring the pair together or drive them apart? This story takes liberties with canon; as much as possible, I try to keep characters true to their game-selves; original characters are mostly secondary characters, though of necessity I have provided Demosthenes with more character than he had in the game.

The Blue Cloak Alexios and Timotheos are flirting with the idea of being an item when, in order to help the brothers move past the events in canon, Alexios comes up with a plan to further Lykinos' dream of being a poet in Athens. Things take an unexpected turn when Alexios finds himself waking up aboard the Adrestia wearing a cloak he has never seen before.... aka. drunk Alexios gets himself into a situation. This is the edited version of a story previously published as So it is With Us. This version has an additional chapter added at the end and has been rewritten in parts, particularly the first half.

Short and Experimental Pieces

aka. The Deimos fic Shadow-Twin He felt like neither Deimos nor Alexios. They were two skins he’d shed - and what remained now? What new skin might he grow? Who might he become? They’d all demanded answers of him at one time or another. They’d all asked where he’d been when he went out, what he’d been doing. With concern or with curiosity or what they perhaps thought of as friendship. What they meant was: Let me in. Tell me who are you. He gave always the same reply: a grunt. How could he answer that when he didn’t know?

From the Darkness, Light: Brasidas & Deimos!Kassandra Having failed to keep his involvement in the assassination of the Monger in Korinth under wraps, Brasidas is sent by the Kings to Paros on a 'special mission' which he suspects is a punishment. His task is to find a missing lokhagos, but what he uncovers is far bigger and darker than the abduction of one man.

aka the Herodietas (Thaletas x Herodianos) Rising to the Surface: Rated E for the first two parts. After the events during the Mykonos arc of the story, Thaletas is left behind to face the consequences of Alexios' actions. Herodianos, who has been his loyal friend for a long time, does everything he can to comfort him - and so the hands of the Fates are set to work. This was an exercise in writing - Smut, Fluff and Angst, a chapter for each, in that order. Features the power of puppies to dispel the pain of existence.

It Was Just Red (Gen). "Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red." Kait Rakowski This story was prompted by a post I saw recently on Tumblr. It showed Kass sitting at the empty table back in Sparta during the final dinner scene, against which the poster had written something along the lines of: this is the best possible ending – the least amount of Spartans left alive. The following work is an exercise in exploring what that outcome might look like, and seeks to detail some sense of the possible shifting feelings Alexios might have around losing his whole family, mostly at his own hands (a version of the game I’ve never played and frankly never will) and to explore the main question this post prompted in me: Is there a way in which I might believe this could be the best outcome? Fair warning: This work doesn’t honour the game timeline, and as always, I'm disinterested in strict compliance with canon. It’s canon divergent from the get-go simply because it’s Alexios, anyway.

Odyssey Shorts Summary: This is a collection of odds and ends I wrote alongside longer pieces, mainly in response to prompt lists. So far, these consist of: Four based on the tarot: Alexios as a teenager throwing himself into the sea to Anais' horror (an early version of a piece included in It Was Only Red); Brasidas finding himself in the Underworld (a tiny fix-it fic); a tentative beginning to a Daphnae fic I've always contemplated writing; a scene with Demosthenes and Alexios which fits nowhere else; two snippets of modern day AU with an Alexidas focus; and a random Brasidas x reader which I have never written before and quite likely won't again. I will be adding to this collection in time, as I continue working through existing beginning and maybe a few little new things.

[theultimatefandomnerd]

25 [F4A] Calling all fandom and musical lovers for 1x1 roleplays!

Hi there! I’m a female writer aged 25 seeking other adults to write with (18+ MNDI) , I’m advanced literate and super friendly. I love gushing about characters, discussing aesthetics and sharing music and muse that suits our story and vibe. I do enjoy chatting ooc but it isn’t a must for me! Just please be patient and kind as I am slightly neurodiverse and I do have mild dyslexia. Though I do check replies for spelling errors sometimes, mistakes do happen!

I’m looking for some awesome and exciting fandom adventures across a range of works. Books, musicals and movies/tv shows, I do ask that if you dm, please have a good knowledge of your chosen fandom. Please also be an experienced roleplayer as well. I’m looking for those of you who use third person, past tense and detail. I typically write around 5-6 paras as a minimum and would love it if you can match!

I can double but at the moment all of my roleplays are doubles. If you’re seeking doubles please be respectful and ask nicely, please don’t be offended if I say no. I’m looking for oc x canon pairing ships and I’ll list everything I’m looking for below. The characters in the below list are who I am looking for to pair with my girly, I am not looking to play them.

Anyone in this list is who I ship with, for some fandoms I may be willing to choose alternate ships. But if I have to rewrite my oc or do anything extra to make it work, doubles will likely be a no. As doubles should be fifty fifty and equal for both ocs in the story!

The fandoms I am desperately searching for are:

MUSICALS:

Heathers - OC x JD.

Les Mis - OC x Marius. My oc for this fandom isn’t as fleshed out, but I’m craving Cinderella vibes.

Wicked- OC x Fiyero/ OC x Boq/ OC X new Wizard Please?! I would literally kill for a Wicked roleplay, it doesn’t matter if you’ve read the book, seen the musical and movie or done all three like me! All I ask is that you have a decent knowledge of the version you want to go for.

Phantom- OC x Raoul.

Books:

The Outsiders- OC x Darry/OC x Soda/OC xDallas.

Wicked- OC x Fiyero/OC x Boq/OC x new version of the Wizard.

Percy Jackson- OC x Percy/OC x Luke/ OC x Charles Beckendorf.

Hero’s Of Olympus - OC x Leo/OC x Percy/OC x Leo.

ACOTAR- OC x Cassian/OC x Azriel/OC x Rhysand/ OC x Lucien.

ShadowHunters- OC x Jace/OC x Julian/ OC x Mark.

Hunger games- OC x Finnick.

TBOSAS- OC x Coriolanus.

Movies/TV:

Outer banks- OC x JJ/ OC x John B/OC x Rafe.

TVDU- OC x Klaus/OC x Elijah.

Maxton Hall- OC x James.

The Gentlemen- OC x Edward.

Supernatural- OC x Dean (I am new to this fandom and not super confident with it!).

Pirates of the Caribbean- Oc x Jack/Oc x Will.

Bridgerton- OC x Anthony.

So there you have the master list of all my current fandoms, or the ones I have the most knowledge on! Should you dm please be respectful and kind. Tell me a little about the fandom, the canon you can play and whether or not you do love triangles.If you’re looking for doubles please ask first wether I’ll consider them. Please do not just assume they’re an option! Hopefully I’ll see a few of you in my dms. It would be lovely to find some awesome comfort fandoms and adventures in the above worlds. I do prefer to write over on discord as I find it a bit easier to organise! Please send an emoji that you feel represents the fandom you’ve chosen in your dm.

[realmermaid333]

AO3 Fic Tag Game :)

I was tagged by: @burntblueberrywaffles @suchaladyy @cosmic-lullaby and @nonamemanga

20 questions beneath the cut 😛

How many works do you have on ao3?

26!

What is your ao3 word count?

125,134

What fandoms do you write for?

I write for Wednesday, The Hunger Games, and I'm thinking of maybe writing some Walking Dead fics, we will see! Right now I am focusing on my Wednesday fics though till I finish them.

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

His Little Bedbug

Tipsy Truth Telling

I'll See You Around

Take You Like A Drug

Can't Keep Quiet

Do you respond to comments?

Always! I love responding to comments

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

This is hard to say, so I guess I will list three LOL. Well, I think first place is definitely A Hyde Only Knows One Thing: Pain. But the runner-ups are Don't Let Go of Me, and Nowhere to Go.

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Most of my fics have happy endings because I love happy endings! I love peace and love and joy! But I guess the happiest ending would be Smoke Signals as it is a growing-back-together/reconciliation fics that carries over to Say Yes to Heaven. And I also wanna throw in This Would Have Happened Anyway, which is an old Hunger Games fic I wrote that I plan to go in and re-edit soon haha.

Do you get hate on fics?

Rarely, but yes. I think the only fic I got hate on has been A Burning Hill. Luckily most people are wonderful!

Do you write smut? What kind?

Yes, LOL. Idk what the different kinds of smut are? but I tend to write established relationship smut, it is my fav. I write it pretty graphically, but I like to make it really sweet and comforting. I love romance!

Do you write crossovers?

No, but I think they are neat

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes!!! Smoke Signals was translated into Thai by the amazing @adogfrmhell :)

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes! I co-wrote Take You Like A Drug with my bestie @suchaladyy, and also Wash Away Your Woes with @nonamemanga @suchaladyy and @averyaddamsromance ! it is so fun to cowrite with friends : D

What WIP would you like to finish but doubt you ever will?

I know I will finish it, but A Burning Hill! it is just on the backburner for a while longer.

What's your all time favorite ship?

I guess I'd say everlark because they were my first ever ship! they are just so cozy and forever in my heart.

What are your writing strengths?

I'd say showing emotion and imagery! I have been told I am able to make eyes water and hearts swoon hehe

What are your writing weaknesses?

I just wont shut up sometimes LOL, i tend to give almost too many details and too much imagery. Which I know is not inherently a bad thing, but it makes all my writing pieces so goddamn long lol! I start to feel like Bram Stoker writing Dracula XD. And sometimes I feel like my dialogue can be awkward, which I suppose makes it more realistic, so once again not always bad! i am just best at writing neurodivergent characters maybe hahah

thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I have done this very briefly before, but it was just two words in Spanish for a ritual scene! I would not write tons of dialogue in another language unless I had a beta who spoke that language fluently and who could translate and make sure the translation made sense.

First fandom you ever wrote for?

The Walking Dead! when i was like 12 I wrote TWD fanfic on wattpad LOL.

Favorite fanfic you've ever written?

How could you ask me this? What is wrong with you?

What fic would you want to rewrite one day?

I will be rewriting my Hunger Games one-shots series and reposting each one-shot as its own fic!

tagging: @therulerofallpotatos @wincestation @katwitchwriting @lovepoison9 @thesweetnessofspring and anyone who wants to join in!

[spartanguard]

20 questions for fic writers

Tagged by my bestiest @optomisticgirl <3

how many works do you have on ao3?

55

what's your total ao3 word count?

647,844

what fandoms do you write for?

Just Once Upon a Time (although, technically, I have written one that incorporated enough of The Picture of Dorian Gray that it's listed in my fandoms)

what are your top five fics by kudos?

Something In The Water, Sick of Love, A Tall Tail, A Rose in the Deeps of my Heart, and To Trust Someone Else [kind of bummed that my fave got bumped out of my top 5!]

do you respond to comments? why or why not?

Not on AO3, because I'm weird and like to keep that comment count representative of actual comments. But I try to on tumblr to make sure people know I've seen and appreciate their response!

what's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I guess it depends on definition of angsty...I've definitely had some dramatic scenes close to the end (especially Sons of Love and Death and Even Death Won't Part Us Now), but I can't NOT have a happy ending. I guess the end of (Love Will See Us Through These) Dark Days is pretty bittersweet...but it's inspired by The Hunger Games so that was inevitable ;)

what's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Just about everything, haha. I love having lots of drama along the way, but if it doesn't have a happy end, what's the point?

do you get hate on fics?

Only once; someone got mad because I included KnightRook in We Cannot Choose Our Fate rather than a CS baby. They apparently forgot the 'back' button on their browser was a thing.

do you write smut? if so, what kind?

Hell yeah. The more magic, the better. (also: the wetter, the better. put them together and you get mermaid smut. yes.) But mainly, I just like to do really feelz-y stuff.

do you write crossovers? what's the craziest one you've written?

Not really, but not because I don't like them or anything--I've just never really been inspired to (although there's an idea in the back of my mind involving a Community/OUAT crossover).

have you ever had a fic stolen?

thankfully, no. That crosses all kinds of lines.

have you ever had a fic translated?

Not that I'm aware of.

have you ever co-written a fic before?

Not in the traditional sense, but I've definitely borrowed from some of thesschesthair's stream of consciousness before (particularly for Savage Garden.)

what's your all-time favourite ship?

Captain Swan, easily.

what's the wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

As far as things I started publishing...Untitled Monster Loving Fic is probably the only one. I have an idea for how I want it to go, but I kept getting stuck rewriting Killian's backstory so it's just been chilling.

what are your writing strengths?

Hmmm...Dialogue, maybe? That's at least what comes to me easiest. I've been told my worldbuilding is good but it could be better.

what are your writing weaknesses?

Probably descriptions. I can see things vividly in my head but that doesn't always make its way to the page (or, on the other side of that, I sometimes worry I'm too thorough in that regard and the details bog down the flow).

thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for fic?

Only if it's a language you're at least conversational in. Otherwise, be prepared to be called out by a native speaker.

first fandom you wrote for?

I want to say I started a Sabrina, the Teenage Witch story when I was a kid, but never finished it. OUAT is the first one I've ever published anything for.

favourite fic you've ever written?

Either Savage Garden or Sons of Love and Death. But I've put a lot of me into all my stories so it's hard to pick!

tagging: everyone that B tagged, @cocohook38, @kmomof4, and whoever wants to do this!

[demonio-fleurs]

i was tagged in a 20 Questions meme!

sorry for taking so long to respond, i can be kinda lazy sometimes and was waiting to be able to use my laptop <3 but ty for the tag @iam-jacks-redacted-information !!!

let's dive right in!

1 ) How many works do you have on AO3?

28!

2) What’s your total AO3 words count?

120,637 (owo)

3) What fandoms do you write for?

Red vs Blue, Spider-Man, World of Warcraft and SPYXFAMILY are what are listed on my ao3 profile. I've done my most amount of work in the RvB fandom, but i've also written a LOT for The Hunger Games, Torchwood, and (sadly) Harry Potter and Twilight. Just... not on ao3.

4) What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Next Time Around which is an RvB rewrite w/ Tex surviving outside of the Epsilon memory unit, instead of being erased by Church at the end of s9 (which i still need to rewrite and finish waaah) Closure which.. I genuinely don't remember writing. Scars which I wrote on behalf of someone who wanted more non-sibling Carwash fics a cup of coffee in the morning which I wrote after a desire to see more of Wash's tastes/interests changing after the implementation of the Epsilon AI it's all in your head aka, a cute lil thing I did for fifteen minute ficlets that I need to get back into for SPYXFAMILY and twiyor.

5) Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Yes and no. It depends! I am an awkward person so if I know how to reply, I usually will especially if it's something i can answer! However, if it's something where i can't really think of a good response I might just leave it, or come back to it later.

6) What’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Uh... i tend to not write angsty endings. I like happy endings, I like knowing that despite everything, happiness can still be found. Like I LOVE angst, but I also like rewarding myself with some happy endings.

but one time I wrote about Cinna's death from THG so.... does that count?

7) What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

I've never finished it, but my intended ending for Next Time Around was to have Tex going to Allison's grave on Earth with Carolina and Wash and laying down Forget-Me-Nots, before going back to live out the rest of her time with the Reds and Blues.

8) Do you get hate on fics?

Never directly, but I also don't really remember a lot of 2015-2018 because of cringe :'). I do think a lot of Peter/gwen fics got indirect hate from peter/mj fans which sucks because Peter has TWO hands!

9) Do you write smut? If so what kind?

I have orphaned most of my smut fics, but yes. I have done some basic ass vanilla guy eats out a girl stuff, but my favorite is the kinky sapphic smut. If you ever stumble upon a Tex/Emily Grey smut fic by an orphaned account, that was me :)

10) Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

No, they're just not for me.

11) Have you ever had a fic stolen?

No but last time I checked in 2021 someone had stolen my fucking background/about section from Tex RP blog and that was a COMMON problem I had in the RvB RP fandom on here. So. much. fucking. theft. of. my. god. damn. about. page.

And I put hours of work into it. Hours. It was detailed, and people just keep fucking stealing it somehow.

12) Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not that I am aware of!

13) Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

errrr...... Trying to rack my brain but coming up with a blank. i've written fics as favors/gifts for people though! Usually a "I have this idea and no idea how to write it help me pls Ange" thing

14) What’s your all-time favourite ship?

Church/Tex. Something about the inherent doomed by the narrative of it all, how no matter how hard Church tries to pull her close she always drifts away from him, the levels of love and trust they have towards one another.... Like they are DOOMED lovers but also they kinda both know that and that's what makes it so difficult.

15) What’s a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

I really really wanna go back and re-do and finish Next Time Around, and after playing NieR Automata that desire is even more present. but also, one piece is my current hyperfixation so I have no idea if I ever will.

16) What are your writing strengths?

oh. oh god. oh. um. hm.

Probably my short, punchy sentences. Where not a whole lot is being said, but the impact is still really strong and the emotions of what I'm trying to impart are impactful.

Also, my inner character monologues. I love that shit. Lemme open up their mind and tell you their entire secrets

17) What are your writing weaknesses?

Combat and physical descriptions B)

Combat is just... Idk. So much going on and it's so hard and you have to be really good about the descriptions and the motions and movements or else it's all a mess. And physical descriptions just... I'm a byproduct of the cringe era so I always worry about how my descriptions will sounds T-T

18) Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

/shrug

I have never attempted to create my own fictional language, and I probably never will. It just isn't for me. I am planning on trying to pick Japanese back up, as when I was a wee child I knew it fairly well, but lost it as the years went on.

19) First fandom you wrote for?

Shugo Chara! or Sailor Moon

20) Favourite fic you’ve ever written?

Next Time Around is my current magnum opus but it also unfinished and I have no idea when I will pick it back up.

And that's a wrap! Thank you again @iam-jacks-redacted-information for the tag!!! I appreciate it, and i loved reading through your responses! Plus it made me go back through my old ao3 archive and see what I have written which I haven't done in a minute.

Anyways <3 if you wanna play this game please feel free to, and tag me in it! I always feel awkward tagging bc I still don't know a whole lot of people on here anymore QwQ