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luvergirl-535 · 16 days ago

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full court distress

pairing - paige bueckers x azzi fudd

word count - 7.0k

c/w - weed & drinking, fluff, azzi is going thru it and paige is just trying to vibe 🥀. pure chaos. not a serious bone in my body apparently. based off one of my headcanons :)

a/n - in which paige pays the price for something she didn’t do, but kinda deserves anyway.

most mornings between them are soft, routine: azzi wakes first, then paige. azzi allows herself five minutes, no more and certainly no less, to lay with paige’s sleeping figure, holding her, admiring her, borrowing her warmth. and then she will slip out of bed to do mundane things like taking off her bonnet and tidying up and dressing. paige will wake up to the sounds of azzi bustling around, or to the feel of her hands stroking through paige’s soft hair.

so it comes as a bit of a surprise when paige wakes earlier than usual and realizes it’s because her girlfriend has been watching her sleep with a pouty expression for who knows how long.

paige blinks a few times in an attempt to un-blur the morning. “hey, weird-ass,” she says, voice thick with sleep. once her vision finally clears, she looks at azzi again. she frowns when the pout is still firmly on azzi’s face. “what happened?”

azzi’s lip juts out further. she’s typically pretty tough, not quite as soft around the edges as paige is. she’s gentle and kind and sweet, but the pouting and baby-talk are mostly reserved for special occasions. which is why her wide, misty eyes and quivering bottom lip have paige concerned. “az,” she says when azzi doesn’t reply. “c’mon, what’s up, babe?”

azzi shakes her head, and paige is a little relieved to have at least some reaction from her. still, it’s strange. paige isn’t used to prying information out of azzi—it’s usually the other way around.

bracing herself for a potentially bad start to the morning, paige shifts closer, tangling their legs under soft sheets and slinging an arm around azzi’s waist. “baby,” she says, trying to soften the sleepy roughness from her throat, “tell me what’s goin’ on, sweetheart.”

azzi shakes her head again, lip trembling aggressively enough now that she nestles into the crook of paige’s neck to hide.

“aw, nah, don’t cry,” paige coos, placing a hand on her girlfriend’s cheek to try and nudge her out of hiding. “look at me, mama, for real.”

azzi stays strictly put. “it’s nothing,” she says, voice muffled in the skin of paige’s neck.

“why you making me fight for this right now?” paige asks. it’s a valid question—usually, azzi will go to paige for comfort without needing to be prompted. even when she is more closed off, all it takes is some cuddles and a few pet names to get her talking. but paige is putting on her best soft girlfriend right now, and azzi is still being oddly stubborn.

“it’s just embarrassing,” azzi grumbles.

paige frowns. they’re far past the point of getting embarrassed around each other. “don’t gotta be embarrassed.”

there’s a beat before azzi’s quiet admission—“i don’t want to tell you.”

paige’s eyebrows furrow at this. she tilts her head back, placing both hands on azzi’s cheeks now and lifting her face up. azzi goes more willingly this time, eyes a little watery and sad and cheeks flushed pink. the sight worries paige. “are we okay?”

azzi nods.

“is it something i did?”

azzi hesitates, then shakes her head. the hesitation is odd, but not enough to completely sway paige. she trusts azzi to tell her the truth. “okay, mama,” she says, pressing a tender kiss to azzi’s forehead. “you don’t have to tell me. but you should, eventually.” she makes a face. “mostly because i’m nosey.”

that gets a small, amused smile out of azzi, which is a relief in and of itself. she lowers her head again, settling into paige’s chest. “just want you to hold me for awhile,” she mumbles.

paige hums. “i can do that.”

they end up falling back asleep, and for the moment, it’s forgotten.

❀❀❀

azzi doesn’t let it stay forgotten for long.

in fact, paige thinks she only gets another hour of sleep before she’s being nudged awake.

she grumbles, turning away from her girlfriend to bury her head into the pillow.

“paige,” azzi whispers, poking at her back.

“still early, baby,” paige grumbles. then she remembers the events from earlier on in the morning and says, “you crying again?”

“no,” azzi huffs.

paige nods, satisfied that she has no girlfriend duties to fulfill at the moment. “‘kay. lemme sleep.”

“you can go back to sleep after,” azzi says, poking her again.

“after what?” paige yawns. her monkey lesbian brain goes straight to sex, because of course it does, but also azzi was all emo just an hour ago and that’s probably not what she’s waking her up for.

“after you help me,” azzi says, sounding almost a little annoyed that paige isn’t getting it.

monkey lesbian brain conjures images of all the ways azzi might need paige’s help—like to de-stress, perhaps, or maybe she’s sore and wants a massage…

“i gotta pee,” azzi explains.

monkey lesbian brain shuts down.

“okay,” paige replies, confused. “go piss, girl.”

“it’s dark out there.”

paige cracks an eye open. yeah, it’s still dark out—maybe it’s a little earlier than she thought. still, she’s not getting it. “use your flashlight.”

“babeee-uhhh,” azzi borderline whines, which is, again, unusual for her usually poised, mature girlfriend. “it’s scary.”

and, okay, the two of them might be a little codependent. paige isn’t denying that. but for the most part, they’re pretty capable of emptying their bladders without the other present.

paige turns over, eyebrows furrowed. “you fucking w’me?”

“no,” azzi says. she’s propped up on an elbow, eyes wide and round. “just, come with me, please?”

as far as paige can tell, she has two options: argue with azzi, henceforth postponing her sleep even longer, and end up losing the argument and doing this for her girlfriend anyway, or just getting up and doing it now.

she thinks about how kk will demolish her for being a simp if she ever finds out about this, and slowly sits up.

“aight, let’s go,” she says, motioning for azzi to get moving.

azzi stands and waits until paige is up, too, before taking her by the hand, then wrapping her free hand around paige’s bicep, effectively shielding herself with paige’s arm.

paige looks down at her, sure azzi’s about to laugh at her and say ‘gotcha’, but she’s just staring wide-eyed at paige’s cracked bedroom door and the dark hallway beyond.

paige guides her out of the room, keeping her eyes half-closed in the hopes she’ll stay tired. “you’re letting me sleep after this, right?” she double-checks as they make the slow, sleepy trek through the hallway.

“uh-huh.”

“you have a nightmare or sum’?”

azzi shudders. “something like that.”

“what about?”

azzi chews on her lip, then points at the light switch outside jana’s bedroom door. “turn that on.”

“jana’s gonna kill me if we wake her up,” paige mutters.

“so jana’s more important than me now?” azzi asks, releasing paige’s hand with a dramatic little flourish, stepping back to cross her arms.

paige is much too tired and much too confused to decipher whether azzi’s messing around or being serious. “c’mon, azzi, quit it.”

it’s too dark to make out her expression—especially without contacts—but she can hear the eye roll in azzi’s scoff. “whatever. maybe you should just go back to your room. let me go alone.”

if it weren’t the middle of the fucking night, paige would probably have the energy and emotional capacity to comfort her girlfriend, despite the drama of it all. but it is, in fact, the middle of the fucking night, and it’s her second time waking at an ungodly hour, and her patience is worn thin.

“fine,” she snaps, already turning. “maybe i will.”

she doesn’t even take a full step before azzi whisper-yells, “wait!” and grabs her wrist, tugging her back. “don’t leave me. it’s dark.”

“you were being all sassy to me,” paige says. “you want me to leave, i’ll leave.”

“i was obviously not serious,” azzi hisses.

“oh, what—so you gotta attitude so i can baby you or somethin’?”

“yes, actually,” azzi mumbles. “now can we go to the bathroom?”

paige opens her mouth to argue, but stops. it’s not like azzi to so openly fish for attention, and it gives her pause. makes her think about the crying earlier. the clinginess. the sharp edges covering something softer.

maybe azzi’s picking a fight because it’s easier than admitting how vulnerable she feels. “yeah, okay. whatever.”

azzi takes hold of paige’s arm again, once again shielding her body with it as they make the rest of the way to the restroom. once they get there, azzi flips on the light—paige squints against the sudden harshness of it—and pulls paige inside before closing the door.

“ughhhhh,” paige groans, sliding down the door to sit against it, hiding her face between her knees. “it’s brighttttt.”

“stop being dramatic,” azzi says. “i turned on the lowest setting.”

“it’s still bedtime,” paige argues. “i shouldn’t be seeing any light whatsoever for at least the next five hours.”

“you’ll go back to sleep after this,” azzi waves her off. paige rubs at her eyes, squeezing them shut, but even with her knees blocking the light out a dull headache begins to form at the base of her skull. she rubs the back of her neck and looks up to find azzi sitting there, staring ahead.

“are you taking a shit?” paige asks. “because if you are, i’m leaving.”

“no,” azzi replies solemnly, “just feeling too lazy to stand up. trying to find the will.”

paige sighs. “would a countdown help?”

azzi frowns, thinks about it, then says, “sure.”

“okay. three, two…” she pauses, giving azzi time to gear up before saying, “one, go.”

azzi stands, looking quite proud of herself, and paige gives a small round of applause as she pulls up her sleep shorts.

“ten outta ten,” she says, watching azzi move to the sink to wash her hands. “great form. perfect leg work.”

azzi smiles at her through the mirror. “thank you, thank you.”

paige makes a fist, holding a pretend mic up to her mouth. “azzi, how’d you find the courage to perform such a brave endeavor?” she sticks the mic in azzi’s direction.

azzi grabs a hand towel and turns around, kneeling so she’s on paige’s level and leaning towards her hand. “well, i couldn’t have done it without my ridiculous girlfriend.” before paige can gasp in mock offense, she stands up, holding a now-dry hand out for paige to take. “c’mon, dummy, let’s go to bed.”

paige lets azzi pull her up, their fingers tangling automatically like they’ve done this a hundred times before. which, to be fair, they have.

“i think that counts as cardio,” paige mumbles, leaning her weight onto azzi’s side.

“don’t know how much coach would agree with that,” azzi says.

paige hums. the hallway feels a little colder now that they’ve left the bathroom light behind, but azzi’s hand is warm, steady.

“you know,” paige says, “this is above my pay grade.”

azzi raises an eyebrow. “what, helping your incredibly brave girlfriend pee?”

“exactly,” paige says, yawning into her shoulder. “i should unionize.”

azzi snorts. “pretty sure that makes me your boss.”

“god, don’t say that,” paige groans. “now i feel like i need to clock out.”

azzi opens the bedroom door for her with a flourish of her hand. “enjoy your unpaid overtime, baby.”

paige flops into bed face-first. “i hate you.”

azzi climbs in after her, grinning as she worms an arm around paige’s back. “you love me.”

“unfortunately.”

“what was that?”

paige nuzzles into azzi’s neck, poking at her ribs. “just playin’.”

they settle into the blankets, limbs tangling easily, comfortably. within seconds, paige is already halfway asleep, and azzi presses a soft kiss to the back of her shoulder.

“thanks for the countdown,” she whispers.

“mm-hmm,” paige mumbles. “ten outta ten. great form.”

❀❀❀

this time, when paige wakes first, she doesn’t think twice about it. considering azzi had seemingly two nightmares last night—maybe more—it’s best for her to get some extra sleep. she fiddles around on her phone for a few minutes, taking a picture of azzi sleeping soundly on her chest and then staring at the picture for a solid five minutes before deciding it’s time to get up.

carefully, she places a hand under azzi’s head and another on her shoulder, maneuvering her over so she’s lying flat on her back. azzi makes a little sound at the movement, and paige presses a kiss to her forehead, shushing against her skin until she settles again. she takes a few more seconds to admire her girlfriend, then slips out of bed, wincing at the cold floor on her bare feet. sun is shining through the curtains now, and she rubs her eyes as she pads down the hallway.

in the bathroom, she listens to a story time on tiktok while she brushes her teeth, volume turned just low enough for only her to hear. her goal is not to wake azzi up—because she needs the sleep but also because she tends to be grumpy whenever she’s woken by anything other than her natural circadian rhythm. and paige already dealt with a strange, emotional azzi last night. she doesn’t need a cranky one, too.

she’s just wondering how long her girlfriend might sleep in when azzi sneaks up on her, arms wrapping tightly around her middle as she buries her nose into paige’s neck.

paige startles slightly, surprised that she apparently summoned her girlfriend. “oh,” she says, toothbrush dangling from her mouth. “hey, mama.”

“why’d you leave me?” azzi grumbles.

paige furrows her eyebrows, then leans forward and spits, sure she’s heard wrong. “huh?”

“why’d you leave me?” azzi repeats, clear as day now as she lifts her head to meet paige’s eyes in the mirror. she pouts at their reflection. “i woke up alone.”

paige laughs, sure azzi’s messing with her. “the codependency is crazy.”

azzi pinches her in the stomach.

“ow!” paige hits azzi’s hand away. “what the…?”

azzi pinches her again, maybe for good measure, then walks herself right out of the bathroom.

paige watches her go, shaking her head to herself. “what?” she whispers, incredibly confused. she glances around, half expecting a camera crew to jump out at her and tell her she’s being pranked. nobody appears and thus, it seems like this may actually be real. unfortunately.

she looks down at her stomach where azzi pinched her—twice!—and rubs the spot tenderly. she considers lying down on the floor and saying something like, “i’ve been hit,” and groaning until someone finds her, then decides it would be better to just go ask azzi what the hell that was for.

she finds azzi in the kitchen, standing in front of the fridge like she’s trying to decide whether to make breakfast or crawl inside and disappear. her bonnet’s still on, and she’s got the same t-shirt on from last night—paige’s t-shirt, technically—but now it’s crumpled and drooping off one shoulder in a way that’s both ridiculous and somehow hot.

“hey,” paige says, leaning against the doorway.

“hey,” azzi echoes, without turning around.

paige narrows her eyes. “you, uh… pinched me. twice.”

azzi shrugs. “you deserved it.”

paige bristles, just a little bit. “no i didn’t.” when azzi doesn’t respond, she sighs. “it actually kinda hurt.”

“you left me.”

“that doesn’t mean you get to pinch me.”

azzi stares into the depths of the fridge, clearly defeated. “i know. i’m sorry.”

“is this about last night?” paige asks gently, stepping closer. “your nightmare?”

azzi finally turns to look at her, expression unreadable. “no.”

“you sure?”

“mm-hmm.”

paige isn’t convinced. she steps forward and slips her arms around azzi’s waist. “you’re acting weird.”

“you’re weird.”

“okay,” paige says, letting it go for now. “do you want me to make breakfast?”

azzi shakes her head. “no. just… stand here.”

“here?”

“yeah. just for a minute.”

paige obeys, resting her chin on azzi’s shoulder. the fridge is still wide open. neither of them seems to care.

“you sure we’re okay? it’s not something i did?” she asks quietly.

azzi hesitates just long enough to make it noticeable. then she says, “nope.”

“really?”

“really.”

paige hums, unconvinced but not willing to push, still trying to hold onto that trust that azzi will tell the truth eventually. “okay.”

they stay like that for awhile, paige letting azzi be the first to let go, holding her until she’s ready to move on. morning lights pools the floor, the fridge hums quietly beside them—azzi doesn’t say anything else. paige doesn’t ask. not yet.

❀❀❀

paige has officially declared azzi insane. as in, clinically. in her head, of course—she’d never say that to azzi out loud. especially not when she’s acting like a crazy lady.

after the whole pinching incident, paige thinks maybe the rest of the day will be normal. they’ll chill until practice, then get ready for that frat party later, then fuck when they get home. that’s the plan.

azzi, however, appears to be on an entirely different timeline. or maybe a different planet. one where it’s okay to be clingy one second and upset the next. one where it’s okay to beg your girlfriend for cuddles then lock her out of the room for calling you by your name. (“why didn’t you call me ‘baby’? are you mad at me? do you hate me?”).

so yeah. paige is tired. mentally. emotionally. spiritually.

she gives azzi her space for a bit, hoping that whatever cosmic shift she’s experiencing will pass on its own, like a storm system. but when it’s been a suspiciously long time since she’s heard any noise—no music, no tiktoks, no passive-aggressive throat clears—she decides to go check.

the door to paige’s room is cracked open now. which is progress, considering it was fully closed (and locked) fifteen minutes ago. paige pushes it gently, peeking her head in.

and stops short.

azzi is curled up in the middle of the bed, blanket bunched around her waist, a tissue clutched in one hand and paige’s baby photo album in the other.

she is crying.

like, actual tears.

paige blinks. “um.”

azzi doesn’t look up.

“are you…crying?”

still no response.

paige steps into the room slowly, like she’s approaching a wild animal. “baby?”

azzi finally looks at her, bottom lip trembling. “you were so little.”

paige stares. “what?”

“your head was gigantic and your legs were so chubby. you looked like a little alien.” she hiccups. “a cute alien.”

paige walks over, cautiously sits at the edge of the bed. “are you okay?”

“no,” azzi sniffles. “you were just a baby. and now you’re not. and that’s so sad.”

“okay,” paige says, carefully pulling the tissue box closer. “but, like, if i was a baby, you wouldn’t be able to date me. you’d actually get sent to jail for dating me.” she considers it, then says, “well, i guess there are still some countries where we could go to jail for dating each other.”

azzi nods solemnly, then breaks into a fresh wave of tears.

paige gently pries the photo album out of her hands and replaces it with a tissue. “what are you even crying about right now?”

“i don’t know!” azzi wails. “you’re just so cute, and i love you, and one day we’re gonna be old and wrinkly and then dead.”

paige opens her mouth, then closes it again.

there’s just…no response to that.

so she pulls azzi into her lap instead, settling her against her chest the way azzi had done that morning. “oooh-kay. that’s enough internet for you today.”

“i’m not even on the internet.”

“i know, mama. that’s the scary part.”

azzi sniffles again and clutches the tissue like it’s a life raft.

paige presses a kiss to her forehead and sighs. “you are being so weird.”

“you like it.”

“debatable.”

paige strokes her back, ignoring azzi’s occasional mutterings of things like look at her little cheeks and this should be illegal every time she sneaks a glance back at the album.

paige still has no idea what’s going on. and honestly? she’s a little scared to ask anymore.

❀❀❀

practice is normal. at first.

there’s the usual yelling, the squeak of sneakers, the smell of floor polish and gatorade and barely contained rage. azzi’s running through drills like always—fast, locked in, pesky. paige watches her from the other end of the court, doing her own reps but always with one eye on her girlfriend, as usual.

and then it happens.

“azzi! what the hell was that?” coach bellows, clipboard smacking against his thigh.

everyone stops.

it’s not unusual for coach to yell—that’s kind of his thing—but he almost never yells at azzi. azzi is his golden child. his pride and joy. azzi could throw the ball in the opposite direction and coach would be like, “great look, just unlucky.”

so when azzi freezes mid-drill and blinks at coach like she’s been shot, everyone else freezes too.

“run the play right or don’t run it at all!” geno shouts again.

azzi doesn’t respond. just kind of… stands there. looking small. her mouth opens like she might say something, but then her lip wobbles and—oh god. oh no.

“is she crying?” kk whispers.

“shut up,” ice hisses, elbowing her. “she never cries.”

paige is already moving.

by the time she reaches azzi, her girlfriend is standing perfectly still, tears silently sliding down her cheeks, basketball clutched in her hands like it personally betrayed her.

“baby,” paige says gently, stepping in front of her.

“i’m fine,” azzi insists, voice watery. “i’m totally fine. i just—i can’t see. the lights are…bright.”

“okay,” paige says, nodding like that makes sense. “super bright. you never noticed the lights before?”

“maybe they got new ones.”

“no, yeah. that’s prolly it.”

coach looks borderline horrified. like he just yelled at a toddler or kicked a puppy. “shit,” he mutters. “i didn’t think she’d cry.”

“nobody thought she’d cry,” morgan says under her breath, still watching like she’s witnessing the downfall of a dynasty.

“maybe she has allergies,” caroline offers. “sometimes my eyes water when i’m sick.”

“do you sob when you’re sick?”

“okay, well—”

“do you want water?” paige asks, brushing the tears from azzi’s face with her sleeve.

“i want justice.”

“yup,” paige says, kissing her forehead. “totally reasonable. we can do that.”

“do you think coach hates me now?” azzi sniffles.

“nah. he probably already wrote a formal apology and a fruit basket.”

in the background, geno is frantically talking to cd, gesturing wildly at azzi with the clipboard like he’s trying to take it all back with body language alone.

“do i look ugly when i cry?” azzi asks suddenly.

“you look beautiful. like a…betrayed deer.”

azzi squints. “…i’ll take it.”

practice ends early. nobody knows why, but coach announces it in a shaky voice and then disappears into his office like he needs a moment to reevaluate his life.

everybody says thank you to azzi as they walk out, because practice doesn’t end early unless a volcano erupts or a tsunami strikes. or, apparently, unless the princess cries.

in the locker room, the girls flock.

“girl, i didn’t even know you had tear ducts,” kk says, still looking a little shell-shocked.

“do you want a hug or a juice box?” morgan asks, one arm outstretched and the other holding a lukewarm juice box from her locker.

“you guys,” azzi mutters, pulling her shirt on. “you’ve seen me cry during movies.”

“barely,” aubrey says.

“yeah, you usually watch us cry during the sad parts and laugh about it,” allie chips in.

“she saves the crying for later,” paige informs.

azzi shoots her a glare.

oops. paige clears her throat, waving them off with one hand and holding azzi with the other. “aight, move on. y’all are crowding her, damn.”

caroline nods, like the supportive best friend she is. “she needs privacy in this trying time.”

the girls giggle but obey, drifting off even as they continue to glance worriedly at azzi every few seconds. paige finishes getting ready quickly, taking azzi’s hand to walk out with her into the nippy connecticut air.

paige stops her once they get outside. “you okay now?” she asks softly.

“no.”

“do you want to be dramatic about it for a lil longer?”

“yes.”

“okay.”

paige presses a kiss to her temple. “you’re lucky you’re a pretty crier.”

“you’re lucky i don’t have the energy to fight you.”

paige smiles. “you finna sue coach?”

“maybe. emotional damages.”

“i’ll testify.”

azzi nods solemnly. “you’re a good girlfriend.”

“yeah,” paige says, tugging her closer. “i know.”

even after everyone else has left the facility—most of the girls gagging at the pda as they walk past on their way to the dorms—paige and azzi stay like that. holding on. clearly, azzi needs it. and paige wishes she knew why.

but for the first time all day, paige doesn’t feel tired at all.

❀❀❀

“you sure you’re okay to go tonight?”

paige lays on the bed, watching azzi do her hair in the mirror. what with everything that’s gone on today, paige thinks azzi might just need a good old movie night. and while paige loves a good party, she’d never say no to a night in with her girlfriend.

azzi nods, spraying her hair down with water. “i’m good.”

“okay,” paige says doubtfully. “i just ask because of, you know, practice. and the baby pictures. and this morning, in the bathroom. and the two times you woke me up in the middle of the night.”

by the time she’s done listing everything off. azzi has turned around to glare at her, unimpressed.

paige puts her hands up in the air. “am i wrong?”

azzi squints at her, then turns back around, picking up the leave-in conditioner. “i am fine.”

“it’s just the whole crying multiple times thing that’s throwing me off. and the abuse.” paige rubs her tummy. “i think i have a mark.”

“don’t make me come over there,” azzi warns, combing her fingers through her curls.

paige smiles. “i want you over here, mama. what else i gotta do? talk about how dramatic you’ve been? ask why you made me watch you pee at the asscrack of daw—ow!”

azzi smiles smugly. “that’s what you get.”

paige picks up the item that azzi just threw at her—a hairbrush—and holds it up in the air. “see? abuse.”

“you call it abuse,” azzi says, turning this way and that in the mirror, “i call it karma.”

paige scoffs, flopping on the bed and turning on her side, facing away from azzi. “i hate you.”

it’s quiet for a few moments, the low sounds of azzi doing her hair the only thing filling the space. paige thinks maybe azzi isn’t going to fall for the bait and is about to give up and turn back around when footfalls approach the bed.

she smiles to herself, then fixes her expression into a pout.

the mattress dips as azzi sits on it, just a moment before painted nails begin to scratch at paige’s scalp. “hey.”

paige doesn’t reply.

“sit up for me,” azzi murmurs.

paige lets herself be guided, slow and sulky, until she’s upright against the headboard. azzi swings one leg over, settling into her lap with practiced ease, having done the same thing countless times before. her hands find paige’s shoulders, sliding over the planes of them, down her arms, then back up again, teasing.

“you’re such a baby,” azzi says, but her voice is warm, fond. her eyes flick down to paige’s mouth.

“you threw a hairbrush at me,” paige mutters, even as her hands settle on azzi’s hips, fingers tightening just a little.

azzi leans in, nose brushing paige’s. “and you survived.”

paige laughs, breathless, and then azzi kisses her. soft at first, slow and coaxing, then deeper. paige melts into it, letting herself be pulled under, hands roaming—azzi’s back, her thighs, the curve of her waist under her shirt.

azzi pulls back just long enough to whisper, “still hate me?”

paige shakes her head. “you know i couldn’t if i wanted to.” she kisses azzi again, prodding her tongue against the seam of her lips, a silent question.

azzi hums approvingly, opening her mouth just enough for paige’s tongue to slip inside, and paige groans when she gets a taste of her. she knows this is all azzi’s way of getting what she wants, but she lets herself be played. if you see me being manipulated by a fine-ass girl with dimples, she thinks to herself in amusement, don’t save me, i’m right where i wanna be.

paige lets her hands wander down to azzi’s ass, grabbing her the way they both like. azzi lets out this little noise, sexy and enticing—and then there’s a knock, sharp and sudden, at the door.

“yo,” comes a voice from the hallway, muffled but unmistakable—yanna. “az, you in there?”

azzi pulls back, looking irritated as she stares at the door. “yeah, what’s up?”

“you still want help with your hair?”

azzi’s eyes widen before she squeezes them shut. “shit. i forgot,” she whispers, looking apologetically at a frowning paige before calling out, “yeah, just gimme a sec!”

“aight,” yanna responds, sounding like she knows exactly why they need a sec.

azzi drops her forehead onto paige’s shoulder with a groan. “i knew someone was gonna interrupt.”

paige grins, arms wrapping fully around her. “karma,” she sing-songs.

azzi pinches her side.

❀❀❀

the party’s lit, rap music playing so loud paige can feel it in her bones—her favorite volume for music, if she’s being honest. bodies press close together, a swirl of heat, laughter, and the occasional shout to be heard over the beat. the air’s thick with the mingling scents of beer and some kind of fruity vodka drink that no one’s really sure about, body spray and cologne and sweat. the kitchen’s a disaster—a counter full of empty bottles and half-eaten chips, the trash overflowing with beer cans and paper plates.

paige has long given up trying to find a quiet corner, instead letting herself get swept up in the chaos. she had been with azzi, of course, the two of them navigating through the crowd together, paige’s arm wrapped loosely around azzi’s waist like it was some kind of built-in tether. azzi clung to her like she was the only solid thing in the room, fingers grazing paige’s side every time the crowd pushed them apart. azzi has never liked to party alone on a good day, but on a strange one like today? paige hadn’t been surprised one bit when azzi glued herself to her side like her life depended on it.

they’d been there for a couple hours by the time azzi had told her she needed to use the restroom, and though paige had offered to come with, azzi surprisingly shook her head. apparently she’s able to pee on her own now. good for her.

now, paige checks the time on her phone for what feels like the billionth time. it’s been too long since azzi disappeared for the bathroom. she wonders if she might need saving.

paige scans the room, eyes moving over the knot of people in various stages of inebriation—some laughing too loud, others slumped against walls, and a few making out in plain view, which simultaneously grosses her out and makes her miss her girlfriend more. she wants to be drunkenly making out in a public space right now.

more urgently, paige goes to the bathroom. the line is pretty long, but she walks along it, looking for any sign of her girlfriend—nothing. she’s not there.

“anyone seen azzi?” paige asks, a hint of unease creeping into her voice as she approaches a few of the girls who’ve huddled up in the kitchen.

they all look up, aubrey sipping from a red cup, ice half-heartedly playing with her phone. no one seems to have a clue. they also look faded as hell, which doesn’t help.

“she was with you, right?” sarah asks, sounding like she doesn’t care at all. paige raises an eyebrow and considers getting on her ass for underage smoking, then decides against it—that’s caroline’s job.

“yeah, but that was like… twenty minutes ago. where’d she go?” paige asks again, more insistent now. she scans the space once more, her heart rate picking up just a little bit. maybe azzi slipped out to get some air? got stuck in a conversation? paige checks her phone, half-expecting a text or something, but there’s nothing. just the usual group messages.

“maybe she’s in the bathroom,” kk suggests, not looking too concerned. jesus, even kk is chilled-out. that must’ve been some serious weed.

which makes her think—“where’s jana?”

the girls look around lazily, and ice blinks hard. “she was with us, like, i swear, two seconds ago.”

“yeah, no,” sarah agrees. “she was just here.”

paige stares at them. “she wasn’t here when i walked up.”

“we was just smoking with her,” kk says casually.

“y’all, she left twenty minutes ago,” ayanna informs them. they all look at each other, then bust up laughing.

“god,” paige mumbles under her breath. she has a half a mind to tell the girls to stay put so they don’t get lost, but azzi is the only thing on her mind right now. if she hasn’t texted paige, she must not need saving from an awkward social situation. and if jana disappeared around the same time azzi did, maybe they found each other at the bathroom and decided to sneak off.

“y’all are no help,” she tells her friends before heading off, shouldering her way through the crowd until she gets past the bathroom line. she’s in the back of the apartment now, where it’s much quieter, and a whole lot more potent. paige wrinkles her nose. the stoners are back here, that’s for sure.

she opens up one door—there’s a group of red-eyed girls passing around a blunt, laughing at a joke someone made. they look up and a girl holds the joint up, but paige waves her off. “nah, i’m good. my fault.” she closes the door and continues on.

the next room is locked, and she doesn’t even wanna know what could be going on in there, so she moves straight on to the last door in the hallway. she cracks it open, and immediately, the smell of weed hits her like a truck. if she’d thought it was strong in the hallway, it’s like a fucking oven in here. and inside, three familiar faces: caroline, jana, and azzi, who looks perfectly unharmed, but also ten times more zooted than the last time paige saw her. and, why isn’t paige surprised, she’s crying.

azzi doesn’t see her—she’s too busy crying into her hands while caroline rubs her back and jana gives some sort of motivational speech—but carol does. even carol—responsible, mama carol—looks fried.

“oh, hey!” she says happily, smiling when she sees paige. jana looks over and cheers, “yoooo!”

jesus. did everyone decide to smoke without her? though, standing in the doorway, paige is sure she’s getting a contact high.

“hey, hey,” caroline is saying to azzi, jostling her a little. “look, honey, look who it is! it’s paige!”

azzi pulls her face out of her hands. her mascara is running, and when she sees paige, she practically wails.

“what the fuck?” paige asks. “what is going on with y’all?”

“well, jana asked if we wanted to smoke with her,” caroline supplies. jana nods.

“and she has some legit ass weed because i swear i only took, like, two puffs, and i’m high as hell,” caroline continues. jana nods again, proudly.

“and then we got on the topic of you and azzi started crying? i don’t know why. i thought she missed you. but maybe not. considering…”

“she’s been crying a lot today,” paige tells them.

jana snorts. “yeah, clearly. practice was crazy.”

paige shakes her head at the two of them, then walks inside, fanning a hand in front of her face to try and ward off the smell. “az,” she says gently, sitting on the edge of the bed beside her. “what’s goin’ on, mama?”

azzi looks up. she looks at paige, who nods encouragingly at her. and then she looks at caroline, who smiles. and then she stands up and wipes her eyes and points at paige with such a viciousness it actually makes her scoot back a little.

“what’s going on?” she asks mockingly. “what’s going on?”

paige leans away from her finger. “uh…yeah?”

“you! you are what’s going on!” azzi cries. jana makes a small ‘oop’ noise and caroline stands up, muttering something about ‘gotta go, gotta go,’ while she ushers jana out, and then it’s just the two of them. paige looks longingly after them, because she feels like she’s in the middle of wwIII with no ammunition.

“i don’t—“ paige starts, but azzi cuts her off.

“it was you,” she seethes, “and that fucking girl in your stats class.”

paige stands, feeling a little less threatened now that they’re eye to eye, but no less fucking confused. “what?”

“that pretty fucking girl whose messages i found in your phone!” azzi continues on, throwing her hands in the air. she wipes furiously as more tears stream down her face. “i can’t believe…i thought you loved me…” she turns around, once again burying her face in her hands.

“baby, i do online school!” paige says, incredulous.

“and then,” azzi says darkly, as if she hadn’t heard her, “you went and fucking died.”

paige practically chokes. what is it with her girlfriend and death today? “azzi!” she says, taking her by the shoulder to spin her around. “the fuck are you talking about?”

“my dream, paige!”

paige stares at her for a moment, waiting for more. when nothing comes, she blinks. “wait. you’re telling me this whole—” she gestures vaguely around the weed-smoked war zone, “—meltdown is because of a dream?”

azzi lets out a choked sob and nods, eyes wide and glassy. “you died, paige. you cheated on me and then we fought and i walked away and then i tried to find you later but i couldn’t and you were dead and the last memory i had was of you calling me a stupid hoe—”

“okay, whoa,” paige says, holding up both hands, trying not to laugh. “first of all, why would i call you a stupid hoe if i was the one who cheated?”

“i don’t know!” azzi yells, frustrated tears falling freely again. “dream-you was so mean!”

paige finally breaks. she doubles over laughing, trying to muffle it behind her hands but failing completely. “you mean to tell me i’ve been getting dirty looks all day, got hit with a hairbrush, got woken up twice last night, cried on like five times, and now walked into a fucking hotbox death match—because of dream-me?”

“don’t laugh!” azzi cries, though her voice cracks and she’s fighting a smile now too. “it felt real! and i went to the bathroom and then i smoked and i realized i didn’t know where you were and i was starting to think maybe i dreamed this too.”

paige walks up to her and pulls her into a hug, burying her face in azzi’s shoulder, still chuckling. “you are so stupid. like, dangerously stupid

azzi mumbles something unintelligible into her shirt.

“what was that?” paige asks.

“i said i love you,” azzi repeats, louder now but still pouty. “even if you’re a ghost.”

paige laughs again, kisses the side of her head. “i’m not a ghost. i’m right here. and i love you too. even if you’re fucking insane.”

azzi sniffs. “you’d tell me if you were dead, right?”

paige pulls back just enough to look her in the eye, grinning. “baby. i promise i will never die without texting you first.”

azzi nods solemnly. “okay. good.”

and then she lays her head on paige’s chest like they haven’t just been yelling at each other in a smoky bedroom over something that didn’t even happen.

paige wraps her arms tighter around her and sighs. “i’m never letting you sleep again.”

❀❀❀

later that night, azzi is curled up like a shrimp in paige’s bed, half-tucked under the purple blanket, her other half dramatically hanging off the side like she’s forgotten how beds work.

“do you want water?” paige asks from across the room, holding up an owala like she’s offering a peace treaty.

“no,” azzi replies, voice muffled. “yes. no. i don’t know.” she flops over. “my mouth is dry but i don’t want to move.”

paige crosses the room, uncaps the bottle, and presses it gently to azzi’s lips. “open up, bighead.”

azzi sips obediently. “thank you,” she whispers, like paige just pulled her from a burning building.

paige sets the bottle down and climbs into bed beside her. “you’re lucky you’re cute, because today has been a journey.”

“you’re lucky i keep it cute,” azzi mumbles, eyes fluttering shut. “or else i would’ve knocked your ass in that dream. i was holding back.”

paige snorts. “you think dream-you could take me?”

“girl, we both know real me could take your ass down.”

paige grins, pulling the blanket up over both of them. “i hope jana and carol don’t remember your meltdown tomorrow.”

“it was tragic,” azzi says, dead serious. “a tragic moment.”

“you’re the least tragic person i’ve ever met,” paige replies. “you cried and then called me a ghost.”

“you were dead, paige!”

“i was in the kitchen,” she says flatly. “eating chips.”

azzi opens one eye. “so you’re saying the chips were more important than me?”

paige stares at her. “go to sleep.”

azzi reaches for her under the covers and pulls her in with all the upper body strength she has left. “never leave me again,” she whispers.

“i left for twenty minutes.” paige thinks about it, then says, “and technically, you left me. i was all up in that party looking for your high ass.”

“never again.”

paige rolls her eyes, but settles in beside her, letting azzi press her cold toes against her shin like always. the room is quiet for a few minutes, and paige thinks maybe azzi’s finally asleep when she hears—

“hey, babe?”

“hm?”

“if you die in another dream, can i come with you this time?”

paige groans. “you are so weird.”

“but you love me.”

“unfortunately,” paige says, smiling in the dark. “yeah, i do.”

#pazzi #azzi fudd #paige bueckers #pazzi fics #lilah’s works #accidental emotional warfare #lovers to haters to lovers again (in one scene)#weaponized vulnerability lol #dallas wings #uconn wbb #was this too chaotic?#be honest

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princessbrunette · 10 months ago

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babydaddy!rafe was doing one of his weekly visits.

he was on the phone when he walked in like he owned the place, because well — technically he did. he’d practically handed you one of his families properties the second you got pregnant and refused to live at the ever dysfunctional tanny hill. he figured it was an investment, he was certain it wouldn’t be long before he was living there with you too anyway. you however, was making that plan very hard to come to light.

“just have my shit, alright? you— you know i could have someone else do your job in a second alright so, prove your worth to me… okay listen i gotta go— at my gir— uh, at my fuckin’… the mother of my daughters house. so i gotta go. email me.” he’s got the phone pressed to his ear between his cheek and shoulder as he counts a wad of money, almost in a caricature of himself. you bite your lip, awaiting him to finish up as you lead him to your room where your baby had just fallen asleep.

“hey.” he drawls with a small smile as he addresses you, pressing the cash into your hand. he did this every week, and at first you refused it — but he’d just transfer it to you on your bank app, not taking no for an answer, so you gave up fighting.

“hi.” your fingers brush his as you take it from him. “i tried to keep her awake to see you, im sorry. she had a late night.” you inform apologetically in a hushed tone, watching her father scroll over with a shrug, brushing a gentle hand over her tiny head, bending over to press a kiss to her cheek. she stirs but doesn’t awaken, the familiar touch and smell of her father not disturbing enough to remove her from her sleep, at peace. this makes your heart ache. your little girl knew her dad too well.

“yeah, that’s alright.” he stands back up, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he looks around the bedroom. you were always doing something new with the way you decorated, so he glances around — looking for something to use to converse with you. his face falls as his eyes land on something. now this, wasn’t the type of conversation he was looking for.

“who’s uh, who’s jacket is that?” he scratches his cheek, already holding that accusatory look in his gaze as he nods towards your vanity chair.

you turn, staring at the jacket, and at first your mind blanks. there was a few seconds where you did actually have no idea. all you knew, was that it was obviously a man’s jacket, hung almost domestically on the back of your chair like it was apart of the decor. rafe had already decided it looked too comfortable there.

“uh…” you frown, and when he walks over and plucks it up between his fingers — tossing it demonstratively onto the bed without a word. when you get a good look at it, your face suddenly lights up in recognition. like you said, the baby didn’t sleep too well last night — meaning you didn’t sleep too well. you were a little slower than usual.

“oh! its the electricians. yeah, it was hot so i took his jacket for him. he must’ve left… it.” your voice trails off when you see the look on rafe’s face. he’s squinting out a glare of disbelief, releasing a scoff when you finish talking.

“you really expect me to buy that line of shit? the electrician?” he drawls, stepping towards you.

“why would i lie? plus we — we aren’t even together—”

“hey.” he interrupts and your eyes skip towards your sleeping baby in the cot and your breath hitches.

“rafe not here, c’mon she’s asleep i don’t want her to hear us like this.” you plead and he licks his lips, glancing round at the cot before nodding towards the door, lugging his big body into the hallway. you sigh, checking on your girl before following him out, crossing your arms. “rafe.”

“so i pay for this house, i bring you money every week, and you got the nerve to have other guys in here? around my little girl? around you?” he tilts his head, crowding your space, voice more hushed now. you hate how your body reacts to him, instantly heating a little. as toxic as it was, hearing him act territorial told you that he still cared immensely and wouldn’t suddenly get bored and leave you to your own devices. your lashes flutter a little as you exhale and it doesn’t go unnoticed. “you do it to make me jealous? huh? ‘cos i can’t — i can’t imagine that there’s anyone out there that’s lookin’ after you like i am— alright, who’s gonna pay those fuckin’ bills for you hm?” he takes a step closer and your eyes practically glaze over when your bodies brush one another. he takes the incentive to reach forward and put his hand up your silky night gown, cupping your cunt. of course, no panties. “whos gonna fuck that needy lil’ pussy if it’s not me? huh? nah really, tell me?” he tilts his head, talking all low right in your ear making you mewl.

“it really was the electricians jacket!” you squeak, gripping his shirt in your clenched fists. you were so pent up.

“you swear?” he licks his lips, eyes wide as they stare into your own.

“on my life, rafe.” you breathe desperately, and he knew you wouldn’t ever swear on your life if you didn’t mean it. it was just the kind of person you were. he takes his hands off you, holding them up as he licks his lips, eyeing you over.

“alright… a’ight i’m sorry. just had a long day.” he apologises, seeming like he’s taking a moment to catch his breath. you continue to stare, thighs subtly shifting together. “you got that baby monitor?” he blinks.

you nod frantically, knowing it was turned on most times. rafe rubs at his jawline, looking around before nodding in the direction of the living room. “right. okay… go lay down on that couch. s’clear you need something from me.” he commands with no room for argument before sauntering off ahead, adjusting himself in his pants.

#div by me pls credit if u use ♡#rafe cameron prompt #babydaddy!rafe

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i-am-hungry-24-7 · 1 year ago

Text

[Ghost crashed into a car before he parked ours] - Mafia!TF141*F!Reader

Summary: You sigh when it's the fifth time someone fights in your poor tea shop this month. You just open it two months ago, in an area ruled by mafia called '141'. Maybe you should find their boss and give them money or what to stop the bullshit keeps happening in your shop. (well, here they come)

Mafia!TF141*F!Reader

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

To your surprise, Kyle, or Gaz – the model-like man introduced himself as – is such a considerate person with a nice sense of humor, at least compared to Soap or Ghost.

That day you trapped yourself in the predicament with John, he seemed to sense your embarrassment, hence he just handed his boss a backup shirt without making fun of you like his boss, so you have a lot of time for the man.

Like now, he’s sitting and sharing a plate of biscuits with you, enjoying a tranquil tea time accompanied by the pleasant smell of Earl Grey.

“You don’t have jobs to do today?” You raise your cup and ask, before taking another sip and watch Kyle finish his bite and reply.

“Ghost’s in charge of dealing with the enemy today.”

“Ehmm, okay” You refuse to figure out what ‘dealing’ means “What about others?"

"I killed mine yesterday.”

Okay, you truly don’t mean this, but let’s just end this topic and move on. With a few biscuits down to your stomach, brainwashing yourself to forget what you heard seconds before with the sweetness, and buying you some time to come up with a better subject, you open your mouth again.

“Every time one of you comes here, you just scare all my customers away.”

“Isn’t that better?”

“I need customers to earn money, Kyle.”

“You have us to pay you.” He points at the badge pasted on your wall. Of course, you’re not the one who put it on, you rather read the military smut out in front of all British than do it, but if you try to take it off, Soap will put a new one back, so in the end you just compromised and let him claim your shop publicly.

“This place isn’t only served for you guys.”

“It isn’t?”

Is it possible to refute when Kyle flashes you a smile that you almost get blind and start wondering if he can replace himself as your lights and save you the electricity bill? Maybe counting this as one of Kyle’s humor will be better than explaining. All required is to ignore the evil glints in his majestic brown eyes while he questions you.

But even though Kyle said he doesn’t have work today, he doesn’t stay long after he finishes his tea.

“Gotta head back to help the boss.” He grins as he turns the knob and waves you goodbye.

What’s weird is that after Kyle leaves your shop, customers start flooding back. Many of them are familiars of the shop, as you’re sure they’re 141’s lackeys too.

You remember them see you as one of the henchmen… Although they're not as afraid as when they first visit the shop because of your hospitable attitude, you can still sense the attentiveness in their demeanor.

No matter what, you’re going to figure out what’s actually happening.

“Hey, you.” You walk to one of the minions' sides. “Mind to tell me about why you guys always disappear when Gaz or Ghost or others come here?”

“We…” The guy’s eyes avert, shooting his friend a glance for help “It’s just a coincidence.”

“Coincidence?” Raising your eyebrow, you lower your voice to make it menacing

“It really is, ma’am, nothing to bother with the Sirs.”

“Show me, they must have sent some messages to inform you guys, right? Let me take a look, or I will…” You will what? Actually, you have no idea what you can do to these guys that can lift you up and throw you into a trash bin like a shot “Wait a second.”

Quickly running back to your kitchen, you come back with your most intimidating weapon –

“Or I will hit you with my pan!” You wiggle your arm as a threat.

“…”

They don’t look scared of the pan for a tiny bit. Wait, you should take your kitchen knife instead, who the fuck will pick a pan? You idiot.

yet to your satisfaction, they still fish out their phone and let you have it, and you don’t waste any time as you open the texting app.

‘Announcement: Boss will arrive at the tea shop in 10 minutes, clear the shop immediately.’

So they really are scaring your customers off. Give the phone back to the poor guy with pity in your eyes, you bring him a few more biscuits.

You’re strolling through the aisles in the shop. You’re out of flour and sugar, and every Wednesday the groceries are on sale. You never miss these chances to build up savings.

What a nice shopping trip. Quiet, leisure, just enjoying your own time, picking up different brands of cereal and calculating which is cheaper like a competent broken adult. Things never go wrong when you’re alone.

“Hey lass!”

Well, you’re kidding, things go south too quickly. The voice’s too familiar. It must be a hallucination.

“Lass? Bonnie?”

Don’t look back, keep walking. It’s not the detergent man with a stupid chicken crest yelling at you.

“HEY!” A hand pats you on your shoulder and makes you jump. Sighing internally and prey there won’t be any trouble caused by the man, you turn around and face him.

“Oh, Soap, Hi.” Shit, looks like you just can’t have a break from these men. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Even though the nan outside tells me te shut the fok up?”

“Yes.” you shamelessly admit, pro tip to confront people without shame “Why are you here by the way, Soap?”

“Oh, we’re in need of some things, so Ghost pulled off during our way home.”

You take a glimpse at his basket. A rope, a roll of duct tape, and a knife.

They must be going on a picnic. Yes, don’t overthink. The rope is for securing the tent, the duct tape is for concealing the holes on it. Knife? they surely will need it when cutting apples.

The image of Ghost slaughtering… peeling apple you mean, with Soap and Gaz playing red light green light and John napping in the tent is so vivid in your mind that you need to restrain the laugh with a clear of your throat before you grunt in affirmation and restart your steps.

With Soap depriving you of your last respite, you choose to grab what you need and head to the counter. All you want is to get home, have a nice shower, and lie on the bed reading the new fic you found last night.

“Do ye need help?” He watches you shove the products in your bag, but 5 huge cartons of milk are too heavy for your weak limbs, you can feel your arms trembling under your attempt.

“It’s okay, my car’s near the door. I can carry this myself.” Again, cheekiness works every time. You don’t care about strangers staring at you struggling with the bag and exit the supermarket in a crab way, as long as it can bring you back into peace faster, and you almost tear up when you see your car, the white of it is like the lighthouse in the atramentous night.

Hey, but you don’t remember your car has a goddamn huge dent at its boot.

“Oh yeah, forgot to tell ye. Ghost crashed into a car before he parked ours, and he’s contemplating whether he should kidnap the driver when they come back and make them shut up, or just kill them.” Soap looks at you stopping in despair as he recognizes what you’re looking at. “So it’s your car aye?”

You don’t answer him, you just watch Ghost materialize from the Shadow beside your car and give you a nod.

Fuck your life.

a/n: ty for reading :D have a nice day/night!

Car -1, Peaceful night -1

tag list :D - @blackhawkfanatic @nexthyperfix @danielle143 @goodbyegh0st @reaperxxxxzz @kaoyamamegami @imyprice @cod-z @poppingaround @live-for-fluff @masterstr0ke @mall0ww

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leidensygdom · 29 days ago

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new scam just dropped

We know of the scammers that dwell on Discord, Twitter, or Bsky, and ask you to commission them, either giving you an AI generated picture or charging you 300$ and giving you something they commissioned on Fiverr for 5$ . I literally have a whole-ass guide on them. Then there's the ones who ask for commissions, trying to get you to draw their pet or whatever, then sending you a fake cheque or something, which has been very common on Tumblr. This post explains it well.

But now we're bringing the first type of scam (where someone tries to force you to commission them) onto tumblr! Our buddy miruuuwuu here is going to provide a really good example. Let's start with the circumstances this happened in. I got two DMs from this account, who had followed me few minutes prior to DMing. As always, I checked their profile first.

Few things to note in here that already told me this was a scammer: The account had a grand total of two posts in their profile, posted four hours ago. Nothing else. Completely empty account. The "femenine" name and the anime pfp already were kinda suspicious alongside this. A large portion of the "commission me" scammers will have a generic anime profile picture and a woman's name. The generic-ass description didn't help.

And well, since I haven't got this type of scammer on tumblr before, I decided to go along with it, because there's something inherently funny about some scammer trying this with someone who's specifically been doing guides about scammers for years. You will notice that my responses are rather mean, which... ngl I like being sassy about scammers what can I say

First initial impression: This person was trying very hard to try to be friends with me. Very weird from a complete random who just followed. The weirdest part here is, of course, how they instantly dismiss me saying "I'm not sure I think" about their random attempts to be like "you're my friend now" and simply proceed with their script. Now, this scammer is SLIGHTLY more specific than usual, since they mentioned DnD- which is closer to my interests than they tend to target. So uh, props to that I guess.

They inmediately tried to inquiry about my character. At this point, I know they'd be offering to draw them for money. I know these scammers tend to steal people's art as examples, so I just grabbed some shitty AI-generated tiefling from google. If they steal that and then try to use it as an example for someone else, I hope they can easily realize this is a scam. Notice how little they care about me being very rude and short-responsed: They're following a script. Afterwards, they sent me an example of "their OC". Alongside a massive AI-generated backstory that has no relation whatsoever to the character, which is supposedly a half elf.

I decide to poke a bit about it. Their response is pretty detached to someone who would actually know about RP or anything. "My setting's elves are green" would've been great. But nope, they immediately jump to trying to share me more examples of their art, and send me about 6-7 pictures in rapid fire. Some of them stolen, some of them traced, some of them commissioned from people in Fiverr for five bucks.

And then we jump immediately to the core of the scam: asking me to commission them. I already knew this was coming, but let's go for it. Their entire massive blurb on how they "work on paid and unpaid platforms" is extremely unhinged to read as an artist myself, but sure, whatever they wanna use to tell me why I gotta pay them. THE CRUCIAL PART HERE IS: YOU SHOULD NEVER COMMISSION PEOPLE WHO DMED YOU FIRST AT RANDOM! I have seen WAY too many people fall for this. If an "artist" DMs you to ask you to commission them, block them! Legitimate artists WON'T do that unprompted! I have way more information in the guide I linked in the first paragraph, but yeah.

At this point, these scams tend to go in different ways. If you insist you can't pay for them, they often will jump to guilt tripping you, or bringing some sob story on how they need money desperately. We had one in our Discord trying to convince two different people to commission them with entirely different stories (one of them was "I need to buy a gift for my wife" and the other one was "i need to buy hearing aids ASAP!!!"). DO NOT FALL FOR THESE SOB STORIES. They're just trying to get you to feel bad and agree even if you're suspicious.

This is the point where I just stopped going ahead with the conversation. They will try to haggle you. You tell them you have 100 bucks, they'll try to raise 150. A lot of artists online tend to have a pricing guide, a website, some sort of TOS kinda stuff. They won't try to see how much they can milk out of you by testing the waters. Again, please check out this guide if you're suspecting anything weird, or even feel free to DM me if you need someone to double check. Don't put your money on these scams: They will either run with your money, commission someone in the global south on fiverr for literal cents, or they'll just get you some AI generated mess.

Anyways, many thanks to miruuuwuu for helping me put together this post, very kind of them to let me know this scam is now coming on tumblr too!

#scam #scam alert #scams #commission scam #vfx scam

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alilobsessive · 5 months ago

Note

For the Reader that the Batfam doesn’t know about till she’s twenty and her mom dies of could we get the Batfam reacting to her being absolutely invested and a part of her step family. Like her mom was married to some guy who reader thinks of as her father. She even has older step siblings that just adore her. It’s like so wholesome and the Batfam just wants to vomit from anxiety because what do you mean you don’t feel like a part of our family and feel more related to your step family?!

Even better if the step family is the opposite of the Batfam in every way. Emotionally coherent, great communication, middle class, and oh yeah secretly a villain family that likes to go after big corporations and embezzle their funds. Gotta pay the mortgage on that nice house in the suburbs somehow 😄🤫 but reader and her mom never knew the step dad and his children were villains. They just thought they owned a small family business that required a whole lot of travel.

Honey, baby girl, I love the way you think! This probably isn’t what you had in mind but I did my best.

You always knew that your Father wasn’t your biological father. Although your mother had married him when you were still extremely young, you still had some vague memories of a time before him. But that never changed how you viewed him and your older siblings. Their family, no matter what, you’re Father even went so far as to legally adopt you not long after their marriage.

Finding out your biological father was Bruce fucking Wayne of all people was a shock to everyone, even him. You were born before Bruce had the reputation of a family man, someone who loved helping people. Back then he was known solely as a playboy, not ready or willing to settle down and enjoying his youth as much as he could. Your mother met him at a gala having been invited by her brother in law, a decently wealthy man. Wealthy enough to be invited to these gala’s from time to time. There she met Bruce, they did the deed so to speak, and the rest is history. Of course your mother already knew who exactly your biological father is, she wasn’t the type to go sleeping around frequently. Against her better judgment and the judgment of the rest of her family, she decided to keep you. Lying that she didn’t know who the father was, not expecting him to be a good parent or wanting the stigma of being a wealthy man’s bastard child to follow you around.

Because of this, outside of your Aunt and the aforementioned brother in law, your uncle, the family disowned her. It was hard being a single mother, although her job did pay well it paid well for a single person, not a single person and infant. She relied on your Aunt and Uncle far more than she would like to. It was also through your Aunt and Uncle that she met your Father. An accountant who was temporarily contracted by your Uncle’s Company. He’s older than your mother by a good few years and has three kids of his own that he was taking care of by himself after his wife was killed in a villain attack.

The two had hit it off rather well, and 3 years later they were married. The two of them were the happiest couple you have ever met, even when they were struggling to take care of the four of you, they were happy. So the fact that your Father didn’t even know this was concerning, if she could keep this a secret up until her death what else was she hiding? What information that was quietly eating her alive, did she not even bother to put in her will like this? She wanted you to know, even after his reputation changed things were comfortable and she didn’t want to ruin it with Bruce's presence.

Just like her you thought Bruce and his family should know. It felt wrong to keep this a secret and you weren’t going to bottle it up. Of course you’re Father and siblings had mixed feelings about it, they were understandably worried. This is the richest man in Gotham, who knows what he’s actually like behind closed doors. But it felt wrong to keep this from him, even if you were never going to meet again, he deserved to know. What you definitely didn’t expect was everything that would come after telling them and doing that DNA test, and then another DNA test and then a third just to be safe, Jesus Christ these people are paranoid. Which understandable who knows how many people come up to him with those exact same claims on a daily basis. A lot seeing as when you tried to get in contact with him, you discovered a literal fucking procedure and form to fill out on the Wayne enterprises website for this very scenario. Which also leads to the question how many people signed the forms as a joke.

All and all when the paperwork and blood test finally got through a fucking full month later, you randomly got an email saying you had a meeting scheduled with Bruce at 10am in a week. Once again informing your family made them freak the fuck out. Which makes sense seeing as you’re Father is now an accountant working for the Lex corp branch in Gotham. Competing companies and all that. Your other siblings having gone into similar fields in different companies, your eldest brother having even moved to BlüdHaven and become an Accountant for one of their large corporations. You could never really wrap your own head around numbers. Going to Gotham university for Acting yourself. Completely different from what the rest of your family, including your Mother did for a living. After your meeting with Bruce, which basically boiled down to “why did you inform me” “what do you want” “bla bla bla bla interrogation interrogation” instead of things blowing over and collectively forgetting about it, like you thought. Things got even weirder.

“Oz I swear to fucking god” you say staring at Oswald you’re second brother and the one closest to your age. “What!” He said defensively, “I didn’t do anything!” “I know you’re the one who stole Bethany” “You’re still on about that fucking Minecraft horse! It’s been two years!” “Bethany, my beloved, the horse I rightfully stole from Paisley!” “literally just admitted the horse wasn’t originally yours!- why are we having this conversation again!” “Because-“ “excuse me!” You and your brother's conversation was interrupted by a complete stranger. To be fair the two of you were talking very loudly in a very public, very busy dinner. The man standing in front of you looked to be around your sister's age. Tall and a little muscular with a 9 year old kid hiding behind him, glaring at you like you’re a potential threat. “I’m so sorry to disturb your……?” “Important business transaction” you say with gravity sitting in your Luray Caverns gift shop hoodie, sweatpants and slippers. “Minecraft server discussion” Oz clarifies “IMPORTANT. BUSINESS. TRANSACTION!” “Riiiight” the strange man said awkwardly, the child still glaring.

He clears his throat glancing away before glancing back. “Well as you can see all the other tables are full, I was wondering if it was alright for us to sit with you?” He asks with a warm smile, looking more at you than Oswald. You and Oswald look at each other “Huddle!” You yelp, and then you both lean over the table and turn your backs to them whispering to each other. “People do that??” You ask “I’ve only heard about it in like old movies??” Oz responds, “ya this is weird” “umm” the tall man interrupts, “we can hear you?” The both of you turn around at the exact same time and say “Okay and?” Then go back to your huddle. “I don’t trust them, look at the kid. I bet he’s plotting are murder.” “I don’t know, maybe his face is just stuck like that?” “It is” the tall man once again interrupts. “See?” “You have far too much faith in people” Oz says, shaking his head, shaming you. “Someone has too, if I don't, who's going to stop you from kicking an innocent person who was just trying to ask for directions in the nuts?” He flushes and mumbles “I thought we agreed to not talk about that”.

“I made no such agreement” you glance back at them still standing there awkwardly. Now that you think about it they look familiar. “Hay do I know you?” You ask them, which makes the tall one jump a little, the kid just stands there like a Gargoyle. “Umm no, but you’ve probably seen me on YouTube or the news or something.” You quickly turn back to your brother “oh god it’s a influencer” “fuck” “I’m not a-“ for the first time since they approached you the child speaks “except your fate as an influencer Grayson” which just makes Grayson(?) sigh, looking at the ground defeated. The two of you continue to debate for another few minutes before you both turn back to them, both of you putting a single hand on the table. “Okay!” You say “you may sit with us” Oz finishes. At some point in this conversation a waitress had arrived and stood there watching you four. Looking a mix of tired and confused. “So can I get your guys order?” “Orange juice, Greek Omelette with white bread, please” you tell her in quick succession. “Bro, what? I haven’t seen you look at the menu once since you invited me here to talk about Minecraft’s horses?” “There’s this thing called looking up the menu before you arrive?” “You’re insane, you’re literally insane” Oz says looking at you like you grew three heads.

“No, I'm being practical! I’m not going to sit here for 3 hours debating what I want, when I can get it as soon as possible once I get here!” You two instantly begin arguing again. Grayson and Gargoyle child glance at each other as the waitress writes down the order and mumbles “not this shit again” before walking away. The duo then look back at you two still yelling at each other. Grayson awkwardly slides next to you, Gargoyle child sitting next to Oswald. “Your lucks run out Rabbit boy!” “Stop that!” “No! You Rabbit brained water moccasin!” “We should have never gotten you Epic Mickey!” “Epic Mickey and Epic Mickey 2: Power of 2 were masterpieces of storytelling and Wii physics! Not getting them for me would have been child abuse!” “No it fucking wouldn’t!” “Child abuse!” “Is that true Grayson?” The Gargoyle child asked Grayson. “What?” said man replied, looking confused.

“Is it child abuse?” Gargoyle child had what could only be described as grinch’s smile as he said this. “What no-“ “YES” you yell, instantly cutting him off, slamming your hands on the table making the silverware jump, as well as your two guests. “Yes” you repeat this time softer and with less force, slightly embarrassing as your brother just rolled his eyes. “Denying a small innocent child such a joy is clearly-“ you begin only for your eyes to go wide “oh my god you're too young to know what a wii is” the boy nods. “Uuug I feel oooold!” You groan, sinking down the plastic of the booth, then you shoot up again “hold up- isn’t there a reboot on the switch??” You quickly pull out your phone and start typing away.

As you do the waitress returns and hands you and Oz your food. “Hold on-“ Grayson says “He didn’t order anything?” The waitress sighs, “the whole family are regulars” she explains, “whenever they show up this one” she points to you “oh my god it’s already out!” You quickly look up from your phone “thank you!” And then back towards it. “Already knows exactly what they want and this one” she points to Oz who gives a soft “thanks” “will sit here for 40 or so minutes trying to figure out what he wants, only to order the exact same thing.” “Aa” “ya, so” she pulls out her pen and paper. “Are you two going to order anything” “oh right um-“ Grayson fumbles with the menu and Gargoyle child calmly looks at him. The two quickly order their food and turn back to you too.

“I don’t think we introduced ourselves yet.” Grayson says, you look up from your phone and at him. “Oh ya” putting it away you hold out your hand and tell him your name “I’m Richard” he says with a bright smile, shaking your hand. You resist the urge to make a joke “but most people just call me Dick!” Now you really resist the urge to make a joke. “Damian” Gargoyle child says glaring eyes looking into your soul. You’re brother looks back and forth between the two “Oswald” he gumpaly introduces then takes a bite of his food. The four of you sit and chat together but quickly Oswald starts acting strange. By the time breakfast is over and you say your goodbyes to the group.

“Okay, what’s wrong?” “I think” Oswald begins, looking around suspiciously. “That those two were..” he leans closer and whispers, “Wayne’s kids” “What!” You say in surprise. “That’s crazy! Why would someone like them be at a dinner?” “You” everything about him, from voice to posture to expression was dead serious. “Bitch what” “think about it! You just pop up out of nowhere, prove your well, ya know” he scans the crowd of people walking along the Gotham sidewalk like anyone could be listening in. “Then nothing happens?” He continues, “okay, okay, okay i’m hearing you out you’re making sense, proof?” “fucking Google Dick Grayson” rolling your eyes, you whip out your phone and do just that. Only for your eyes to go wide, “oh shit” “ya” “they weren’t even trying to hide it” “ya!” “oh my god I called Dick Grayson an influencer!” “That cannot be what you just took away from that!” Oswald says clearly distressed.

Dick closes the car door and quietly buckles in as Damian sits in the seat next to him, “soo?” He asks starting up the car. “You’re on my side now?” Damian scoffs, “of course not! Why would I want someone like them in the family?” Dick rolls his eyes. “Come on, you like them!” “No I don’t!” “You joined in with their jokes!” “So?” Dick just gives an affectionate sigh as he starts driving away.

“You wanna get Epic Mickey?”

“….”

“Yes”

Sitting in a cafe and staring at your laptop, work for one of your colleague classes right in front of you. Dispute coming from a family that consists primarily of accountants and other jobs that mean you're good with numbers, you were not so good at it. Which is why you’re here, in a cafe, with your work barely done or understandable. Paisley having wandered off to the bathroom, not helping you, like she said she would! Sure you didn’t take Acting because you thought you would never need to do most math’s again, but you expect it to be a part of it. But noooo, you still needed a math credit, you wanted to just curl up into a tiny ball and cry. Maybe die, dying sounds good right about now. No! No! Bad, what did the therapist say again? Jokes like this are bad for your mental health, no matter how desperately you wanted to at times like this.

As you stare at the screen trying to magically make the problems un problem themselves a tall and rather intimidating man shows up. “Are you alright?” He asks concerned, “you’re staring very… intently at that computer” you groan “Math” “aaa” he nods in understanding, then slides into your sister’s chair. Turning it around and resting his arms on the back. You raise an eyebrow and straighten up but say nothing, kidnappings in broad daylight aren’t new to Gotham, but you would rather give him the benefit of the doubt. You don’t want to live a life of constant fear.

“What are you struggling with?” He asks, tilting his head, like a dog. But before you could respond your sister comes out of the bathroom, she very aggressively puts her hand on the table. The buff man looks up at your sister “Hi Paisley” you great, you’re sister although shorter than the man is almost as buff. She glares down at him “you’re in my seat” he holds up his hands in surrender. “Hey I mean no-“ “what do you want with my sibling?” She begins immediately interrogating them. The handful of people inside the cafe turn to look at the commotion. “Paisley calm down, we were just talking! Barely at that!” “Ya, miss! All I’m doing is trying to have a conversation!” The buff man says defensively “Bullshit!” Paisley interrupts “answer my question! What. do. you. want. with. them” “I just wanted to talk! Geez!” He throws up his hands and then stands up, leaving the Cafe as a whole.

Your sister's chest puffs with pride as you stare at her dumbfounded. “The fuck was that???” She calmly turns the chair back around and sits down, most of the other people have gone back to minding their own business. Key word:most “what? He was bothering you” “no he wasn’t???” She looks at you in disbelief, “do you seriously not know who that was??” Now it’s your turn to look at her confused. “No?? Should I?” She puts her hands in her face “Jesus Christ” then looks back at you. “That was one of his kids!” “Who?- oh” “ya! I thought you would be more aware after last time!” You shrug, “why should I? Not that big a deal” “not that-what?!?” Paisley looks like she wants to strangle you from across the table. “Ya, I mean I get it” “you??-“ “Listen, if you suddenly discover you had another sibling that no one knew about, wouldn't you be curious too?” She sighs at your question, “when did are lives become a soup opera?” Chuckleing lightly you respond “I know right?” Before going back to serious mode. “But that’s not the point. The point is that I admittedly wasn’t expecting this, but now that it’s happening, I’m not that surprised. At least they have the decency of meeting at a public place and not like a shady alleyway or something.” The stress is clear on her… we’ll everything. Even starting to massage her head like a migraine is coming on. “God, this entire situation is so fucked” she says slumping down putting her head on the table.

The two of you sit in silence for a few moments before you finally speak up. “Sooo Bethany?” She groans annoyed as you’ve been bothering her about this all week. “Fucking fine! I’ll do it!” “Yessss” you do a little fist bump, one step closer to your plan.

Jason pulls out his phone, agitated at having been interrupted in such a manner. His back is pressed against the wall of the ally he’s in, tapping his foot as he waits for Dick to pick up. “Hay Jay!” The chiper voice eventually picks up, “that was fast!” “I didn’t even get 5 minutes to speak to them” Jason hears a low whistle coming from Dicks end. “What happened?” “Well you were right, they definitely figured out what was happening and went on the defensive. Their step sister chased me off almost immediately.” “You?” He said in disbelief “she chased you, Jason Todd, Mr. Murder Kill, off??” “I wasn’t going to pick a fight with a civilian in public!” He could hear Dick laughing on the other end.

Jason’s grip on the phone tightens as he hears this, “So!” Dick says once he stops. “What do you think?” “I don’t know! I didn’t have enough time to form an opinion!” “An opinion if formed-“ “within the first 10 seconds of meeting someone” Jason interrupts, “there okay I guess?” He says, sounding almost confused. “I couldn’t get a good read on them. I still haven’t the faintest clue what they want” “To be a part of the family?” Dick responds, this not being the first or last time he said this since the family learned about you. “Ya no, definitely not that” Jason says shaking his head, “I’ll continue my part of the investigation” “Alright Jay! Have a good day!” Jason hangs up, rolling his eyes and putting away his phone.

Standing by a railing you watch the skateboarders around the park. Why you agreed to meet him here of all places you don’t know, he doesn’t even like skateboarding! You don’t either but that’s not really the point. The point is you’re meeting him here, to make a very important deal. A familiar figure walks next to you and places his arms against the railing. “I know what you’re planning” he says, you don’t even glance at your eldest brother. Cody is the smartest of your siblings, nothing gets past him, absolutely nothing.

It’s what makes him such great competition.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about” you say in a flat tone, knowing exactly what he’s talking about. “You’re trying to restart the Bethany war, going to every member of the surver one by one and making deals so they all turn on each other. But the question is why?” You chuckle at that. “Why? you know why, the server is getting dull, everyone is playing on it less and less. We need another big event, another game, another Bethany war.” There’s almost a cruel glee in your tone, a joy at the life this chose will bring back to the server like it had all that time ago. Only for your dramatic performance to be rudely interrupted by a mildly concerned “umm excuse me?”.

You both turn around and see a skateboarder, he looks to be roughly your age wearing Red Robin(pronounced like the jungle) merch. “What is happening here?” He asks looking back and forth at the two of you like he just watched two villains openly discussing their plans for world domination. Which if you two were, he's doing a very bad job at keeping his life. “Minecraft server stuff” you and Cody say at the same time, Red Robin Kid(because he is a kid until further notice) makes a small ‘o’ with his mouth and then nods like that all makes sense now. Knowing how the average Minecraft server operates it definitely does.

Red Robin kid then looks around “sooo, why not discuss this over like a call, or DMs?” “Not dramatic enough” you shrug, “also not safe enough when anyone else involved can easily overhear or find the messages.” Cody continues, leading you to nod in agreement. “So, you’re dramatically talking about a Minecraft war in a skate park, for fun?” You two look at each other and then back at Red Robin kid. “Ya” “basically” “why a skate park?” You turn to look at Cody, he just shrugs. You turn back to the kid, “cause” he just looks at the two of you for a moment longer. He opens his mouth to speak some more only for one of his friends to call his name, he looks at them then back at you. Like he’s debating something, then he goes to his friends. “I want in on it” Cody says continuing we’re the conversation left of “I wouldn’t have it any other way”.

“By the way you really need to memorize the Wayne’s”

“He’s a Wayne???”

“You what?” Bruce said in a calm tone, “I ran into them by complete accident when I was at the skate park this morning.” Tim says in his full Red Robin gear, working on the batcomputer. “Sure it was by accident” Jason said sarcastically, “no really! I didn’t even know they’d be there” “Just being dramatic?” Bruce asks. “There a Acting student Bruce” Tim replied looking towards his adoptive father, “there you’re child Bruce” Dick says walking over and adjusting his suit. “Drama is clearly in your blood.” all he does is sigh and shake his head. “Care to explain what you all were even doing behind my back?” Dick, Jason, Tim and Damien just stood there quietly. As he said that Duke and Cas walk into the batcave. Duke in his pajamas and eating a bag of chips and Cas fully in gear.

Duke looks around the room and then quietly tries to leave “you’re not going anywhere” Bruce says before he can even take a step back. “We were just investigating them, Father” Damien finally chimes in, “as you are too, it’s extremely suspicious that they would appear out of nowhere like that” “takes one to know one” Tim mumbles, only to be sent a glare by the child. “Their story checks out” Bruce begins, “all of us have combed it over several times” “ya but what’s there motive for even telling you” Jason chimes in. “Because, it’s the right thing to do, is a flimsy excuse” “ hold on” Duke says, “are we talking about the new kid?” Duke takes a minute searching his memory for your name before saying it.

Bruce nods, “yes, they’ve been doing their own private investigations.” “So stalking?” “Yes” “Hay!” Dick interrupts, “Tim stalks, we investigate” “I’m literally the only one here that didn’t meet them intentionally!” Tim looks at them offended. “Please tell me you didn’t corner them in an alley or something” Duke asks looking distressed. “Of course not!” “Oh thank god” “were you not investigating them?” Jason asks, Duke just shrugs “Hold on- are you not looking into them?” “Outside of a basic social media check? No, not really, I don’t really care” “Im definitely stalking them.” Cas signs from next to him. “I have followed them home on several occasions.” They all turn to look at Cas, “thoughts?” Dick asks and Cas just shrugs “there alright” “YA!” He points at her, “Cas is on my side! So is Duke!” “I’m neutral actually” Bruce just sighs. Completely uncertain of we’re this is going to go.

In an undisclosed location four people sat around a round table, several different stacks of paper put on top of it. As well as computers, drinks and snacks, “things aren’t going to plan” the oldest of the group, a man in his mid 60’s, said as he looked over the documentation. “When do things ever?” The youngest of the group said, flipping a knife in his hands. “Well none of our businesses are being affected” said the second eldest of the group, “that’s not what we’re talking about and you know that!” The final member of the group almost yells, slamming her hands on the table. “You even intentionally led one of them right to them!” He just shrugs at the accusation, “I wanted to see what would happen, honestly Lucky over here” he nods to the man messing with a knife who then flips him off “got a more in-depth experience” he does sparkly hands “than the rest of us” the old man sighs. “Please don’t fight about this right now, we have more important matters to discuss!” “How is this not important!” “It is! But that’s family talk! This is villain talk time!” Cody rolls his eyes, “the potential of them crossing over is getting closer and closer.” The trio’s father sighs at that.

“I don’t like we’re this is going” “none of us do!” Paisley yells, “they just had to be a decent human being!” “Well that was the goal with raising you four” there Father buts in. Oswald nods “and you did a good job” Paisley just stares at him for a few seconds absolutely baffled. “YOU LITERALLY KILLED TWO PEOPLE LAST WEEK!” “HAY-“ Oswald interrupts “they we’re cops” “please don’t kill more people” There Father says pained. “We don’t want to be labeled supervillain we-“ “can’t risk being caught by a Batman of all people” they all say in sink. “Tell Cody that!” Paisley says pointing at the lounging man, “he’s trying to become Nightwings Riddler! But is failing miserably because he’s bad at making riddles!” “I should just make puzzles” he mumbles to himself, “I’m good at making puzzles, The Puzzler” “Puzzle me this Nightwing!” She says, mocking The Riddler’s voice. “Maybe you would be a better villain if you got Nightwing’s dick out your mouth!” Oswald exclaims annoyed, which Cody doesn’t even dignify with a reply. “Can we please get back on topic?” There Father practically begs, “I don’t know Cody’s one sided attraction to Nightwing seems pretty important” Paisley mumbles. “You can never be like Cat Woman” Oswald stage whispers, Cody actually looks kinda offended at that. There Father stares almost defeated at his squabbling children. He wants nothing more than to keep them safe, and can only feel like he’s falling miserably.

#batfam x reader #platonic batfam #x gender neutral reader #Adult reader

431 notes · View notes

riality-check · 2 years ago

Text

Steve, realistically, shouldn’t even be at this show. He doesn’t care about the band, he didn’t want to make the drive, and he had to bring Anna along because he couldn’t find a babysitter.

But he was going to suck it up to go with Dustin, who immediately bought tickets to see his favorite band when they went on sale. Who called Steve this morning to inform him, somehow both solemnly and frantically, that he had the worst food poisoning known to man, and, that until he stopped puking and shitting at the same time, he could not leave the bathroom.

Steve very much did not need to know that.

With Dustin went the rest of the Babysitters’ Club, all of them having eaten the same shady pizza and suffering the consequences. The only exception was Mike, lactose intolerant but cursed to take care of his idiot friends.

He texted Steve to ask if he had extra bleach. Steve dropped it outside the house because no way in hell was he entering that building.

Dustin assured him, amidst too much detail and shockingly disgusting background noise, that both tickets shouldn’t go to waste, and with no one able to babysit Anna, Steve should take advantage of both.

So, here he is. Standing in the first level - Dustin couldn’t get floor tickets, thank God - of a show for a metal band he has no intention of ever listening to and holding his four-year-old daughter, who has bright pink ear defenders looped around her neck in preparation for when it gets really, really loud.

“When are they starting?” she asks for the fourth time in as many minutes, with a sigh too big for her little body.

“In a few minutes,” Steve says, keeping an eye on the stage, where he watches the crew set up. Mad respect for them hustling so hard. He could never.

The seats are slowly filling up, and Steve feels a little sad for the first opener, a little sad that they don’t have a full house for their set.

A group of four guys takes the seats right next to Steve, with a pale, long-haired, big-eyed guy right next to him. He’s got tattoos on his arms and rings on all his fingers and a silver bar through his upper ear.

And he’s arguing emphatically with his friend next to him.

“I’m telling you, American Psycho is more recognizable!” he says, hands flying. Steve discreetly makes sure he and Anna aren’t within striking distance. “Not to mention cheaper!”

“A prop chainsaw,” his friend - a short white guy with shorter but equally wild hair - says, “can’t possibly be that hard to find by tomorrow.”

“We already have the axe!”

“I’m with Eddie,” the big white guy at the end of their group says. “I’m a sucker for American Psycho.”

“Okay, but I’m the guy who has to use the props,” the fourth friend, a Black guy with short braids who looks annoyed at this conversation, like they’ve had it before. “And I think I’d have more fun with the chainsaw.”

Eddie - the guy with long hair and heavy jewelry and hands with a mind of their own - rolls his eyes. It’s a full body movement, one that has him spinning to face Steve. When he does, his face cycles through a myriad of emotions too fast for Steve to really track.

“Hi, pretty boy,” he says. His eyes then dart down to Anna, who stares at him with her head cocked to the side. “Pretty dad. Dad. Pretty. Hi.”

“Eddie,” the short guy cautions.

“Yeah, sorry, anyway, can you be a tiebreaker for us?”

“Sure,” Steve says. Anna squirms, so he lets her out of his lap to stand, holding her hand all the while. “What do you need?”

“American Psycho or Texas Chainsaw Massacre?” the big guy asks.

“You gotta give him context.”

“No, I don’t, Jeff.”

The guy who said he’d be using the props - whatever that means - rolls his eyes and stops fighting.

“What’s American Psycho?” Anna asks, choosing the best time to pay attention to the conversation, like always.

“A movie you’re too young to see,” Steve says. “And the one I’m picking out of those two.”

“Oh, thank you,” Eddie says, using a tone that better fits Steve saving his drowning dog or something. He then turns to the rest of his friends and says, “I fucking told you!”

Anna gasps. “You’re not s’posed to say that!”

Jeff smothers a laugh behind his hands, while the other three guys stare at Anna, half confused, half admiring.

Eddie clears his throat, looking significantly abashed. "Sorry, Miss-"

"Anna," she says.

"Anna," Eddie finishes. Then he turns to Steve. "And you are?"

"Steve. No Mister for me though. I might be a dad, but I'm not that old."

"You are old, Daddy," Anna says.

Steve frowns down at her, where she stands at his feet. She's smiling, mischievous like she always is when she says something along these lines. "I'm not that old."

"Yeah you are! You're like, you're like, like, fifteen."

Jeff gives up on hiding his laughter.

"I'm older than fifteen," Steve says gently, trying not to laugh.

Anna’s jaw drops. “You are?”

“Thank God for that,” Eddie mutters, then shuts his jaw with an audible click.

Steve tried to come up with an answer for that, but someone comes on a mic and starts playing the drums, so he moves the defenders over Anna’s ears and pays attention to the show instead.

It's... fun, he guesses. Fun if he were into it, maybe. The first opener has a lot of energy, even if the music isn't melodic enough for Steve's taste. He finds himself tapping along to the steady beat, moving slightly in his seat to the music.

It's nice background noise. He'd put this on while he grades papers. It's steady enough to fill his head but doesn't have a whole lot of lyrics he could get distracted by and sing along to.

Eddie and his friends, meanwhile, are having the time of their lives. The short guy - Gareth, Steve thinks his name is - mimes the drum part of each song with startling accuracy. Archie jumps up and down, Jeff absolutely screams along, and Eddie-

Anna stares up at Eddie, eyes wide and jaw slacked as she watches him bang his head to the music.

Steve almost snaps a picture of it, this little moment, before the second song ends and Eddie snaps out of his zone.

He shakes the hair out of his face, then looks down at Anna, who's still staring at him. "What?"

She cocks her head to the side in a mirror of his. "What was that?"

"What was what?"

"The," she pauses, then starts shaking her head really hard, side to side. Steve puts a hand on her shoulder before she slams into the chairs in the row in front of them.

Eddie laughs. "The headbanging?"

"Yeah," Anna says, nodding.

"It's a way I move to the music," Eddie explains.

"Like dancing?"

"Sort of," Eddie says. "It's easier. I look stupid when I dance."

"You're not s'posed to say that," Anna tells him solemnly. "Right, Daddy?"

Steve meets Eddie's eyes. Even with the lights down, they're big and pretty and reflective, and Steve is going to kick himself so hard if he chickens out before he can get his number.

"Right," he says, still looking at Eddie. "We're not supposed to call ourselves stupid."

"Sorry," Eddie whispers.

"Don't be."

Anna tugs on Steve's hand, then Eddie's. "Teach me."

"Anna," Steve cautions.

"Can you please teach me?" she corrects.

Eddie glances down at Anna, then back up at Steve. "If it's-"

"Go ahead," Steve says because Eddie has more than passed the vibe check at this point.

Eddie crouches down as a new song starts up, and while Steve can't hear what he's telling her, he sees her smile, bright as day.

By the last song of the first opener, Anna is headbanging along with Eddie, off-beat in the say little kids always are but more than making up for it with effort.

Steve gives into the impulse to take a picture.

When the first opener finishes, Steve picks Anna back up and takes her ear defenders off.

"Woah," she says. "Can I keep them-"

"Nope," Steve says. "They stay on when the music is on. You heard it fine, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but you-"

"I have my earplugs in," Steve says, pointing at them.

"So do I," Eddie says, and when he moves his hair back, sure enough, there are black earplugs nestled in his ears.

"You don't seem like the kind of guy to wear earplugs," Steve says.

"You don't seem like the kind of guy to come of a metal show," Eddie counters.

Anna climbs out of Steve's arms and onto his back, where she loops her arms around his shoulders and just hangs, like she does sometimes when she gets bored.

Weirdo kid, Steve thinks affectionately.

"That's because I'm not," Steve says. "I was supposed to come with a friend, but he got sick."

"Yikes," Eddie says. "You coming tomorrow, too?"

"I am," Steve says. "Are you?"

Eddie raises his eyebrows, like he didn't expect Steve to ask that. "Yeah, we'll be here. Not in these seats, though."

The lights go back down before Steve can ask what he means by that. He reaches behind him, scoops Anna back down on the ground, and puts her ear defenders on by the time the second opener strikes a scary-sounding opening chord.

Anna doesn't look scared at all. From the moment the music starts, she looks up at Eddie, and when he starts headbanging, she does, too.

Yup. Steve has effectively created a monster.

He contemplates, if Dustin is fine by tomorrow, skipping out on the show and giving his ticket to Anna, but that means not seeing Eddie again.

He really wants to see Eddie again, even if he won’t have the same seats.

Whatever that means.

Steve decides not to focus on that. He decides instead to focus on the moment. He listens to the music. He lets Anna take his hand and dance with it. He bops his head along with hers, but not too hard because he can’t risk aggravating his whiplash.

He enjoys the show, even if it’s not his cup of tea. It’s easy to enjoy the show, with Eddie next to him. It’s easy to enjoy his wild hair and pretty jewelry and big eyes and contagious enthusiasm.

It’s easy to see the way Eddie looks at him.

It’s also very easy, after the venue clears and Anna falls asleep in the car on the way home, to forget to ask for his number.

Shit.

(Part 2 is alive!!)

#ria writes #steddie #steddie ficlet #stranger things #stranger things ficlet #st ficlet #steve harrington #eddie munson #dilf steve harrington #corroded coffin #dilf and concert #d&c au

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ohisms · 6 months ago

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✱˚｡⋆ ↪ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑 . ( a collection of lyric prompts based on billy joel's 1977 album the stranger . adjust phrasing as necessary . )

working too hard can give you a heart attack .

we all fall in love , but we disregard the danger .

for just this once i hope that looks don't deceive .

the sinners are much more fun .

get it right the first time .

i know that everybody has a dream .

i'm not much good at conversation .

yeah , i might get up the nerve .

all that i could give you was a reputation .

i search everywhere for some new inspiration .

i don't believe in first impressions .

i want you just the way you are .

this is my dream ; just to be at home , alone with you .

just let me pull myself together .

you didn't count on me when you were counting your rosary .

though you can see when you're wrong , you can't always see when you're right .

gonna have to make the first time last .

a word from you can bring a better day .

they say there's a heaven for those who will wait .

i can't afford to let it pass .

what purpose would that serve ?

i never was much good at coming on real strong .

i don't have time for true confessions .

if all it takes is inspiration , i might have just what it takes .

you might've heard i run with a dangerous crowd .

i don't know how to say those first few words .

you've done it . why can't someone else ?

you'd better cool it off before you burn it out .

i've gotta give it one good try .

i suppose it's now or never .

you can't be everything you wanna be before your time .

it all depends upon your appetite .

only the good die young .

come out , [ name ] , don't let me wait .

dream on , but don't imagine they'll all come true .

don't you know that only fools are satisfied ?

they didn't give you quite enough information .

it's always the same in the end .

they never tell you the price that you'll pay for the things you've done .

things are okay with me these days .

i'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints .

we ain't too pretty , we ain't too proud .

we might be laughing a bit too loud , but that never hurt anyone .

slow down , you're doing fine .

take the phone off the hook and disappear for awhile .

i didn't know you could look so nice after so much time .

sooner or later , it comes down to fate .

i took the good times , i'll take the bad times .

you've got so much to do , and only so many hours in the day .

if you're so smart , why are you so afraid ?

don't change the color of your hair .

it's alright , you can afford to lose a day or two .

you're so ahead of yourself that you forgot what you need .

i just want someone i can talk to .

don't go changing to try and please me .

is that all you get for your money ?

i couldn't love you any better .

we never knew we could want more than that out of life .

you can never go back there again .

don't be afraid to try again , everyone goes south now and then .

it seems such a waste of time .

you've never let me down before .

though we share so many secrets , there are some we'll never tell .

good luck moving up , cause i'm moving out .

i'll meet you any time you want .

you should know by now , you've been there yourself .

once i used to believe i was such a great romancer .

what will it take 'til you believe in me the way that I believe in you ?

you always have my unspoken passion , though i might not seem to care .

i would not leave you in times of trouble .

i don't want clever conversation , i never want to work that hard .

though you drown in good intentions , you'll never quench the fire .

did you ever let your lover see the stranger in yourself ?

we all have a face that we hide away forever . we take them out and show ourselves when everyone is gone .

#requested !!!#rp meme #inbox prompts #inbox meme #rp prompts #ohisms #lyric prompts

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ofpd · 6 months ago

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1st century roman siege of jerusalem dashboard simulator

🐮 barkamtza

why does this shit always happen to me

#oh my goddd the ONE time it seems like people actually wanna hang out with me. #turns out they meant to invite kamtza instead #everyone hates me and i was SO fucking nice i offered to pay for the party #god i'm so pathetic. kms kms kms #they're gonna pay for this i swear #delete later

0 notes

📜 zekharya-ben-avkolas

Ok so obv it's not ok to sacrifice a blemished calf but the blemish is just on the eyelid? So maybe it's ok? But also and i don't want people to start going around thinking that it's ok to sacrifice blemished animals. But the thing is that if i don't bar Kamtza will tell the Romans we insulted them and that will be bad probably. And like no one likes bar Kamtza anyway will people really miss him..... but ugh neither of these seem like good things to do i don't feel like it's my place to make a decision about this :/

32 notes

🏛 vespasian reblogged

🏺neronero

off to war wish me luck! 🇲🇪🏹

🏺neronero

nvm guys. ✡️✡️

🏛 vespasian

my turn lol

53 notes

🧑🏽‍🦳 not-an-airport reblogged

🧑🏽‍🦳 not-an-airport

Hey everyone! These are difficult times, and some friends and I have put together some mutual aid resources for our community to have access to wheat, barley, wine, salt, oil, and wood! More info below the cut. Take care of yourselves! 🫶

🧑🏽‍🦳 not-an-airport

fuck

7,235 notes

⚔️ biryonei-yerushalayim

anonymous asked:

Hey, I'm trying to ask this in good faith, and I hope you can take it that way. how can you possibly defend burning our grain stores. I understand that you want to radicalize more people but you're taking things too far. Jerusalem's blood is on your hands.

anon, what you need to understand is that the blame for the carnage in jerusalem lies primarily in the hands of the roman invaders and secondarily in the hands of the rabbis for refusing to resist. would you have told the hashmonaim not to resist their oppressors by any means necessary? just because this is getting inconvenient for you doesn't mean we shouldn't be doing it. it's frankly offensive that you'd imply that we, the defenders of jerusalem, should incur any blame for her current state.

#biryonim.answer #grain storage discourse

231 notes

🛡 goel-yisrael

did anyone else see the "zealot blocklist" going around lmaooo

#how do these liberals expect anyone to take them seriously #do they not have anything better to do.

7 notes

📚 stammaim reblogged

stopbeingpoor-deactivated3830102

ughh why is my servant so incompetent! i deserve the best flour why doesn't he get it...

stopbeingpoor

ykw i'll go get some myself. i'm desperate at this point i gotta do something

stopbeingpoor

EWWWW update: i stepped in something NASTY. this is why i don't fucking go out oh my god im gonna die

stopbeingpoor

gonna throw my gold & silver away for the good of the peasants or whatever it's not like it's any use to me when im literally dying -_-

📚 stammaim

lmao look at this it's exactly what yehezkel was talking about! ur gold won't save you!

#yehezkel #marta b. baitos

162 notes

🕎 yalla-hapoel

🌿 amicus-iudaeorum asked:

Hey, love your posts! They're very informative about the Jewish perspective on this war. I'm just wondering whether you condemn the actions of the zealots? I don't really feel comfortable following someone who supports that.

are you fr.

#if youre seriously concerned about this idt this is the blog for you i fear

28 notes

🛡 goel-yisrael reblogged

📖 ben-zakkai

⚰️⚰️⚰️⚰️ lol

🛡 goel-yisrael

? what does this mean

🗡 abbasikkara

dw about it bestie

🛡 goel-yisrael

ok 💗 yay 💗

6 notes

👩🏽‍🌾 discoursedumpblog

I've compiled a list of some of the most rabid zealots on this website. Remember, don't engage, just block and move on.

152 notes

🏛 vespasian reblogged

🏛 vespasian

some jew got an audience with me & called me king (im literally not lol thats so disrespectful to the actual king + if i was king then he shouldve met w me much earlier??), i think i should kill him

🏛 vespasian

AND my shoe is being so annoying. horrible day 👎

📖 ben-zakkai

omg just came across this old post

🏛 vespasian

OMG sorry i don't mean it anymore 🙏

14 notes

🫒 a-simple-yid

yirmiyahu tzadak...

#not to pretentiously quote tanakh but literally like. #hashiveinu hashem eilekha venashuva hadeish yameinu kekedem.

3 notes

#this doesnt make sense in terms of timeline of course. esp bc i mention the stammaim. but it's ok #long post #jumblr #txt #this is all entirely gemara-based tbc. gittin 55b–56b #you all better appreciate the effort that went into this

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yanderemystic · 7 months ago

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⋆˚࿔ৎ⪩ Yandere Oswald Cobb Headcanons

— Oswalds traits: Manipulative, clingy, impulsive.

Oswald is pretty clear with his intentions. If he wants it, regardless of the so-called value, he’s going to get it somehow and someway. That comes with the same price as you.

Impression is always his go-to. With that and his high interest, these two combined can become quite a mess. He tries greatly to reel you in with his wooing—using every romantic strategy he knows from his heart to get your attention. He goes all the way to town, like gifting you very expensive items to hint that he can care for you. Giving you a few thousand when dropping you off at your apartment, or even offering to pay for it.

His favorite thing is taking you out to nice restaurants in Gotham, showing you off with your gleaming outfits that he’s gifted you himself. He’s a known gentleman, always putting your necklaces or rings on–even earrings if you want him to. Everything you could want is gifted from him.

Apologetically pushy. From the moment he’s met you, he's always wanted to be in your personal space. Calling you constantly. Always finding excuses to visit your apartment, even at late nights, showing up with takeout and shoving himself through the door before you can fully open it; that glimmering smirk of his, as he rambles and calls you his sweet doll.

Oz doesn’t mean too, truly, but he’s gotta know every detail in your life—admiring those picture frames you have, to the specific color you use, maybe makeup or even your own bedroom which you have decorated to express what you like. Maybe, if he finds a diary, if he is lucky enough, he knows damn well it’s coming with him. He can always say he found it. Pretended to never read it, right?

Your parents will most definitely approve of him. It’s a dream come true, a gentleman in this century? What a lucky dream. Though, if your relationship isn’t as strong as between him and his ma, he’s always willing to share her with you. Share sweet memories, even.

With each piece of newfound information with you, he really begins to get nosy with you. He doesn’t mean to press his nose into where it doesn’t belong, but he has to know what you are doing. To know what restaurant you are at with some friends, what times you get home, who you were hanging out with, and when you left. If you hide something from him, he will know about it.

A worry freak. If you don’t message him back within a few hours, he begins to panic. Watches your conversations like a hawk, waiting for the bubble to rise. If he doesn’t see it, he rushes to your apartment like a mad man. When all is good, and you are fine, he gets irritated—why can’t you just message him back with ‘i love you too’?

He makes it clear that he is obsessed with you—his hands keep near you like second skin. If you decide to go with him to the club, or to a nice place where there are a lot of people, he’d love for you to sit on his lap. A hand on your waist, squeezing every once a while. His pinky accidentally swiping over your thigh. His lips chasing down your shoulders, kissing your revealed skin.

I had such fun writing this. Please enjoy it as much as I did! Requests are open so please come and send em in •‿• !!

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dreamersparacosm · 5 days ago

Text

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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