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un-fwuit-un-fwog · 5 months ago

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First Choice

Synopsis: The Prefect has to choose a dorm to move into, and they immediately think of Leona.

TW: it's relatively vague, but it's mentioned that The Prefect was uncomfortable with the thought of staying in other dorms for reasons you would imagine a woman wouldn't want to stay in a space with all men (specifically, she's overheard jokes, and noticed looks that made her uncomfortable (I try to keep it vague though))

Fem! Reader x Leona

You sat in Crowley's office with your arms crossed and a tired expression on your face. You had walked back to Ramshackle after another long day of classes and mayhem just to find the roof had caved in.

Crowley sat in silent contemplation as if he were actually mulling over the issue like someone who actually cared before snapping his fingers with a triumphant smile on his face: "Because I am so kind, I shall allow you the opportunity to choose one of the 7 dorms to move into!"

Your face remained blank. It's not that you disliked the idea of being able to sleep in a building that you didn't have to worry about leaks, mold, collapses, and cave ins, but you weren't too fond of the idea of having to live with a bunch of men.

You mulled over your options for a moment before sighing and pulling out your phone. Crowley looked at you quizzically. "I wanna make sure it's okay with him first" you mumble under your breath.

Moments later, you get a text from Leona: "Whatever."

You figured that would be as close to a yes as you could get, so you relayed the information to Crowley.

Just then, another buzz of your phone came: "Don't bring the d*mn cat."

Well, that complicated things. You weren't too fond of the idea of leaving Grim behind. Crowley, on the other hand, thought it was a glorious idea. He'd send Grim off to Heartslabyul (without consulting with Riddle first, of course). Surely, some time in the strictest dorm would do the little critter some good.

Before either of you could protest, he was already out the door holding grim by the collar.

When you arrived at Savanaclaw, it was already late. Ruggie greeted you with a snicker and tossed you a basket of laundry to bring up to Leona's room.

"Can't have ya freeloading" was the hyena's excuse.

"Delivery." A yawn slipped from your mouth as you dropped the basket of laundry just inside the door.

A rustling came from the bed before moments later a grumpy lion finally lifted his head to look at you. "The h*ll are you doing here?"

". . .You said I could stay, remember?"

Leona's tail flicks back and forth a few times before he flops back down. "Was half expecting ya to choose a different dorm instead."

With a hum, you closed his door and picked the basket back up to set it next to his closet. "Now, why would I do that?"

You heard a scoff come from Leona "In case ya haven't noticed, Savanaclaw isn't exactly a prissy little proper dorm with a-"

You cut your upper classman off by throwing a pillow at his face.

"Oops, my hand slipped" you hum as you set the laundry basket down again.

Leona growls, but he doesn't move. If anyone else were to throw a pillow at him, he'd likely rip their throat out, but with you, he didn't have that compulsion. "The h*ll was that for?"

"Is that really what you think I'd be looking for in a dorm I'll have to move into?" As you speak, you casually sit on the edge of his bed so you can meet his eyes and give him a 'really?' look.

"Yes." His response is blunt and to the point.

A sigh slips from your lips as you stand up "Seriously?"

"Well what else would you be looking for?" He scoffs with a roll of his eyes "And which of those criteria would you find in this dorm?"

"You're here." You reply without having to think and as if the answer is obvious.

In response, Leona just stares at you disbelievingly.

"I'm serious. The moment Crowley said I had to move into a dorm, this was the first one I thought of, and because of you."

He remains silent, his expression only becoming more skeptical. Don't get him wrong, when you said he was your first thought, your first choice, it made something tighten in his chest. However, anyone can lie, and your current sentiment sounds completely improbable to him.

Another exasperated sigh leaves your mouth before you motion for him to scoot over.

Surprisingly, he complies and gives you space to sit crisscross next to him. "I'm the only girl in this school."

"Obviously." You give him a quick warning glare at his snarky comment, and he raises his hands.

"As I was saying, I'm the only girl in this school. I'm not saying I particularly distrust the other students here, but that doesn't change the fact that I constantly find myself in settings here that make me feel unsafe."

Leona's once swishing tail stills, but his expression remains neutral.

"Sure, I have friends in other dorms, but, for one reason or another, I never feel fully at ease in those spaces."

"And you do here?"

"Yes."

The room falls silent for a moment before you continue: "I can't fully explain it, but. . .I said that the reason I chose to come to Savanaclaw was because you're here. That matters because. . .I feel safe around you."

Leona scoffs before he can stop himself. "I tried to kill you."

"Yes, but I've never worried that you'd do worse."

Leona's eyes widen a fraction at the statement. He debates asking for a moment, but eventually decides to: "And you have about others?"

Silence falls once more, but this time it feels much heavier.

"Some of it is just a lack of knowing,. . .but sometimes I hear people make unsavory jokes. . .and sometimes I catch a glint in people's eyes that I'm not sure I want to know the thoughts behind."

Before the atmosphere can get too awkward, you clap your hands together, "That or sometimes I just feel like people don't know how to treat me because I'm a girl." you add, trying to lighten the mood.

"But I've never felt that way with you. You respect my space and my boundaries but still treat me like a normal person."

Deciding it's probably best not to talk about the previous subject too much as you seem uncomfortable with it (not that he's going to forget it though), he follows along with the topic shift. "Nobody else in any other dorm does that?" he scoffs "It's the bare minimum, nothin' special." His words don't come off as being said in a way to subtly tell you to pick a different dorm to stay in, that he doesn't want you here, but rather as genuinely curious and with a barely noticeable undertone that way maybe. . .threatening?

"It's not that nobody else does. . .it's hard to explain. You not only treat me with respect, but by doing so, you encourage others around you to do the same. Last time I stayed here, you always seemed to be there to step in if anyone crossed any boundaries or said anything that made me uncomfortable. When I returned to your room looking even slightly uncomfortable, you'd notice and take me seriously when I had a concern instead of brushing it off."

Noticing you had just rambled off praise, you quickly add "And you're a dorm leader, so staying in your room would surely deter anyone from trying anything! Cause you're big and scary. . .haha."

Leona is eerily silent for a while before he huffs and lets a grin creep onto his face. "I didn't know you thought so highly of me, Herbivore."

You roll your eyes and lightly punch his arm, grateful for how he lightened the mood.

"Well, I could easily give the same praise to plenty of other people, some of whom are even dorm leaders." you scoff playfully. "I genuinely don't know why it's just you that makes me so comfortable."

"Maybe ya have a thing for me." the lion jokes.

Normally, you'd be put off by such a comment, but coming from Leona, you can tell it has nothing nasty or creepy behind it.

"As if!" You try your best to sound firm and to match his sarcasm, but a light blush creeps to your face.

Leona originally wasn't going to push the matter, but seeing your positive reaction, he continues, "Oh? I seem to recall you mentioning that I was your first choice though."

"You know I didn't mean it like that!" you hiss, irritated by the smirk on his face.

You move to get up, but before you do, Leona lightly stops you. "What are you-"

He cuts you off by resting his chin on your shoulder from behind and lifting his phone into the air. You catch on to what he's doing, and decide to just go along with it. . .but not without getting him back for a bit of his earlier teasing.

You lift one hand to cradle his cheek that isn't pressed against your neck and give your best smile. If Leona is phased by the action, he doesn't show it as he quickly clicks the picture and posts it on his virtually dead magicam account, making sure to tag the other dorm leaders in the post.

"You're a jerk" you sigh, watching him hit post.

You leave the room a bit later to take a shower in the bathroom attached to his room, and only then does he allow the faintest of blushes to creep onto his face.

Partially because of you holding his face, partially because of your praise, but mostly because of something you said much earlier.

He was your first thought. He was your first choice.

Leona was never first.

You had 7 dorms to choose from and you chose his arguably unappealing one where it was always humid and full of sweaty guys roughhousing.

It wasn't that you thought of the dorm first, you thought of him. He was your first choice. He is your first choice.

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ora-draws · 3 months ago

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A little analysis on how Hans & Henry were handled post-ending (heavy KCD2 spoiler alert)

Ok, so I've seen a lot of people talk about how they feel like the ending-part after the siege falls short when it comes to Hansry and leaves out a lot of possible interactions that could have been included.

And I feel you there, although I'm also a big fan of show-don't-tell and leaving things to imagination and interpretation.

However saying we got like a 4 minute romance scene after only being fed crumbs for hundreds of hours does not only fail to acknowledge the crafty subtlety with which their relationship and development has been told over the whole course – it also disregards how impactful the ending actually is.

More under the cut.

In order to put this into perspective, we need to consider not only Hans and Henry, but also the other main romance options: Rosa and Katherine. Rosa happens rather mid-game and while she isn't as mutually exclusive as Kat/Hans, she can be Henry's desired sweetheart by the end if you so choose. Yet whether you do or not, Rosa tells Henry that she considers this a one-time thing, even comes across rather pragmatic about it and tells him off by reminding you that any future is impossible anyway, since he is bastard and she's a nobleman's daughter.

As for Katherine, this is a bit more complicated; she opens up to Henry a bit in the very last moment, they spend an intimate and vulnerable moment together, finding comfort in each other's arms. Yet although she is clearly relieved about Henry's survival and brightens up after the siege, she's more open than set on staying with him, yet implies she'll give it a try. And that's understandable, given her past and circumstances. She even mentions how she doesn't believe she can truly ever be happy again, even if you suggest looking forward. There's a lot of shared trauma here which gives common ground, but is the biggest obstacle at the same time. Apart from that, Kat doesn't bring a lot of baggage, she's a commoner like you, and is just as unbound.

And then we have Hans. Who is not only literally the 'worst' choice Henry could have made in any possible regard considering time period and society, but also a 'lost cause'. We spend half of the ending dialogue with him and Hanush talking about how Henry needs to force him to attend his wedding if the need shall arise. And yet, despite all things given, the moment you can talk privately, Hans doesn't give a second thought to all this. Not only is he genuinely happy and relieved about Henry's well-being: He has no regrets, utters no doubts about what has happend, and the first thing he talks about is how to postpone the wedding as long as possible, even if he cannot avoid it in the end.

He is annoyed, yes, but he doesn't despair about it – and remarks quite clearly that he and Henry will just need to see how things will work out for them. Which is sensible, even if it is also naive. They could never be together openly anyway. But again, it's worth mentioning how even with all that uncercainty, he treats it with a genuine & positive outlook. And – of course – let's not forget that he right away (and happily) jumps onto your offer to take a look at his arrow wound and very bluntly makes the suggestion to find a place which is more private again, showing he wants to be close with you again and stay this way. And Hans – ironically – is the only love interest who does it this way. Which is absolutely heartwrenching and sweet and says a lot, even if we don't get 'much'.

And it is also very very Hans lmao. The second you are alone he's like: Yeah, that's my man, fuck everything, let's go. One has to keep in mind that his heartbreaking Galehaut/Lancelot talk was possibly one of his most vulnerable moments and a rather stark contrast to his usual behavior, because there was just so much at stake. If at all, it shows how much it meant to him.

I see a lot of people depict him as very sensitive, passive or whiny, but honestly, while he can be a spoiled brat and a nuisance, Hans is everything BUT subtle most of the time: he's impulsive, needy, jealous and a short-tempered hothead and it's a very lovely detail this shines through as soon as you are together again. Why? Because it shows how he feels comfortable in his skin and with his choice – and with Henry. Despite everything. This sets him quite apart from the other LIs imo & and all these little details are what make their story and relationship so appealing.

If you've read all of this: Thank you.💚 This is a first for me, I never engaged this much with people online before. I was somehow sucked into this fandom and I genuinely love it, it's an absolutely lovely and welcoming community.

Thanks also to @dill-weeds for chatting about this beforehand, it made me write this down ha.

#This is long but possibly interesting lmao #kcd2 #Hansry #hans capon #hansry #henry of skalitz #kingdom come deliverance 2 #jan ptáček #jindřich ze skalice #kingdom come deliverance #Kcd #Katherine #Rosa

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lkblackham · 6 months ago

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Had the image of a half human, half Qunari baby pop in my head and got some good therapy practicing drawing cute babies.

Being the child of a nurse-midwife, I have witnessed many births and many different kinds of new dads (on video, to be clear - my mom didn't drag me around to births in person). And so, it is my belief that Emmrich would definitely be the weepy type of new dad. I love those dads.

My personal fanfic headcanon stuff that may or may not be cringe, I make no apologies:

1) Qunari kids, much like goats, do not fully grow their horns until they hit puberty. Which is definitely for the best, because a) birth OUCH and b) can you imagine a hyperactive 2-year-old running around with what amounts to two giant spears attached to their head?

So for the first 12+ years of their life, they just have cute lil forehead nubbins that still really hurt when they headbutt you during a tantrum.

2) It's a girl. Because we all know that Emmrich has strong Girl Dad energy.

3) Atash and Emmrich had a really tough time with names - both given names and surnames. Atash isn't particularly attached to her surname (Laidir) and so was totally fine with just 'Volkarin' for their kid. Emmrich was insistent on including 'Laidir', however, as he felt very strongly about Atash's heritage and story sharing an equal part with his in naming their daughter. So she's got 2 last names - one for Nevarra and one for Rivain. She can pick whichever she prefers, or neither, or both. What matters is that both are there to begin with.

This line of thinking also, obviously, complicated the given name. It's really hard when you're pretty certain this is going to be your only kid, and you're from two very different cultures with their own ideas about names, AND you have a rather tragically long list of people you love who have passed on and deserve to have a child named after them. Not to mention, both of you have names you just personally like, saved away in your head just in case you ever did have a kid to name.

In the end, Atash and Emmrich came up with a compromise, for which they really hope their daughter won't resent them in the future: they gave her *four* names. One for a family member, one for a fallen friend, one for her Qunari heritage, and one that's just hers and no one else's.

So, all together, it came to:

Lobelia Elannora Lace Nazay Laidir Volkarin

It's. It's a lot. Atash and Emmrich both acknowledge that. But it felt wrong to not include those tributes in their daughter's name.

Besides, this just means she has a lot of options, right? Right? Right. Definitely.

(They also acknowledge that Lace Harding would think this was absolutely ridiculous and laugh at them over it, but that mental image being there is part of why they did it)

And yes, of COURSE they chose a flower name.

4) Manfred is really friggin excited to get the chance to watch someone grow up and maybe teach THEM some things himself. Emmrich is really friggin excited on both a personal and academic level to raise his daughter alongside his ward, teaching her about spirits while Manfred learns from her about mortals.

Manfred's also a really great diaper changer because he doesn't have a nose and he's not squeamish about literally anything.

(Not that Atash or Emmrich take advantage of this.)

(Often.)

BY THE WAY, VERY IMPORTANT NOTE: I do not believe that the default Happy Ending for everyone is having kids. In another universe, Emmrich and Rook are just as happy teaching Manfred how to be a person and mage (or not, if Emmrich became a lich) and going off on their own kid-free adventures. YOU MAKE THE CHOICES THAT ARE BEST FOR YOU and fuck what the tropes say.

This is just *my* fantasy cringe fluff. You do you. ♥️

#digital artist #digital art #digital illustration #artist #character art #dragon age veilguard #dragon age #emmrich volkarin #emmrich x rook #emmrook #dragon age veilgaurd spoilers #da the veilguard #dragon age fanfiction

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dreamersparacosm · 2 months ago

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jeon jungkook - off the record (part two)

part two ; top secret arrangements

warnings ; none! (unless you count oc threatening murder about 293939 times as something that warrants a warning.)

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 ; greetings my loved ones! ah yes, another part that i deliriously edited at 3am bc my corporate job sucks the soul out of me <3 anyways! all your comments on the last part were so sweet and i appreciate every single one of you. MWAH.

this chapter is fun — we learn about oc’s family dynamics, watch her threaten murder a few times, even get to see her ambush an unsuspecting press rep. you guys are oh so lucky to be fed. and you’ll remain full because i just ran the calculations and… next chapter is nearing 15k words

playlist here

series masterlist here

“Have you talked to your boss about your promotion timeline?”

Your mother’s voice crackles through the speaker, overly crisp and awake for this hour. She always sounds like she’s calling you from inside an interrogation room, even though you know she’s sitting at the kitchen counter in her robe, nursing a mug of instant coffee with one slipper half off her foot.

“No,” you sigh, balancing your phone between your shoulder and cheek as you try to zip your pants. “Not this week.”

“You said that last week.”

You groan out some animalistic noise. “Moooom.”

“I’m just saying,” she continues, undeterred by your sound effects, “these things don’t happen unless you advocate. You’re not a college kid anymore. You should be thinking about upward mobility, and your brand.”

She says mobility like she’s delivering some pathetic TED Talk in kitten heels. You make a face at your closet door and tug on a button-down that still smells faintly like the press room.

For all her perfectly cynical practicality, your mother has always reminded you of a bloodhound — relentless, sharp-nosed, and born with an uncanny ability to sniff out fear or any hesitation you try to disguise as composure. She’s the type of woman who taught herself how to file taxes on a borrowed library card and once negotiated a hospital bill down with nothing but a polite smile and the threat of local media.

She’s not cruel. She’s just focused. And being raised by someone like that, someone made entirely of high standards and survival skills, means you learned early that love can sound like a to-do list.

You grew up in a two-bedroom apartment with six feet between the couch and the kitchen. Rent was a monthly feat. Every leftover was frozen, labeled, and scheduled for a future meal. Your parents stretched paychecks like rubber bands and made “making it work” a sport. Maybe it wasn’t glamorous, but it was honest. Your mother didn’t believe in luxury, but she did believe in work and never, ever wasting potential.

So, of course, she calls every week. And evidently, she asks the same question every time.

“Are you working hard?”

You deadpan at your reflection in the mirror as you swipe on concealer. “Always.”

“Are you doing your best?”

The mascara wand in your other hand shakes a little. “Is there any other option?”

There’s a moment of silence. Then, her own exhausted voice: “You sound tired.”

The nerve.

You let out a small laugh. “It’s the White House, Mom. We’re all tired.”

Unimpressed, she hums. “Just don’t let anyone outdo your work.”

“I know that, Mom.” Really, you do. Does she mistake you for some fool with an Ivy League degree?

“We know you do. Quick reminder though.” She references your father quickly. The relationship between them has grown complicated, you’ll be the first to admit it. However, your desire to analyze the ins and outs of two people with avoidant tendencies feels like the last bullet on your list of priorities.

You stare down at your phone like it betrayed you. “How is Dad, by the way?”

“Good.”

Another agonizing second of silence.

You pinch the bridge of your nose and inhale through it. “Cool. Do you need money?”

It comes out sharp, but not unkind. It’s muscle memory at this point.

Ever since you started this job — also coinciding with when your apartment started having more than one window — you’ve asked her this every time she called. Sometimes at the beginning, sometimes at the end, but always without fail.

Do you need money? Are you okay? Do you need anything?

It’s the ritual you’ve carved into every phone call, a breadcrumb of care disguised as annoyance. She never says yes. Always waves you off, tells you she has enough, tells you to save. But asking makes you feel like you’re still doing something. Like you’re still useful.

“I’m fine,” she says now, predictably. “But thank you.”

You press your lips together. Nod to no one. Nearly knock over one of the many awards on your shelf while you shuffle around the bedroom.

Pulling your hair into a low, half-hearted bun, you glance at the time. Shit. Somehow it’s 8:50 AM again and you’ve given more time to this check-in than you wanted.

“Gotta go,” you say, grabbing your press badge and keys. “Talk soon?”

She makes a noise that sounds vaguely like approval.

“Be smart,” she chastises. “Be faster.”

And then, thank God, she’s gone.

You exhale. Look down at your phone. Try not to think about how expectations weigh on you like a slab of concrete.

Whatever. That’s a lot for a Wednesday morning.

By the time you get to work, the humidity has already declared war on your hair, your Celsius is sweating in your hand, and you’re pretty sure the inside of your flats have decided today is the day it slowly starts to detach just to humble you.

You swing into your usual hallway with a nod to the security guard who never remembers your name, badge swinging off your hip like a stressed-out FBI agent in some HBO drama.

Like every morning for the past few months, you find Emma already at her desk, hair twisted up in ponytail, glasses on, earbuds in, typing like the building is on fire and she’s the only one with a hose.

You plop down next to her, all theatrical effort and long-suffering sighs.

Nothing.

It doesn’t even earn you a glance.

“Good morning to you too,” you mutter, unwrapping your breakfast wrap that you snagged on the way in. “In today’s breaking news: the cafeteria is advertising something called ‘Tuscan Bean and Egg Wraps.’ Thoughts and prayers.”

Still nothing.

You lean toward her, waving the food like a white flag. “Do you think ‘Tuscan’ just means they dump a can of white beans into a tortilla and hope for the best?”

Emma blinks, looks up, finally clocking your existence like you’ve materialized out of thin air. She pushes one earbud out and glances at your breakfast. “Do not project your poor food choices onto me before 10 AM.”

“Bold of you to assume this has anything to do with choice.”

She snorts, pushes her glasses higher. “Eat your sad wrap and suffer in silence.”

“You have no empathy.”

“Correct.”

You settle in, taking a bite and immediately regretting it. There’s a faint remnant of bean paste. Why is there bean paste?

Emma’s already halfway through what looks like a policy brief and a media prep outline, and you find yourself watching her out of the corner of your eye. She’s been getting here earlier lately. A little too early. You’ve noticed it; how she’s always already seated when you walk in, coffee half-finished, eyes glued to the screen like the world might fall apart if she looks away.

You could ask her about it.

You want to. You’re good at asking things on paper. Sometimes though, with your friends, it's never the right things. The things that might mean someone has to ask back.

So instead, you pick the safer option.

“So…” you say around a mouthful of regret wrap, “Monroe and Delgado, huh?”

That gets her attention.

Her eyes flick to yours, and for half a second you think you see it. A flicker of something. Interest. Irritation. Annoyance?

“You heard anything else?” You ask casually. Like you weren’t up until 1 AM refreshing Twitter and trying to decode leaked parking lot footage like it was the Zapruder film.

Emma shrugs. “Same as you probably. Everyone’s scrambling. It’s a mess.”

You nod. “Jenna’s losing her mind. She thinks it’s going to blow wider.”

There’s a momentary pause again. God, you’re really starting to hate these silences people in your life keep inflicting upon you. You go back to dissecting your wrap.

Then, Emma muses, “So… you think Jenna’s gonna put you on the press pool?”

You briefly peek over at her. “Probably. She hasn’t said anything official yet, but she made comments the other day.”

Emma blinks. “Like what comments?”

“Wanting to send me since I’m apparently intimidating? Whatever that means in Jenna’s language.”

She hums, eyes flicking back to her screen. “Well. Would make sense.”

“You sound thrilled for me,” You raise an eyebrow.

“I am thrilled,” she says, tone even. “Who wouldn’t want to spend a week attached at the hip to every misogynistic correspondent on the Hill?”

You pause, mid-chew. “I’m choosing to believe that was sarcasm.”

She avoids eye contact. “Believe whatever gets you through the week.”

Leaning back in your squeaky chair, you stare at the ceiling. “If I do get picked, I swear to god I’m packing tranquilizers.”

Emma doesn’t respond right away, just goes back to typing slower now. Subtlety simmers beneath her usual calm, but she masks it well.

You mutter something about needing another energy drink and whether Tuscan Bean Wraps are a sign of punishment, and Emma’s now moved on, two sentences deep into her reply to a senator’s communications rep, hands steady, mouth pressed in a straight line.

Something in your soul feels the need to disturb her peace again.

“I mean, obviously I’m honored or whatever. Yay, journalism. But also.. Jungkook.”

Now that intrigues her. She looks up again, brow raised. “You two gonna kill each other if you get chosen for the press pool again?”

“Unclear. Depends if he tries to mansplain joint bylines again.”

She smiles at that, pearly teeth unveiling themselves. “God, don’t let him outwrite you.”

A scoff leaves your lips, “Please. He’s still mad I beat him in college. He’ll implode before he gives me the last word.”

Emma turns back to her screen, but there’s a fleeting moment in the way she exhales. Not jealousy, really. The kind of thing you’d never catch unless you were looking for it.

You’re not. So you don’t.

You just keep eating your terrible wrap, think about your tasks for the day, and pray to god the lunch options are better than breakfast.

Outside, the city hums with noises through the one tiny window the rest of your team cracked open before you got there.

You’ve always loved Washington.

You came here for the first time when you were fourteen, cramped on a yellow school bus with your debate team and a $20 bill your mom told you not to lose, and it felt like stepping into something cinematic. The marble, the flags, the constant buzz of ambition in the air. Everyone here had somewhere to be and something to prove, and you remember thinking how do I get in?

You weren’t the loudest kid, or the one with the shiniest shoes, but you were intelligent. You had a hunger most people couldn’t see, the kind that made you rewrite arguments three times and memorize congressional committee names like flashcards. You didn’t come from legacy. You didn’t have connections. But that just meant you had to work harder.

Washington never made you feel small, not even when it tried. It made you feel like you could stretch yourself until you became something unignorable.

Which is why, when Jenna breezes into the room like she’s delivering news from Mount Olympus, you sit up just a little straighter.

“Morning, queens,” She sing-songs, coffee in one hand, iced green tea in the other, sunglasses still on despite being very much inside.

Emma perks up immediately. “You’re unusually chipper. Did something explode?”

“Exploded in our favor,” Jenna grins, handing you your coffee without asking your order. She hasn’t asked in over a year. She shows up with the perfect, soul-saving, too-expensive iced oat milk latte situation like a fairy godmother in a tailored pantsuit.

“Be honest,” you begin, eyeing her suspiciously. “You only get like this when someone quits, gets canceled, or calls you brilliant.”

Jenna sips her drink like it’s the blood of her enemies. “Guilty.”

Emma’s chocolate brown eyes widen. “Spill.”

Jenna shrugs off her coat, places her iced green tea down, drapes said jacket on the back of your chair (rude), and leans against your desk with the energy of someone about to ruin your life with a statement.

“There’s movement on Monroe and Delgado,” she clasps her hands together excitedly. “Source confirmation just came in. We’re about to be a few days ahead of the rest of the nation.”

Your stomach tightens, but you keep your face neutral. “That’s great.”

Here it comes.

“It is great,” Jenna nods, popping the lid off her green tea. “Because it means the press pool is going to heat up fast.”

Emma raises an eyebrow. “And who’s going?”

Jenna glances between you both, grins deviously “Oh, her. Obviously.”

Your heart betrays you, skipping a beat with phantom excitement.

“Me?” You point at yourself as if there’s anyone else she could possibly be referring to. Suddenly, the bean and egg wrap taste feels lodged in the back of your throat.

“Who else would I send?”

Emma doesn’t say anything to that at first. Just slumps a little lower in her chair, like her spine suddenly forgot what good posture was. It’s subtle. But if anyone were watching closely — which you aren’t — they’d see it. The slight downturn of her mouth, the way her fingers hover over her keyboard.

“Literally anyone,” you retort immediately. “A well-trained intern. A potted plant. A ghost.”

Emma chokes on her saliva, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.

Jenna laughs, although you’re not joking. “Relax. You’re the best we’ve got. Also the only one scary enough to intimidate the other networks out of quoting us without credit.”

Emma’s back is upright again. Mask back on.

“Flattering,” you mutter, taking a long, bitter sip of your iced latte like it’s going to protect you from what’s coming next. “Who else is going?”

You actually know exactly who else is going. The name is flashing across your frontal lobe in neon lights.

Jenna shrugs, like that’s a you problem. “Check the list outside. Should be posted by now.”

“Cool,” you cross your arms over your chest. “Super helpful. Really loving the clarity.”

Jenna taps your desk twice before snatching her green tea off your desk. “I’m gonna go steal someone’s yogurt. Be amazing.”

And then she’s off, gliding through the room like she didn’t just drop a career-altering bomb in your lap.

You sit there in stunned silence for a second, brain buzzing, caffeine doing nothing to calm the impending doom crawling up your spine.

Emma gives you a knowing look.

“Goddamnit,” you murmur. “Fuck me.”

Emma bites back a grin, the screen of her laptop illuminating her features. “You gonna go check the list?”

The list. Ah, yes. It’s been your best friend and your worst enemy. The first time your name appeared on the list, it was your first year working for CNN, and it felt like the puzzle pieces were sliding into place. Now it holds the same kind of excitement for you that someone on death row would probably have for the electric chair.

“I’m gonna pretend it’s not Jungkook and then collapse when it inevitably is.”

“You’re a beacon of resilience,” She places a hand over her heart in mock sympathy.

You stand up anyway, dragging your feet toward the hallway bulletin board where updates are usually tacked up with passive-aggressive thumbtacks and outdated formatting. Half of you is praying it’s not him. The other half already knows it is.

For everything in your life, the universe has taste. And apparently, a vendetta too.

You don’t rush. You walk with purpose, which is basically the same thing except your bun stays in place and you don’t look like a deranged intern sprinting to deliver coffee. You push past a gaggle of hungry correspondents hovering by the board like vultures, shoulder your way around two guys from the Wall Street Journal who once cornered you at a happy hour with “do you think it’s hard being a woman in political journalism?” like it was a pickup line. You sidestep a couple of overachieving interns whispering about embargoes and then, finally — there it is.

The List.

Printed out in 11-point Times New Roman and taped to the hallway bulletin board like a college theater audition call sheet. Which, fine. It might as well be. People are already murmuring behind you, trying to read over your shoulder.

You plant your feet. Press the tip of your nail to the column marked CNN. Drag it slowly down the page.

[Y/N, L/N]

In bold too. Curse the managers who used fonts and bold letters and other keyboard tactics to torture you.

Jenna has never once not picked you. You don’t know why you’re surprised. Your brain tries to say called it, but your stomach flops anyway.

Although your finger stays on CNN, your eyes keep scanning. Past NBC. Past Reuters. Past AP.

You’re not looking, not really, but your body betrays you before your mind can stop it.

Fox News: Jungkook, Jeon

You exhale like someone just unplugged your soul.

“Fuck me sideways.”

Some correspondent looks at you with a bewildered expression at that, but you’re too busy wallowing in self-despair to care.

You stare at his name for a second too long, as if the sheer weight of your gaze will make it disappear. It does not. It remains bold. Centered on the page. Clearly, the universe got bored and decided to make your existence recreationally miserable.

“Of course it’s Jungkook,” You sigh, pressing your forehead lightly against the wall, because humiliation rituals are best served on drywall.

Behind you, someone coughs.

You straighten quickly and pretend you were just squinting at the lighting or something equally embarrassing. Grab your phone out of your back pocket. Snap a photo of the list like it’s evidence in a trial and not your own personal descent into madness.

You know what this means.

Early mornings. Late nights. Shared interviews. Shared documents. Communal air.

You remember the last time you two got picked for the same story, a few months back. You both nearly got escorted out of a press van in Iowa for arguing over whether a quote was technically on or off the record. He kept repeating “just admit I was right” under his breath like it wouldn’t lead to his timely death.

And now here you are. Yet again.

You pivot and walk backwards in the direction of the CNN office, fast enough that your shoes move with intent but slow enough that you don’t draw attention. You pass the Wall Street Journal guys again. One of them winks.

In your dreams, fucker.

Mental curses ricochet through your skull like a smoke alarm — God, no. Please. Just once. Can you catch a break?

Possible strategies start flooding your brain. Maybe you can trade assignments. Fake mono. Throw yourself down the Capitol steps and hope it earns you a leave of absence.

“Oh, don’t look so devastated. I thought you’d be thrilled.”

You whip your head again — there goes your cervical spine — and sure enough, Jungkook is leaned against the wall a few feet away from the bulletin board, arms crossed, sleeves rolled halfway up like he’s starring in some Gap campaign for Congressional Casual. His hair is still damp like he just showered and didn’t bother drying it.

You stare at him like the audacity is physically painful.

“Were you… just waiting there?” You ask, brows amusedly raised.

“I was reading,” he replies, innocence deceitful. “Is that not allowed?”

You glance back at the list. “Slow reader, I presume? Take you that long to sound out your own name?”

“Time flies when you’re visualizing your shared press pool victory.”

You snort. “Please tell me that’s not what you call it in your head.”

“I mean—” he adjusts his position against the wall, slightly coming off it “—it is a victory. Two great minds. One huge story. What kind of snacks do you want me to bring?”

“I will set those snacks on fire.”

His smile is bordering on shit-eating territory now. “You always threaten arson when you’re nervous.”

“And you always mistake disgust for nerves.” Behind him, you glance at the clock. You didn’t really pencil in time for ‘argue with Jungkook’ on your calendar.

Jungkook pushes off the wall and walks closer, casual as if he’s not purposefully entering your personal space bubble like he’s been doing since freshman year.

“Relax,” he says, eyes glinting. “I’m excited. It’s been a while since we’ve been in the same room, working on the same story.”

Not that long, Jeon. You can count the months on your fingers if you really wanted to.

“Well, the last time it happened, you tried to quote me mid-sentence and almost caused a media blackout.”

“Allegedly.”

“You handed a live mic to a source on Capitol Hill and asked if they wanted to ‘clarify the vibe.’” The air quotes you make are condescending at best.

“It was a bold strategy. You have to take risks in this field.”

“You’re a walking liability.”

He smiles like it’s a compliment. “See? I’ve missed this.”

You take a deep inhale through your nose. Do not murder anyone before lunch. You just bought this button-down.

“Look,” you step forward, keeping your voice even, “I don’t care what story you think you’re writing. You stay in your lane, I stay in mine. We don’t sabotage each other, and we make it through this without an ethics investigation. Sound fair?”

Jungkook tilts his head, looking painfully unbothered. “But where’s the fun in that?”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“You’ve said that so many times I’m starting to believe you actually will,” he holds up his hands defensively. “I feel like that’d be hot. You all bloody, with a knife in your hand.”

Your gaze trails down to the tattoos that litter his arm, and you swear he has the sleeve half rolled just to prove no one is going to come and yank it back down for him.

Any color you had drains from your face. “Did I mention you’re deranged?”

He pats your shoulder, the touch searing through you like Satan just came up and personally felt you himself. “Tragically, you’re stuck with me.”

Your eye twitches. “There has to be a loophole. Some kind of clause.”

“Oh, I checked,” he comments brightly. “We’re bonded for at least a month. Like a very sexy journalism duo.”

You stare at him. A remark you hope will be scathing builds up on the tip of your tongue, but you’re interrupted by one of his winks before it can escape.

For the first time all morning, you seriously consider filing for witness protection.

Being in a room like this, with every top correspondent from every major news outlet packed shoulder to shoulder, all of you corralled into neat little rows like Type A livestock, feels less like journalism and more like being a zoo animal in a glass cage.

Everyone’s circling. Microphones are being tested. Cameras blink red.

And at the front of the room, Monroe’s press rep sits like he’s preparing to wrestle an alligator with his bare hands and call it diplomacy.

You’re gripping your notepad so tightly the edges have started to bend into soft curls. The same line has been rewritten three times just to keep your pen moving. Across the aisle, NBC’s political correspondents are arguing in hushed tones over language choices. To your right, a New York Times rep is chewing on his own thumb.

You’ve already rehearsed your questions at least 2,939 times. You know which quote you’re fishing for, which phrasing will work. You’ve triple-sourced the angle, practiced tone variations in the mirror like a lunatic, and cross-checked your questions against Jenna’s latest “make them squirm” rubric.

CNN has always been known for getting answers. They’re the “people’s news.”

You breathe slowly through your nose, eyes flicking from Monroe’s press rep to your legal pad and back again as a Wall Street Journal guy throws out a lukewarm question about committee oversight that gets swatted down with the elegance of a cat batting a fly. A few heads turn. Everyone’s circling the story but no one’s made contact yet.

“Would the congressman like to comment,” another recognizable deep voice says, “on whether Delgado’s trip to Puerto Rico last spring had any overlap with Monroe’s?”

Checkmate.

There’s a sharp inhale somewhere near the Reuters team. Someone else whispers “Jesus Christ.”

Your brain — your brilliant, well-trained, self-controlled brain — short-circuits.

You must have committed a devious crime in a past life. There's no other explanation for why the universe keeps hurting you like this.

That was your question. You’d buried it in your notes as a backup, a longshot, a play you’d pull if the answers were dry and the mood was right. Granted, this time, you did not plant it for him to find somewhere around the Hill.

This one was thought of with his very own brain cells, which somehow concerns you more. How some imbecile with a penis for a brain put together that invasive, probing question.

Jungkook read your angle. Now he’s thrown it into the fire like it was his to begin with (even though, yes, technically it was. Neither here nor there.)

Your hand shoots up so fast you nearly dislocate something.

The rep hasn’t even fully answered yet, but you’re already in motion. Already powered by pure professional rage and something that might be vengeance but might also be the ghost of college you screaming don’t let him win, don’t you dare let him win in the back of your skull.

The moderator acknowledges your hand. So does the rep.

“CNN?” They nod toward you.

You clear your throat, smooth the edge of your shirt with one hand and hold your notepad with the other. “To follow up on that,” you say dryly, “would you say Monroe’s own itinerary during that trip coincided with any other meetings not yet disclosed to the committee?”

You feel Jungkook’s beady eyes imprinting on your back.

The rep stutters. There’s a shuffle of pens moving, papers rustling.

You’re not sure what wins feel like for normal people, but for you, it’s this: a perfect follow-up delivered, a headline taking shape in real time, and Jungkook rows behind you, no longer smiling.

The answer you get is cagey and tactful but relevant. Enough to lead the narrative, to throw red meat to Jenna, to start sketching out the bones of what could be a front-page exclusive. You jot down a few key phrases, underline them, circle the most damning one like it’s a lover’s name in a diary.

You’re glowing a little. Still warm with the righteous satisfaction of a public takedown. The floor is yours, the quote is yours—

“Fox News?”

Your spine stiffens like someone just cracked a ruler across your back.

“Has there been any internal response from the committee regarding Monroe’s travel reimbursements?” he badgers politely. “Or is the team planning to handle that… informally?”

You flip your notepad to a new sheet so fast it’s a miracle you don’t give yourself a paper cut. There’s scribbles and venn diagrams that look like conspiracy boards until you land on your next question.

Hand up.

You could power the city grid with the force of your blood pressure alone.

The moderator blinks. “CNN…?”

The poor rep looks like a human paper straw. Wilting. Already on the verge of folding under the collective pressure of 25 ravenous correspondents. His tie is crooked and eyes are darting like a substitute teacher who knows he’s lost the room.

“Is there concern from the office about the appearance of misconduct regarding campaign funds being used for that trip? Especially in light of the allegations?”

You say it like you’re reading him his Miranda rights.

There’s an overhead light that keeps flickering. A few people scribble messily in notebooks, on post-its. A woman exhales, low but impressed.

The representative gives a forced nod. “We’ll be… issuing a statement later today,” he looks like he’s going to pass out. “We’re confident in our transparency.”

Translation: please stop asking us things.

You don’t admit victory. You just shake your head up and down, jot down statement = stall tactic, and allow yourself two full seconds of pure, undiluted smugness.

But before the moderator can even finish her next breath—

“Would the statement include a projected timeline for releasing that financial report to the public?”

You turn around so fast your chair squeaks. They really need to raise the budget on housekeeping and get chairs that don’t speak to your every movement.

Fucking Jungkook is leaning back in his seat like he’s posing for a campaign ad.

He lifts one hand in a lazy little wave and smiles over at you. Like he didn’t just hijack the pacing of the entire goddamn briefing. Like this is fun for him.

You imagine launching your pen at his face like a dart.

One time, he edited your op-ed with red ink and then smirked while asking if you wanted him to walk you through AP style. This is more dehumanizing than that.

He’s not just competitive. He’s observant. He watches your questions build, your rhythm form, your angles take shape and then undercuts you by milliseconds.

Turning slowly back around in your seat, your teeth grind like a dial-up modem. You write murder is free if you do it with a pen in the corner of your notepad just to calm yourself down.

Behind you, Jungkook clears his throat, essentially his mating call for war. You’ve known him long enough to catch on to even the most subtle of his quirks.

Quite frankly, you’re going to burn him to the ground.

It goes on longer than you’d like it to, though.

Back and forth. Ping. Pong. CNN. Fox. CNN. Fox. CNN. goddamn Jungkook. You.

There’s a strategy you’re both playing at now — nonverbal warfare. If he sees you flinch, smirk, or breathe too obviously, he’ll take it as encouragement.

The New York Times correspondent beside you keeps trying to interject, his hand half-raised in that tentative way journalists get when they’re not sure if they’re about to get obliterated. But every time he opens his mouth, Jungkook’s voice cuts clean across the room like it’s been waiting in a slingshot.

The other guy next to you sighs loudly and mutters something under his breath about “overachieving twenty-somethings.” You don’t acknowledge it. You can’t. You’re too busy jotting down your next question and preparing to strike like the world’s most caffeinated viper.

You prepare to go again — ask about Monroe’s office phone logs from last quarter, fully aware that the phrasing is risky but too good not to use. It lands like a bullseye. The press rep stammers over his own words, a few chuckles surfacing around the room. You bite your cheek to keep from smirking.

Across the aisle, you can taste Jungkook getting ready to respond. Probably some sly dig about his text messages.

You shoot your hand back up because absolutely not.

It’s gotten ridiculous, the two of you fencing with weaponized diction while the rest of the room slowly becomes collateral damage.

By the eighth exchange, someone coughs pointedly. By the ninth, a guy from Politico leans back with crossed arms and full-blown exasperation.

“Maybe…” the moderator says, voice cracking, struggling with the effort of staying professional, “maybe CNN and Fox News aren’t the only outlets in the room today?”

The tension breaks like a needle to a balloon.

Some dude near the back murmurs “thank god.” The New York Times guy next to you raises his hands to the ceiling in silent gratitude, like he’s been rescued from a hostage situation.

There’s a smile that threatens to unleash its full glory onto your face. Your ears catch Jungkook’s laugh across the room. You want to staple his mouth shut.

The pen gets wrapped around your thumb and pointer finger again, and you scribble stop reacting to him, you’re a professional at the bottom of your notepad. Then underline it four times.

The moderator clears her throat. “Alright, uh… Reuters, I believe you had your hand up?”

This is fine. This is normal. This is just another day in the press pool jungle, and if Jungkook thinks he’s winning this war?

He better start taking better notes.

The session wraps not long after the rest of the outlets speak, questions slowly fizzling into half-baked comments, reporters distracted by their own looming deadlines or the promise of free donuts in the next room. Monroe’s rep offers a pathetic and dull closing statement about transparency and continued cooperation, which is ironic considering he’s sweating through his collar.

You’re already grabbing your bag before the word “adjourned” finishes echoing through the room.

Success can only be determined by one person: Jenna. And until she gives you the proverbial thumbs-up (or better yet, a bottle of tequila and the words “great job, babe”), you are in full damage control mode.

You push past a specific breed of reporters, muttering random ‘sorry’s’ while speed-walking with the urgency of a woman who just saw her ex on a Tinder ad. Sometimes, you’ll hide behind the door and wait for the press rep to walk by to badger them for any last comments, but not today.

You make it about twelve feet down the hall before you hear it.

A cough.

That very specific throat clearing that says hey bestie, remember me? The bane of your existence?

There is a stupid, traitorous whiff of cologne wafting into your nostrils right about now. Woody. Warm. Expensive in the way that only someone with emotional detachment issues could pull off. You’ve never known the name of the cologne, but you know what it smells like: ego.

“I swear to god, Jeon, if you try to do a post-game wrap-up—”

“That was fun,” Jungkook interrupts, matching your stride and appearing beside you like a thief in the night. “Really took me back.”

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of your head. “To what? The last time you tried to steal a quote and nearly caused an internal investigation?”

He shrugs. “To simpler times. You, me, the scrawny dude up there sweating bullets. Felt like college all over again.”

“You mean where you coasted off other people’s research and called it collaboration?” you clarify.

He gasps, mock offended. “I offered to footnote you.”

You stop walking, hold your ground. “Footnote me?”

Now that you're standing there under the lights that make anyone look horribly pale but, regrettably, work wonders for his alabaster skin, you take in his appearance.

He catches your gaze, “Like, ‘[L/N], et al.’ It had a nice ring to it.”

Your mouth opens — possibly to insult him, possibly to commit verbal homicide — but before you can say anything, the sound of approaching footsteps cuts through the corridor.

You squint in unison with Jungkook, twisting your head to see who possibly would dare to interrupt the two of you. You two uphold an unfortunate reputation on the Hill at this point.

Sadly, it’s the rep from the press pool. Jogging. Actually, it’s more like sprinting toward the two of you, tie askew, phone in hand like he’s about to drop breaking news and/or collapse.

Jungkook leans into you, whispers under his breath, “Oh no. He’s doing the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where they chase us down because we either scared them or accidentally got too good of a quote and we need to redact it.”

You glance at him. He’s oddly close to you, past the imaginary no-no square you’ve put up two feet within your body. There’s a faint scar you’ve never noticed on his right cheek.

And then you quickly snap back to peer at the rep, who’s panting now, almost there, waving his hand like an unpaid intern trying to stop a runaway bus.

You grimace at this man’s appearance. “Goddamnit.”

“Don’t worry,” Jungkook adjusts his sleeve, tone calm. “If it’s about me, just deny everything. If it’s about you, I’ll deny everything and throw in some fake tears for flair.”

You side-eye him. “You don’t even have tear ducts.”

“I have range.”

The press rep skids to a stop in front of you both, chest heaving, face that same color of chalk that the hallway lighting bestows upon pathetic people.

For some reason, you’re already bracing yourself for whatever act two of this absolute circus is about to be.

He’s got that “once interned for a senator, now drinks four Red Bulls before noon” vibe. Mid-30s, maybe? Hard to tell. Balding slightly. His face is trying to look calm and in control, but his body is screaming “I am being hunted by scandal.”

“Hi,” he exhales, clearly winded. “Sorry—hi. Yes. Hello.”

Naturally, Jungkook offers him a charming little nod, hands in his pockets like he’s not actively considering setting this man’s tie on fire.

The rep straightens his blazer (badly), pats his front pocket like he’s making sure his wallet is still there, and finally extends a clammy hand to no one in particular.

“I’m Mark. With Monroe’s team.”

His voice is wheezy, but trying.

You don’t take the hand and Jungkook doesn’t either. It kind of lingers there, awkwardly floating mid-air.

“Right,” you say after a beat, nodding stiffly. “And you… sprinted here because?”

Mark chuckles nervously, wipes his hand on his slacks. You’re starting to think it’s his first day on the job. Poor dude. Does he know there’s still time to escape?

“Just wanted to, uh, confirm,” he gulps, glancing between the two of you. “You’re the press reps? For CNN and Fox?”

Tentatively, you show signs of agreement. Jungkook, because he’s a show-off, salutes.

You’re standing there thinking: who the fuck is this guy, really? If you had to put money on it, your guess is some overpaid puppet with a job title like ‘Special Communications Liaison to the Chief of Staff.’ Probably thinks he’s the next Olivia Pope. You see the scuffed shoes, the fraying cuff on his blazer, the desperate gleam in his eyes. This guy’s not the mastermind.

He’s a chess piece. You want Monroe.

Mark lowers his voice like he’s about to hand you the nuclear codes locked in the Oval Office. “So… just between us, okay?”

You arch a brow, interest piqued.

Jungkook blinks, arms crossed. If this was Halloween, you two would be pulling off an honest interpretation of Bonnie and Clyde. “Is this off the record or…?”

“No! Well.. technically no,” Mark scratches the back of his neck. “But, like, also… you know.”

You do not, in fact, know.

“Right,” your voice is flat. “Very clear. Continue.”

Mark leans in, glancing over his shoulder like the ghost of Monroe might apparate in this very hallway.

“This thing,” he gestures vaguely as if the scandal is floating above you, “it’s messy. We’re trying to get ahead of it. We think it’s important that the public sees this the right way. Context is necessary. It’s.,, nuanced.”

Context. Nuance. Hmph. All words you equate with overachieving reps who are doing anything to keep the rumors afloat.

You fight the urge to pull out your recorder and hit play with your middle finger.

He keeps going. “And obviously, CNN and Fox… massive reach. Opposite ends of the aisle. But you kind of… shape the public opinion.”

You exchange a glance with Jungkook, who looks vaguely amused, like someone just asked him if he wanted to share his Netflix password.

“Get to the point,” you motion with your hand.

Mark nods, like he’s been waiting for your permission. “We want you two to help us tell the story.”

The ghost of Monroe may have actually possessed his body. There’s no other explanation for this.

A snort escapes your body. A real life snort. “Oh, nice try, buddy.”

Jungkook tilts his head at him. “I’m sorry, are you trying to pitch us a collab piece?”

“I’m sorry,” you add, “did you just chase us down the hallway to ask us to… team up and play Monroe’s PR Barbie?”

Mark flinches. “It’s not like that,” he insists. “We just think, if you two handle this with balance, with neutrality—”

“Neutrally report your version of events,” you clarify.

“Exactly.”

What the fuck is happening? you ask yourself silently. Your mind is still completely, absolutely blank with nothing but insults and denials loading into your brain in a single-file line. “Do we get stickers afterward?”

Jungkook turns toward you. “Maybe matching tote bags. ‘I survived a government scandal and all I got was fired.’”

Mark’s eyes are doing this twitchy thing now, scanning between the two of you like he’s starting to regret every decision that led him here. “We’re just saying… you’re already on it. We know you’re both on it. We’re just… trying to offer cooperation. A foot in the door. We’re hoping to help shape the conversation before it spirals.”

You look at Jungkook again, and for a flicker of a second, your eyes glimmer in that weird, quiet way they do when something actually is serious.

‘Mark’ is right. This is them trying to control the damage, trying to spin you both into pawns.

You didn’t claw your way from a rent-controlled walk-up in New York City to regurgitate talking points from a man who’s probably laundering donor funds through his third wife’s consulting firm.

You spin back to Mark.

“Thanks,” your voice is sugar-sweet. “But if we wanted to write her story, we’d be working for her team.”

Mark’s lip twitches. “So… that’s a no?”

Jungkook gives him a polite, diplomatic smile. “We’ll be in touch if anything changes.”

Code for: if our editors call us stupid, we might pick up the phone and beg you for a second chance.

You both walk off into the abyss of the hallway without another word. The shared satisfaction of a very well-executed fuck off lingers in the air. Honestly, you’re a little proud and surprised by Jungkook’s actions; for once, the man isn’t trying to pull the rug out from under your feet. He is choosing to deny a leg up on the competition, a—

“Wait! I have something you want!”

You and Jungkook halt mid-step.

Like the ghost of Monroe has returned to haunt you, you both whip around in unison. The hallway lights sparkle off Jungkook’s silver watch as he adjusts his cufflink. You fold your arms over your chest because if you don’t anchor yourself, you might actually sprint back and shake the answer out of Mark yourself.

Mark, for his part, looks like he wasn’t expecting that to work. He steadies himself, then offers a sheepish, almost triumphant smile. “I wasn’t finished.”

“I don’t know. Sounds pretty done to me.” Take a hint, Mark.

But he’s barreling towards you again, straightening his blazer like it makes him more credible, “Monroe. She’s been… cautious about this. About the media. But if the two of you together handle it…”

You frown. “What does that mean? Handle it how?”

“You want a puff piece?” Jungkook mirrors your current position, beefy arms crossed over his chest.

“No. Not a puff piece,” Mark refutes quickly, “I told you, we want neutrality. Credibility. That’s what the public needs.”

What the public needs and wants is an article with the likes of a Korean drama.

You narrow your eyes. “Cut to the chase”

Mark hesitates, then puffs out his chest. “She’ll talk. Off the record at first, but open to recording if she feels she can trust you. But only if you two do it together.”

The words drop at your feet, fall below the building, plant themselves in the dirt.

You go unresponsive. Hands fall to your sides. You swear the hands of the clock on the wall nearest to you stop ticking.

For the first time in a long time, you have been rendered utterly and completely speechless.

“Monroe will speak,” Jungkook enunciates slowly, as if trying to confirm that Mark hasn’t just had a stroke. “To us. Together..?”

Mark nods like a broken bobblehead. “Only to you two. It’s optics, if you think about it. It keeps her from looking like she’s hand-feeding one party.”

Your stomach churns, all giddy and horrified at the same time.

Oh, god.

This is the story.

This is exclusive access to the eye of the storm, a one-on-one with a political figure who’s been dodging cameras like they’re carrying the plague. This is headline-making, career-elevating, promotion-sending-you-to-the-moon type shit.

You actually might faint.

Then it all comes crashing down like Jenga blocks toppling over after a five-year old pulls out the middle one on purpose.

The catch. You… Jungkook… same room. For an extended period of time. Trying to extract intel while also trying not to throw a chair at his face.

You glance sideways, and of course he looks unbothered. No, ctrl, alt, delete that. He looks excited. Like he just got picked for the varsity team again and fully intends to score the winning goal.

His jaw tightens, the smallest flicker of hunger flashing in his eyes. He wants the story.

You know that look. You’ve worn it. Slept in it. Shaped your entire career around it.

For a brief second, you hear Jenna’s voice in your head. You hear her saying “great job,” hear the “we would love to offer you the position of Senior Correspondent.”

You’re entirely certain Jungkook wants the intel, and the promotion.

Honestly?

Fuck it. So do you.

“Fine,” you agree, stepping forward. You hold your hand out toward Mark. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Mark exhales like he’s been holding his breath for six years. He shakes your hand then turns to Jungkook, who gives a little half-smile and nods like, well, this should be fun.

You peer at the two of them. Under your breath, you mutter mostly to yourself, “I’m going to regret this.”

And beside you, Jungkook beams ear to ear. “I know.”

You’re not entirely sure this is a good idea.

Scratch that. You’re very sure this is a terrible idea.

You can already envision it: Jungkook slowly rotating in his chair mid-interview like a comic book villain, trying to slip cyanide into your iced coffee while simultaneously plagiarizing your closing paragraph. He’ll flash that dumb, media-trained smile, quote Monroe’s confession word-for-word, and beat you to publication by six minutes and forty three seconds.

But two things are true.

One: you are not about to sabotage your chance to get firsthand information out of Monroe — the kind of scoop that makes editors salivate and might get you an actual door to your office instead of a desk by the printer.

And two: you’re playing to win.

And you’ll be damned if you lose to Jungkook.

masterlist + ask

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

#jeon jungkook #jungkook smut #jungkook #jungkook x reader #bts jungkook #bts #jeon jeongguk #jungkook x you #jungkook x y/n #bts x reader #bts x you #bts fanfic #jungkook fanfic

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sungbites · 4 months ago

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DIM ━ lee taeyong

pairing : bf!taeyong x gf!reader genre : angst, fluff if u squint, est. relationship warnings : crying, yelling ? kiss at the end umm lol synopsis : a dim relationship finds lights in even the darkest moments wc : 1.2k a/n : LAWWWL first 127 work but at what cost...

the apartment was dim and quiet, the only thing that could be heard was the soft thump of taeyongs fingers tapping against his knee, impatiently. you told him you were going to be home at 8 o'clock. it was now midnight.

the relationship you and taeyong had was too complicated. you two had been together for about three years and the past year had been hell on earth for both of you. you went through a major job change and taeyong began his new job which was also time consuming. the two of you didn’t have time for each other but instead of communicating that you took it out of one another.

taeyong tried not to think negatively but he couldn’t stop himself, what were you doing? he trusted you he did but lately it felt as your mind was always somewhere else. you left in the morning before him, your responses were dry both in conversation and texts, it had been three months since you last said that you loved him. with all of these things combined taeyong couldn’t help but wonder if he was lacking in something that you had to go find someone else.

he loved you like his life depended on it. for him, loving you wasn’t a chore but rather, it was like breathing. it came so naturally to him that there was never a doubt he didn’t love you but he couldn’t say the same for you. people got busy with their lives, sure and he had heard about couples growing out of one another but he didn’t ever think he could grow out of you, let alone you grow out of him.

you shut the front door, locking it behind you. taeyong immediately stood up from the couch to look at you from the living room. you looked the same, your eyes were tired and drained, your hair was messy too but nonetheless you looked the same. “you’re late” taeyong breathed out, making you sigh in response as you slipped off your coat and took off your shoes. “you didn’t need to wait up for me” you mumbled, making taeyong furrow his brows and cross his arms.

“why wouldn’t i? i was worried you told me you’d be home by 8 today” he replied, voice stern. you glanced at him and rolled your eyes, walking into the kitchen to get yourself a glass of water. “yeah well i had to work late. what’s the problem with that?” you said, voice matching his own. “were you? just working?” taeyong said, walking close to the kitchen now and you just stared at him.

he didn’t need to explicitly say it but both of you knew what he was implying. “i’m really not in the mood for whatever fight you’re trying to pick right now.” you finally breathed out, making taeyong even angrier. “so you’re not going to answer the question?” he stared at you as you finished the glass of water, setting it down in the sink. “yes taeyong, i was working. thank you for always trusting your girlfriend” you smiled sarcastically, walking right past him to go into your shared bedroom.

taeyong stood in the kitchen for a couple seconds, clenching his jaw. he weighed his options, either to leave right now or settle this tension between the both of you. somehow his feet moved on their own because in a couple seconds he found himself standing in your shared bedroom as well. you stared at him, eyes so unreadable. he couldn’t read you like he used to, for some reason you had put up a wall between the both of you.

the two of you stood in silence, staring at one another. you sighed out, turning around to go change your clothes and taeyong finally spoke. “why are you so distant” he breathed out, making you close your eyes to take a deep breath in order to calm yourself down. you turned around to look at him, his eyes full of despair. “the first thing you do when i walk into the apartment is accuse me of cheating on you taeyong, and you’re asking me why i’m distant?” you said, your tone still as harsh as it was before.

taeyong furrowed his brows, “you give me reasons to doubt you yn what do you want me to do?!” he finally raised his voice, a sense of frustration found in it. “you don’t even talk to me anymore, let alone say that you love me what else can i suspect?” he continued and you scrunched your face in disgust, of him or what he was saying he couldn’t really tell. “you can’t just expect the best of me? i always have to live up to what you want?!” you raised your voice as well, making him scoff.

“i’m not saying that.. god yn” his voice was a little bit calmer now, running his hand through his hair as he looked down at the ground. you took a deep breath, in and out as you two stood in silence once more. “why is it so hard for you to just love me the way i love you?” he finally said, his voice breaking ever so softly. you sighed, now it was your turn to think.

it was suffocating, being with someone who loved you so much. no one thinks of how tolling it is but it was, tolling. taeyong was the type of man who sacrifice his own well being just for you but for you, it wasn’t worth him doing all that. you weren’t worth the trouble in your eyes, you didn’t give the same back in the relationship so it became hard for you to even try to begin to do that.

“i just.. can’t, i do love you but not in the way you want met to.” you finally breathed out, taeyong let out a breathe he didn’t know he was holding. you continued, “its hard loving you as much as you do me, i don’t deserve that kind of love from you.” taeyong’s heart felt wounded, had he been putting to much of a burden onto you?

you looked at him and finally your eyes were readable. you were tired and exhausted. how couldn’t he have seen it before? you weren’t sick of him or your relationship but you were sick of yourself, for not loving him the way he deserves. taeyong walked over, closing the gap between you and him, both metaphorically and literally. he cupped your face in his hands, looking into your eyes. “i love you, for everything you offer me.” he said, his thumb rubbing against your cheek.

you looked up at his glossy eyes, your own eyes getting glossy as well. you nodded, finally smiling softly. it was enough. somehow he read your mind as always and for him it was enough. “i love you too” you breathed out, taeyong smiling softly as well. he leaned in, kissing your lips so softly.

taeyongs love was like his kiss, tender, sweet, and so giving. you felt a tear drop from your eye, his thumb quickly wiping it away. your relationship was dim but it didn’t matter, not everything could’ve been fixed in one night.

taglist : @ronniee-26 @aerifim @17ericas @polarisjisung @sunghoonsgfreal @ayukas @snwydoie @remtrack @honeyfever @chenlezip @hyuckluvr-com @cosmicwintr (bold cannot be tagged) nct taglist

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jinwoosbabyboo · 8 months ago

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Onychinus Personal Chef II

ꩇׁׅ݊ You became Sylus' personal chef based off of pure chance. He's picky, he's annoying and he is just so damn fine. ꩇׁׅ݊ fem!reader, sylus x personal-chef!reader pt 2 of a 4 part series

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Your Client Sylus who has Mephisto deliver you menus of what he wants to eat.

Your Client Sylus who always finds a way to hang out in the kitchen while you’re prepping/cooking and give you unsolicited advice “You should sear that side a little longer” “You should let the trained chef do her job”

Your Client Sylus who has you ‘taste’ his food with him because he just wants to make sure you eat and he secretly enjoys feeding you "Why do you always have me take the first bite?" "Just making sure you didn't poison it" "Why would I- okay princess"

Your Client Sylus who purposely gives you complicated orders so that he can listen to the recordings of you complaining to Mephisto. “Who eats smothered lamb chops as a snack? Does he realize I have to marinate these for a day for them to be perfect? He's getting two hours and he can get over it should've requested these for tomorrow” “I don’t get paid enough for this … well I do actually … more than enough … but I’m gonna complain anyway” He also finds himself listening to your singing and humming while you cook “Your talents were being wasted miss chef” He mumbled to himself with a smirk

Your Client Sylus who teases you when you can’t reach something in his kitchen that was built specifically for his height and wingspan “Would you like some help?” “No I want a damn … I mean I would like a step stool so I don’t have to keep calling you and the boys for help” “If it’s you I don’t mind helping”

Your Client Sylus who acts like he’s annoyed when you make him help with prep while he’s loitering in the kitchen “Are you telling me what to do?” “Do you want to eat tonight?” Luke and Kieran snicker in the background and instantly go quiet when Sylus shoots them a glare.

Your Client Sylus who hates when you call yourself Onychinus' Personal Chef and is very vocal about it. "You're my personal chef" "I also cook for the twins" "I'm your boss sweetie" "My boss who is the leader of Onychinus"

Your Client Sylus who you end up bickering with like an old married couple after only six months of working for him. You love the days when he doesn’t give you a menu and you get to cook whatever you want “Sylus do you want to eat lunch?” “What are my options chef?” “Yes or fucking no” “……Yes” Who’s really in charge here? It’s always been you.

Your Client Sylus who becomes more forward with his flirting when you aren’t catching his hints. He wants you to be honest with yourself and give in to him yet you continue to keep him at an arms length. You convince yourself that he’s just a calculated man who wants some kind of excitement in his life. He just enjoys the games. At least that’s what you tell yourself.

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ꩇׁׅ݊ taglist ; @mangooes @mourning-into-dancing

#love and deepspace #sylus love and deepspace #sylus #lnds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #lads #sylus fluff #sylus lnds #sylus x you #sylus qin #l&ds sylus #sylus x reader #lads sylus #nikaaaaimagine

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maimaily · 18 days ago

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the lads boys as kittens. 🍐 ‧₊˚ zayne

summary: You were living in your new apartment now, a free space for yourself, but maybe it was too free. You weren't quite used to the silence and loneliness of it, so you decided to welcome a little one to your home. After considering many options, a cat seemed the most adequate: clean, independent, wouldn't take much of your time as a dog... right?

characters: kitty!zayne + mc as reader (other characters will be posted separately

a/n: cat breeds are selected based on the "Yes, Cat Caretaker" event. If there's any change, it'll be based on the appearance of each breed, but not its personality traits strictly. proofread but if there's any mistake please let me know! (eng isn't my first language).

xavier 🢒 rafayel 🢒 sylus 🢒 caleb (coming soon)

Zayne — Maine Coon How did he get to live with you?

A precious cat café that you frequented was your favorite, it had a cozy atmosphere and the kitties were adorable. Most of them were young and lively, playing between the tables and napping on the window frames. You loved that place, but one day you received the unfortunate notice: they were going to close permanently soon.

The nostalgia of memories formed in that special place drove you to visit again before it shut down forever. There was no longer service, and just a couple of employees were cleaning up the place. They apologized and explained that maintaining the establishment was becoming impossible since the rent had become pricier and the cats needed more medical treatments. Upset, you were about to leave just when the owner stopped you at the door.

In his fragile arms he carried a pitch-black beauty, bigger than a regular cat. You recognized him as the cat you always found at the reception desk every day you visited, staring at the door in an upright sitting position or taking a nap from time to time.

The owner explained that it was his cat. He tried many times to introduce him to the rest of the cats in the café, but he never got along much, mostly because his big body intimidated the smaller ones, and apparently, he wasn't as playful. Because of this, he made it stay with him at the reception to keep him company, rarely getting any caress besides yours, who always showed him affection.

The gentleman explained the complicated state of his health. His business had become a chore for him, it made him stay away from home for long hours, and he couldn't bring himself to leave his precious cat alone that much. Since his goal was to provide the kittens with a better life, he got them new owners who were happy to adopt them before closing the shop. But for his boy… he needed the perfect caregiver. That's when you learned his name: Zayne.

"Even now that I'll be more at home, he deserves an owner who can take care of him as he deserves. My mobility is getting more limited with each passing day, and I'm worried he's starting to take care of me instead of me taking care of him… My wife and I adopted him some years ago, but I'm not selfish enough to make him stay with me now that she's gone… I know he will be happier living with you."

And that's how it happened. After a couple of days of proper procedures, your new angelic boy was home.

Gracious presence. Zayne has the unique talent of making looking through the windows a solemn sight, with his silky, daintily groomed black fur glistening in the late afternoon sunlight. His tall, long body stretches gracefully when he wakes up from his small naps, purring tenderly when you scratch his chin (he loves it). His existence is so full of grace that your gallery is now loaded with his photos.

Shy boy! During the first days of living together, it was hilarious to see such a big cat jumping in surprise each time Rafayel got closer to sniff him when he was napping, accidentally waking him up. But his reclusive demeanor was as endearing as it was concerning, you didn't want to cause him any discomfort or anxiety, so you did your research and got a few toys and treats ready, compromised to spend the day bonding with your cats. Rafayel was enthusiastic, Xavier liked being rewarded for his hard work, and Zayne... well, he played with the plush mouse toy along with Xavier! It was something, wasn't it? The next day when you returned home after work and saw them napping together, you knew it had been all worth it.

Quiet. Continuing with the previous trait, he's an even quieter cat than Xavier! Doesn't really let out meows and just occasionally chirps when he's hungry or expresses discomfort. He doesn't make any noise at night… someone could learn a thing or two from him.

Glutton in disguise. Zayne is a well-mannered cat, he is clean, polite, and mostly never causes trouble, but when food is involved… sigh. His usual wet food is fine, perfect even: nutritional, tasty, and prepared with love when you add the supplements recommended by the vet. There's nothing wrong until treats are involved. He likes them too much and will get pretty moody if he doesn't get at least one per day. The vet strictly restricted him from eating them so frequently after his last check-up. He doesn't like to talk about it.

His favorite place to make biscuits is your thighs. Soft, squishy even, he doesn't hurt you with his weight and you always reach out your hand to pet him as he commits to his duty. It occurs as you're lying down: he'll announce himself with a short meow and jump on top of your legs gently. After he's done, he lies on your lap quietly (nap time!)

Nuzzles, nuzzles, nuzzles. Against your legs, your hands, your face, anywhere you allow him to, really. Doesn't do it frequently, just when you've been gone for too long or when he's showing affection. Oh, he also likes to stretch his body up on you, so you must carry him and let him nuzzle against your neck when he's needy.

Grooming grump. No, don't get me wrong, I said it before: he's always neatly groomed. Not "most of the time", no. Always. He spends a good amount of time getting his fur clean and shiny, not even Rafayel is as meticulous as him, but... the grooming brush? Get that away from him. You have to prowl around while he basks, acting as if you're not looking for him, then reach down to pet him a couple of times, gaining his trust... and now! You take the brush from your pocket and start from his exposed belly. He'll surrender the first 5 minutes, gently smacking your hand when he's done with the sensation. And let me tell you he's still very polite about it.

No touch. Strangers can't touch him, he'll run off. You can, but that doesn't mean all the time. His ears are particularly sensitive so he'll move away if you scratch him for too long, and how open he feels that day to allow you to shower him in caresses or not relies on his mood. You've learned to respect his boundaries, giving him space when he needs it, and he knows for sure your arms are all open to receive him when he wants to be pampered.

It felt, at times, like the world was a heavy storm cloud perched on your shoulders—loud, weighty, and unwilling to lift. "Bright days and cloudy days" you merely called it, but deep inside, the truth was that exhaustion made you feel like you were running in circles.

“Hey, it's fine. We're all bummed about it, but it's already done. Take this. It'll help you sleep at night”, the forever-sweet Tara told you after seeing the guilt in your eyes, still heavy from today’s mission... including that disastrous report you submitted, which didn’t exactly win points with your boss. She handed over a small packet of herbal tea—the kind that promised to calm your nerves. Her usual remedy when things felt off.

With a sigh, you put it away in your bag and left the Hunters Association building. Your bike was under repair again since it had been damaged during your previous mission, so you had to take the bus—and yes, what your eyes saw was the bus, the only one that came every hour, pulling away as you arrived at the bus stop seven minutes late.

On the outside, you only sighed heavily and rubbed your temples. But inside, you felt like you were reaching your last straw for the day.

The door locked itself after you, matching your hundredth sigh of the day. Kicking your shoes off and not caring about picking them up to store them was the first sign. Dragging your feet in dim light and just pouring food on each of the bowls was the second one. Ignoring the mess of toys Rafayel created during the day, and Xavier asleep on your clean laundry was the third.

Finally, heading to your bedroom without taking a shower first was the fourth and last one he needed before jumping off the wall hammock and walking towards the dark room. The soft click of the door handle turning startled you. “Zayne?"

You were sitting on the bed, breaking your rule of no outside clothes on the freshly cleaned covers, but frankly, you were too tired to even bother. Your body was facing the open window, small tears blurring your eyes as you stared at the starry sky outside, counting the tiny sparkling dots to avoid any form of thought about your awful, lousy day coming to your head.

Evidence destroyed, a fugitive, and a terrible feeling of resentment toward yourself for failing.

It felt unfair to disturb the peace of your cats with the gloomy mood you were in, and it was late anyway, so you allowed them to sleep and rest at ease, dealing with your turbulent emotions alone. But tricking Zayne into believing everything was fine turned out to be a fruitless mission.

He walked around the bed, his shiny, peridot-like eyes staring back at you. “Meow,” he bumped against your leg, nuzzling for a second before placing his paws on your knees for support. “Oh, Zaynie. Go back to sleep, it's nothing." You scratched his chin and he purred, leaning against your touch and jumping on top of your lap, sitting there. Avoiding falls from the unstable sitting spot, you cradled him in your arms like the biiiig baby he was. “Sorry for waking you up…”

His paws gently touched your face, and it sounded ridiculous maybe, but you felt it like reassurance you so badly needed in that moment, and that made you tear up. His paws patted your cheeks, and you couldn't help but smile. Your back rested on the mattress now, his body cuddled on top of you, purring slowly and tenderly, his soft breathing calming your own. He had nuzzled his face against yours as you cried and let out all the pent-up stress and frustration from the day.

His purring rumbled against your chest as your hands kindly petted his delicate fur, earning an affectionate lick on the cheek that coaxed a giggle out of you. You cupped his tiny face to pepper kisses all over it. "Thank you for coming to my emotional rescue, my loving gentleman," you teased, adoring every aspect of him. Zayne was observant, and after weeks of building your relationship, earning each other's trust, and caring for each other, it was clear as day how much of an emotional support he was for you.

Once your mind became clear of self-deprecating thoughts, you refreshed yourself with a warm bath, changed into your comfiest clothes, prepared the tea Tara gifted you, kissed Rafayel and Xavier goodnight —a well-deserved gesture after a whole day of absence—, and tucked yourself under the covers where Zayne waited patiently for you.

Your hands gently caressed him, waiting for the herbal infusion to take effect, and slowly you drifted into the land of dreams, your relaxed breathing bringing a sense of comfort to the cat beside your limp body. He stretched to reach the lamp on the nightstand, fumbling with his paws until he managed to press the switch and turn off the light.

You'd only notice until the next morning, but it wouldn't be the first time he surprised you with those actions. Were those small gestures the same as he did when he lived with the elderly couple that adopted him first? And if they were, was he tired of having to do it all over again for you?

A few words were enough to answer this: he would always look after you with pleasure, as you always took care of him.

Likes, reblogs are comments are greatly appreciated!

hi !! first of all: thank you SO much for the love the kitty series is receiving! I'm so happy y'all like it, these are really fun and relaxing to write for me, so I'm glad there is people who enjoy it too. For Zayne's part... I'm sorry Zayne girlies, I admit this isn't as fun as Xavier's or Rafayel's, but y'all are welcome to make me write something cuter if you want HAHAHA. Thank you again for reading, let's see each other again for Sylus's version! <3

thank you to all the people who started following me too! (⁠人⁠*⁠´⁠∀⁠｀⁠)⁠｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+

tag list ! @animegamerfox, @princessofenkanomiya, @aethercoreria

Dividers made by: @uzmacchiato, @v6que and @haecunt

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writinginatree · 3 months ago

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Learning By Doing

Relationship(s): Brennan Sorrengail/Riorson!reader, Xaden Riorson & sibling!reader

Summary: Your skill as a first-year mender is put to the test when your boyfriend and mentor Brennan is badly injured and you're the only one available to save his life.

Warnings: Blood and injury, panic attacks, age gap

Anonymous requested: Brennan angst with an injury

(I'm low-key thinking of this as a sequel to "Caught", but you can just as well read it as a stand-alone)

You're doing homework when they carry him in. The door slamming open startles you so badly you splatter ink all over the assignment you were writing, but that scare is nothing compared to the cold fear that settles in your chest when you whirl around in your chair to see Brennan's limp form hanging between Xaden and Garrick.

You shoot to your feet and rush over to where they carefully lay him down on your bed.

Gods, there's so much blood.

The wound is hidden from sight by your brother's shadows, wrapped tightly around Brennan's stomach to hold a bundled up jacket in place. It's not enough to stench the bleeding. The precious liquid has long soaked through it, and now stains your bedsheets red around your boyfriend's torso even as you watch.

"What happened?!" you try to yell, but it comes out as a choked gasp.

Your hands shake as you take one of Brennan's between them. He's colder than he should be, pallid from how much blood he's lost.

"We were patrolling near the border when a bunch of venin came out of nowhere," Garrick explains. "Killed them all, but Brennan took a blade to the guts. I don't know how that happened exactly; we lost sight of each other in the fight."

Xaden adds, "He passed out before he could mend himself, so we brought him back here as fast as we could."

"And why the fuck did you bring him to me?" you shout. "He needs a healer!"

"No, Y/N," Xaden says calmly, putting his hands on your shoulders, "he needs a mender. And you're the only one we have here right now."

You didn't think your heart could race any faster than it already did, but at those words, it does. Sheer panic floods your body. This can't be happening. Brennan's life, resting in your inexperienced hands. You've only had your signet for half a year, barely know how to wield it. You're pretty good at mending inanimate objects — it's what you'd started practicing with — but healing people is much more complicated, even when the injury isn't too bad. And this injury is very bad.

You shake your head. "I can't!"

"You can, and you will."

"But I've never worked on a patient in critical condition before!" You've never worked on a patient at all without Brennan's guidance. "I don't— I don't even know what to do!"

"Yes, you do. Take a deep breath and focus," your brother instructs. "You've got this. Just remember your lessons with Brennan, and don't panic."

Xaden is right, of course. If you let the panic consume you, Brennan is as good as dead. You need to do something about his wound, not stand here and freak out. There's no guarantee you'll be able to save him, but you can try. You have to.

But if you fail—

The thought steals your breath and keeps you rooted in place. You'll never forgive yourself if Brennan dies because of your inadequacy as a mender.

"Then don't fail," your dragon's voice sounds in your head, uncompassionate as always.

He makes it sound much simpler than it is, but he has a point. Failure is not an option.

"You could have warned me that Brennan is hurt when you saw them land," you accuse, but the beast only scoffs.

"So you could have worked yourself into a full-blown panic before they even got him inside?" he mocks. "I don't think so. Now quit wasting time and get to work. Unless you want him to die, of course."

Your dragon's familiar snark helps you break through the panic. He's right. This isn't the time for fear.

One of the first things Brennan taught you about mending people was that you must never ever panic when faced with an injury. If you do, your patient will freak out, too. Not relevant in this case, since he's unconscious and you wouldn't be in this terrible situation if he was awake. But more importantly, fear will distract you from doing your job. That's why no matter how much blood there is, how horrible the sight of the wound, you must ignore those feelings and focus on the task before you. Steady hands, a clear head — that's what you need. No room for fear or hesitation.

With a deep breath, you reach for the jacket covering the wound and pull it away. The rivulets of blood flowing down Brennan's side immediately turn into rivers. You need to hurry. You don't know how much blood he's already lost, but it has to be a lot.

Putting your hands directly to the source of the blood, you desperately try to remember everything Brennan taught you.

When you'd progressed from mending inanimate objects to assisting in the infirmary, Brennan taught you some basic facts you needed to know about the inner workings of the human body, but he'd only briefly brushed on the topics of internal bleeding and mending organs. That kind of stuff was too difficult, he'd said, until you were more used to working with living tissue. Flesh and bone are much more complex than a piece of wood or ceramics, which had been your main practice materials at the beginning. Stomach wounds are especially complicated — too many organs that could be affected, too much you could do wrong.

But you don't have a choice.

You close your eyes, visualize the torn tissue beneath your hands, and try not to think too much about the blood seeping between your fingers. If you get this right, the bleeding will stop soon enough.

Before you can close the entry wound, you need to heal any damage the blade might have done inside Brennan's body. That's the hardest part, fixing something you can't see. You have only the vaguest idea of what each organ looks like, where it sits. Something is bleeding in there, your power tells you that, tugging, wanting deeper into him. You can mend whatever it is. Probably.

You imagine the tissue knitting back together, blood clotting to close off the opening it's flowing from, scar tissue growing and smoothing out. You can only hope the organ will continue working the way it's supposed to once you're done, because you don't have the knowledge necessary to fix any complex damage to it, can't even tell how much damage there is or which organ it is you're working on.

If it's his stomach, you're fucked. In that case, his stomach contents might have poured out into his abdominal cavity, and you have no idea what you could do about that.

Oh please, please don't let it be his stomach, you pray to whichever gods might care to listen.

But no. A detail surfaces in your mind from your anatomy lesson. When Brennan had touched on the topic of stomach problems, he'd briefly put his hand on yours, indicating where the organ was situated. You'd only been together for a couple weeks at that point, and your skin had tingled with a million butterflies even through two layers of clothes — above your bellybutton. Brennan's wound is a little to the side of his bellybutton. Probably not the stomach then. That's good.

You think it might be his liver, but you're not certain. Whatever it is, you're done healing the cut on it's front now. If it still works, or if it took more damage than you can tell, only time will show.

Thankfully, no other organs seem to be hurt, so you move on to closing Brennan's abdomen.

Starting with the innermost layer, you force flesh and muscle and what little fat he has to grow back together. This, you're familiar with. You've healed plenty of deep cuts before; this part is not all that different from healing someone's arm or leg.

The gaping wound turns first into a thin line still oozing blood, growing less and less deep with every layer you put back together. By now, your hands are shaking with the effort of channeling so much magic, much more than you're used to, but you push through. Almost done. Brennan will be fine, if you did it right. If you didn't miss any internal bleeding.

You shake your head. No use thinking about that. You can only keep going.

Last comes the skin, closing the wound off with a thick, reddened rope of scar tissue.

As soon as it's done, you collapse into a heap beside the bed. Xaden is there in an instant, stopping you from hitting your head on the floor. He helps you sit, leaning against the bed, as the three of you inspect your work. It's not pretty, but it's the best you could do with a wound so severe. Brennan could have done better, could have probably healed it without even a trace of a scar. Doesn't matter, as long as he just survives. He can smooth the scar out himself once he's awake if he wants to.

You watch the rise and fall of his chest, hypnotized. With every breath he takes, you send a silent prayer of thanks to Malek for not taking him from you.

There's nothing more you can do now, except wait for him to wake up.

You startle when Garrick hands you a glass of cold juice. When did he get that? You must have been more zoned out than you realized.

You're shaking so badly you spill some of the juice over yourself before your brother's shadows wrap around your hands like gloves to steady them. You give both boys a grateful look, draining the whole glass in slow, tiny sips. The sugar almost immediately helps.

Xaden is the first to break the silence. "Is he stable?"

"Probably. I've done everything I can. We just have to wait and hope—" Your voice cracks. "Hope it was enough and he wakes up soon."

Xaden brushes sweaty strands of hair from your face. "He'll be fine," he reassures. He sounds so certain you almost believe him. "You did great. Now get some rest."

"I'm not leaving him."

"I'm not asking you to. We'll take him to his room and you can lie down with him, okay?"

Right — because your own bed is currently covered in a pool of Brennan's drying blood. You don't particularly like the idea of moving him, but — as per usual — Xaden is right. There's no telling how long Brennan will remain unconscious, and you can't leave him lying in his own blood in the meantime.

"Okay."

Your brother helps you to your feet and keeps close to your side as you walk the short way to Brennan's room, ready to catch you in case your legs give out again. Garrick carries Brennan. By the time you reach his room, your vision is threatening to turn black, but you make it to his bed before collapsing again.

Lying with your head on Brennan's chest, the steady beat of his heart soon lulls you into a doze. You're aware of the sound even as you fade in and out of consciousness, know you would immediately notice and wake if it were to stop.

During your waking moments, you remind yourself that it's normal for him to take a while to wake up after losing as much blood as he did, but it's hard to ignore the voice in your head that says it's your fault. If you were a better mender, he might be awake already. And what if he doesn't wake at all? What if he's in a coma, slowly dying from internal injuries you missed?

Xaden and Violet poke their heads through the door a few times. Your brother makes you drink another glass of juice and eat a few bites, but other than that, they don't disturb you.

Dusk falls without Brennan awakening, but the color is slowly returning to his cheeks.

Your sleep is fitful, filled with nightmares of blood and Brennan's lifeless face. Time over time you jerk awake with tears streaming down your face, calming only after you assure yourself that Brennan is beside you, unconscious but alive and breathing.

When you wake for what must be the dozenth time, it's not from a nightmare. This time, it's Brennan stirring beside you.

You sit up faster than your exhausted body likes, sending waves of dizziness through your head, but you're so focused on Brennan you barely notice. He's waking up!

"Hi," you breathe when his eyes fully open and find your face, illuminated by the small mage light you'd left on.

"Hi. What happened?"

The tears burning behind your eyes spill over at the sound of his voice, low and slightly hoarse and alive. You'd been so scared you'd never get to hear his voice again, never see him look at you, or smile, or do anything again.

But he's awake now. He's okay. The relief is so overwhelming that if you weren't sitting in bed already, you surely would have fallen to your knees.

"That's what I'd like to know from you," you answer Brennan through your tears. "Xaden and Garrick brought you in half dead, and there wasn't any other menders around, so I had to try and save you! I was so scared I'd fuck it up and lose you, and t-then you wouldn't wake up even after I stopped the bleeding and I didn't— didn't know what to do and— and—"

Brennan sits up, cooing soothingly, and pulls your sobbing form into his arms.

Probably not a good idea — you have no idea if you really managed to fix all of the damage to his organs, and even if you did he shouldn't be moving around just yet. But now that he's awake, he can heal anything you might have missed himself.

You hide your face against his neck, cling to him like he might disappear any second if you let go. You shouldn't be crying, but you can't seem to stop. All the emotions you'd had to push aside earlier come pouring out now that you know he'll be okay.

"Shh, shh, it's alright. I'm awake now. It's alright. You did such a good job. I'm proud of you, little angel."

You're a shitty mender, forcing Brennan to comfort you when he has been awake for less than a minute. You should be taking care of him.

"I didn't, though," you mumble against his skin. Still crying, but calmer already. "I got the wound to close, but then I was too weak to smooth the skin so now you've got this big raised scar and there might be internal damage I missed, so you'll have to check and fix it yourself even though you should be resting, all just because I'm not a good enough—"

"Hey, none of that," Brennan interrupts. "You're a first-year. We haven't even covered stomach wounds in your lessons yet, and you managed to heal mine anyway. That's really fucking impressive."

"You really think so?" you sniffle.

"Mhm, I do. And it doesn't feel like you missed any damage, either. You did a great job, believe me."

"What about the scar?"

Brennan gently shifts you to the side so he can lift his shirt and take a look. You cringe at the sight, not because it's ugly or anything like that, but because it feels like an attestation of your inadequacy.

Brennan just hums. "Doesn't look so bad to me. Just like it would look if it healed naturally."

"You could have healed it without leaving any scar at all," you mumble. "Still can, probably."

"Maybe, but that's only because I've been doing this for a lot longer than you. In a year or two, you'll be able to do that too. Besides, I don't want to erase the scar."

You frown up at Brennan as he wipes away the tears drying on your cheecks. "You don't?"

"Of course not, silly. Why would I want to erase the evidence of how brave you were, mending me when you barely knew how? It might not be the prettiest, but it's your work."

"Technically it's the work of the asshole who tried to gut you."

"Right. But you know what I mean. I'm really proud of you." He takes your hands, kissing the knuckles of one and then the other. "Thank you, by the way."

You give him a shaky smile. "Just do me a favor and never scare me like that ever again."

"I'll do my best."

#fourth wing x reader #fourth wing imagine #brennan sorrengail x reader #brennan sorrengail #xaden riorson x sister!reader #xaden riorson x reader #riorson!reader #marked!reader #mender!reader #requested

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elllisaaa · 9 months ago

Text

FOCUS ON ME - J. WONWOO

KINKTOBER DAY 12 - BONGAGE + MIRRORS

SUMMARY : you wanted to be more confident about your body and having a boudoir photoshoot seemed to be a good option. you just didn't plan that having the photographer tying you up would excite you that much.

-> pairing : photographer!wonwoo x fem!reader

-> words count : 2.2k

-> genre : smut

-> warnings : bondage (obviously), mirror sex (obviously too), mentions of body insecurities, boudoir photoshoot, lingerie, praise kink, body worship, begging, fingering

+ the way i'm depicting wonwoo does not represent him, it's only a work of fiction

-> 18+ content bellow, minors DNI

-> reblogs and feedbacks are appreciated ! sorry for any mistakes, english is not my first language.

-> masterlist | svt masterlist | kinktober 2024

You had always struggled with your body image. Being raised by an almond mother and surrounded by people who constantly commented on your weight and appearance didn’t help either. However, you tried to get your confidence back, it was a long path, but you could feel that you were getting there. In everyday life, it was easy to be sure of yourself, but when it came to being intimate with someone else, it was still complicated. And you had enough of asking your hook ups to turn off the light, or of keeping your clothes because you couldn’t bear to see yourself in the nude. It was over, and you had decided to take big measures.

“- So… How do you want to do that ? I’m sorry, this is a first for me.”

Wonwoo smiled at you gently despite your initial awkwardness. He was a friend of your best friend, and even if you had crossed paths with him at some hangouts, you had no idea that he was studying photography. So when you told her about your project and that she gave you Wonwoo’s number, you thought that it was perfect. Though, now that you were really about to do it, you felt a little shy. Mostly because of these insecurities that had been eating you up for years, and also maybe a little because you didn’t remember that Wonwoo was that handsome.

“- Don’t worry, it’s gonna be fine. The bathroom is right there if you want to change, we can start whenever you’re ready. And if you feel uncomfortable at any moment, tell me, okay ?

- Okay, thank you.”

He smiled at you again, his eyes crinkling at the corner behind the frame of his glasses. You went to his bathroom to change into the lingerie set you had brought with you, taking a deep breath as you looked at yourself in the mirror. The black lace of your panties and corset were complimenting the tone of your skin perfectly, underlining your curves. You knew that you were objectively very pretty, but you still had trouble admitting it, really seeing it. And the fact that Wonwoo looked so good in his simple black pants and white tee shirt didn’t help you relax either.

As you walked back into the room in only your underwear, Wonwoo turned to look at you, his eyes widening slightly as he took in the mostly nude state of your body. You had warned him that you wanted to do a boudoir photoshoot, but he wasn’t prepared to see you like that. He tried to not make it obvious as he pretended to be busy setting up his camera. You could already feel your cheeks grow red as you walked to the set he had prepared according to the inspiration pics you had sent to him, the fluffy white plaid laid on the floor ready to welcome you.

“- You can get comfortable and I’ll let you tell me if you want to do a pose or something in particular, if that’s fine with you.

- Yes, that’s perfect.

- Oh, and Y/N ?

- Yeah ?

- Don’t stress, it’s gonna be alright.”

His reassuring smile and words did ease your nerves as you sat down on the blanket on the floor. In the meantime, Wonwoo had started to play some sensual music to put you in the mood. As he walked over to his camera, you decided to start out with something soft, only slightly suggestive.

“- Okay, let’s go. If you want to take a break or to stop at any moment, just tell me.

- Yeah, thank you.”

How careful and cautious he was made you feel at ease, and as the shoot went on, you let yourself forget about what made you anxious in the first place. Your poses got more and more sensual as time went on, getting more and more confident.

“- Perfect, you’re doing so good Y/N.”

Your cheeks were dusted in a slight shade of pink everytime Wonwoo praised you, even more so because you were now bending over, showing off the arch of your back and the curve of your ass, your eyes boring into the camera lasciviously. Wonwoo had the excuse of his camera to check you out shamelessly, but as you got bolder, it also got harder for him to hide how affected he was by the show you were putting on.

“- Wonwoo ?”

He snapped out of his daze as you called out for him, detaching himself from his camera to really look at you, and he gulped down loudly as he tried to not let his eyes wander down. He knew why you wanted to do that, he knew about your motives, and the last thing he wanted was to make you feel uncomfortable.

“- Yeah ?

- I had… Something else in mind.

- Yes, of course. Tell me.”

Without any other words, you stood up and went to get something from your bag. When you turned to him again, you were holding some red ropes that left little to his imagination as to what you wanted to use them for. Wonwoo looked at the ropes in between your hands for a moment, speechless. He pushed his glasses up on his nose to try and give himself some composure.

“- Do you… Do you need any help putting that on ?

- Yes, please.”

You started to make some of the knots yourself, and you showed Wonwoo which ones he needed to make, until your arms were tied behind your back, and your chest was covered in the red ropes to underline the shape of your breasts. Everytime his fingers brushed against your bare skin, you shivered, and you couldn’t help how much seeing him focused on tying the knots through the reflection of the mirror had turned you on. You looked at the final result and you nodded at him with a satisfied smile.

“- It’s perfect, thank you…

- You’re welcome.”

You went to kneel down in front of the camera again, showing your tied arms and your back to Wonwoo as you turned your head back to look directly into the lens. And he had to mentally stop himself from looking at you for too long as he adjusted the angle to take the perfect shot. It was as if this had sparked up your confidence even more, and you got even bolder and seductive in your poses. It was also getting harder for Wonwoo to concentrate on his camera and not on the way he could figure out the outline of your nipples from underneath the thin material of your corset.

“- Wonwoo ?”

Your name coming out of his mouth made it even more complicated for him to not pop a boner, but he still perked up from behind the camera to look you in the eyes.

“- Yeah ?

- Could you… Take some closer shots, if you don’t mind it.”

You saw him visibly swallow as he shook his head and took his camera in between his hands, stepping closer to you to take some focused shots of certain parts of your body. Now, it was impossible for him to not get hard as he had your ass in full display for him.

“- Can I… Can I try something ? I think it would make it even better, if you don’t mind.”

Something darker was passing through his eyes, but you didn’t care as you nodded at him. You watched behind your bent back as he carefully let one of his hands come down to lend on your ass, his eyes locked with yours as if to be sure you were okay with it. But you only licked your lips as Wonwoo snapped one more photo of his big hand resting against your skin. Slowly, he let his hand travel to one of the ropes crossing over your back, grabbing it and taking a larger shot of your whole body bent over, his muscular and veiny forearm coming into the frame.

“- Turn around.”

You hadn’t realized just how into it you were until his deep voice echoed again. You obeyed his command, leaning on your back and looking up at him. He was now kneeling in between your legs, his hands traveling up from your waist to the ropes around your breasts, tugging on them and making your breath hitch in your throat. He was still holding the camera, but it was like he forgot why you were here in the first place, not taking any more photos as his free hand roamed all around your body.

“- Tell me to stop…

- I don’t want you to, please Wonwoo…

- Fuck it.”

He didn’t let you any more time to think before he crashed his lips against yours in a messy and hungry kiss. Wonwoo discarded the camera to the side, nothing other than you crossing his mind as both of his hands went to spread your legs wider, caressing and groping the plush skin of your thighs. He couldn’t understand how you could not love your body when you literally looked like a goddess, when it was hard for him to contain himself when he saw you walk out of his bathroom almost naked.

“- You look so fucking pretty, all tied up like this… I can’t tear my eyes away from you.”

His praises made a fire come alive in your veins, a whine escaping from your lips as he pulled you closer to him, pressing his boner against your sensitive clit. His lips derived from your lips to your neck, down to your cleavage and all over your body. Every spot he kissed was left burning, from your ankle to your inner thigh, so close yet so far away from where you needed him. Every little sound coming from your mouth only spurred him on, ignoring the raging boner that started to hurt to worship your body.

“- Wonwoo, please…

- You sound so good, baby… You need to see just how pretty you are.”

Wonwoo lifted you in his arms as if you weighed nothing, making you sit down in front of the full-length mirror of his living room, your back pressed against his chest. He spread your legs again, resting your thighs over his as his fingers finally brushed against your clothed core, making you exhale a shaky breath. He worked you up slowly, even if the dark spot on your panties were telling enough about how turned on you were.

“- Look at yourself, look at how well you’re taking my fingers.”

His voice murmuring the words just against your ear made you moan just as loud as the feeling of two of his fingers pushing past your folds, stretching you out and gliding in your folds so easily. Your eyes bore into his through the reflection of the mirror, his gaze full of lust for you making you clench around his fingers.

“- You’re doing so good for me, every inch of you is perfect.”

Every word he spoke brought you closer to the edge, and even if the ropes were starting to hurt and burn your skin, you felt too good to care. His fingers moved in the perfect way to hit your sweet spot just right, over and over again until you were a moaning mess under his touch. You could clearly see the way you were getting wetter and wetter by the seconds with your underwear pulled to the side. And you felt sexy, you felt attractive, all because Wonwoo couldn’t stop telling you that you looked perfect, that you were the prettiest thing he had ever seen, that you were being a good girl, his good girl.

“- Wonwoo, I’m close…

- Let go Y/N, cum for me.”

Your moans became more broken as you felt your orgasm wash over you, your thighs trembling and your walls clenching around his fingers. Wonwoo slowed down his pace gradually, until you were shaking from overstimulation.

“- Look at you, look at how pretty you are.”

You did look pretty, even though you also seemed completely gone, completely fucked out. Your chest heaved up and down with your ragged breathing.

“- Say it.

- I’m… I’m pretty…

- Yes, you are.”

His lips were on yours again, his glasses getting fogged up by your hot breath as he devoured your mouth in a much more tender manner than before. You chuckled as you watched him wash his glasses, and his eyes were glimmering with something else than the lust that had taken over him. Then, he detached the knots one by one, massaging your sore arms once you were free.

“- Are you okay ?

- Yeah, it was… Amazing.”

You turned around until you were able to sit on his lap, kissing him again, as you rocked your hips against his still painfully obvious boner. The relieved sigh he let out and that you swallowed in your mouth made you smile.

“- You want me to take care of that ?

- You don’t have to.

- Yes, but I want to. Do you ?

- Fuck… Yes, I do.”

You smirked at him as you reached for his camera, getting out of his lap to put it in his hands as you crawled in between his legs, your hand squeezing his hard on over his pants and making him groan under his breath.

“- You can take some photos. These ones are only for you, though.”

And Wonwoo fully intended to keep them all for himself, to keep you all for himself.

-> i don't allow any copies, reposts or translations of my work.

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#kinktober #kinktober 2024 #kinktober fic #seventeen #seventeen x reader #seventeen smut #seventeen fic #seventeen kinktober #jeon wonwoo #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo smut #wonwoo kinktober

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