#my coworkers and I have talked about doing so and I want to make sure that happens

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - off the record (part one)

part one ; breaking news and breaking points

warnings ; none!

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 ; okay. hi. hello. me again! this authors note is going to be delirious because it is quite literally 2am as i edit this and i am shot. regardless — welcome to off the record! this is my baby. my child. my toddler who can’t walk or speak yet but the concept is there

let’s get one thing straight: i am NOT a politician. i do not work in politics, i do not enjoy american politics and i most certainly am no expert. i almost failed government in high school. i’m not sure of the accuracy of White House journalism but i do know one thing. i tried my very best!! so gold star for ang <3

anyway! welcome to the disaster. this is a rom-com, emphasis on the com because these two idiots are so deep in denial. we’re talking enemies-to-lovers, but in the “we’ve been rivals since college and now sit two rows apart at white house briefings” kind of way. grab some tea. snuggle your cat. scream into a pillow. idk, whatever works for you

playlist here

series masterlist here

The thing about White House press briefings is, if you don’t speak fast, Jeon Jungkook will.

And then you’ll have to watch his stupid little smirk on the screens in the newsroom all night while your editor asks why you didn’t ask the damn question.

You raise your hand, nearly leap out of your seat to deliver the inquiry you scribbled messily in the margins of your notepad. It’s something about a new federal rollout; dry on paper, but a minefield of public and private backdoor deals if you phrase it right. The question is halfway out of your mouth before—

“Secretary Thompson,” comes a voice from three rows back, “can you clarify whether the administration still plans to partner with private sector organizations despite last quarter’s concerns?”

Goddamnit.

You slump in your chair. Of course he gets there first.

It’s a clean question. Sharp. Subtle accusation wrapped in neutral intonation. The kind of question that makes cabinet members pause and choose their words very carefully, which Secretary Thompson now does, leaning forward and clearing her throat, visibly recalibrating.

You don’t have to turn around to know he’s sitting back in his chair like he owns the damn room. The entire Metro ride spent rehearsing that question, complete with dramatic pauses practiced between stops, has been hijacked by someone who waited until your mouth formed the first syllable before swooping in.

You turn slowly, against your better judgement. The muscles on your face achieve that special brand of neutrality that actually translates to: I'm mentally signing you up for a lifetime subscription to minor inconveniences. May your phone forever hover at 1% battery and may your socks perpetually slip down inside your shoes.

Three rows behind sits the human embodiment of your nightmares, looking like he just won a gold medal in the sport of Question Sniping, expression carrying a level of smugness you want to smack right off his face. And like, yeah, it’s fine that he beat you to the punch but you’re oddly impressed by how effortlessly he did it.

He’s sporting a black suit with no tie. Because heaven forbid he follow even the most basic protocols of professionalism. Elbow slung across the chair next to him like this is a casual Monday coffee run and not a federal media gauntlet. He’s already relaxing in his seat like he didn’t just outflank you in broad daylight.

He grins at you from across the pressroom, a perfect display of professionally whitened teeth that makes you contemplate the legality of throwing your pen across the room.

Disgusting.

You whip your head back to the front before you commit a felony in front of a sitting cabinet member. Immediately, you’re pulling your phone out of your back pocket, opening up iMessage.

Okay, count to ten. One, two, three…

Mentally, you’re trying to imagine your therapist's voice saying something about "workplace appropriate responses to colleagues” (although your therapist has never met Jeon Jungkook and is therefore woefully unprepared to provide relevant advice in this situation.)

Physically, your jaw tightens with the force of some unspoken comeback.

He always does this.

And the worst part isn't just that his strategy works consistently, or that Secretary Thompson is now giving a rehearsed answer that will yield exactly one (1) usable quote for his article; it's that microscopic part of you that recognizes the brilliance of his approach.

You learned this the hard way four years ago, during your very first White House press briefing fresh out of Columbia University, notepad filled with questions you’d rewritten five different times, trying not to sweat through your blouse because Jeon Jungkook was five seats away.

You hadn’t seen him since graduation. Not since he walked off that stage behind you; second in your class, already being courted by every network with a pulse. You’d hoped that being hired at competing outlets might mean distance. Space to build your career without having to look over your shoulder every time you submitted a story.

No such luck.

He was already there when you entered the briefing room for the first time. Already seated, sporting that annoying smile when he spotted you in the doorway.

You still remember the way his voice cut through the room like it belonged there. Just the right amount of bite to make the congressman answering the question squirm. It wasn’t even a bad question, but it was sharp enough to make everyone sit up, and that was the point when playing with American politics.

One doesn’t need to be liked. They need to be remembered.

You’d raised your hand right after. You were so determined not to let him win the room that you misread the energy entirely. And when the mic came to you, you fumbled. It wasn’t with the content — you’d done your research, you always did — but with the delivery. You were trying so hard to seem composed, to prove you deserved to be there, that your voice went flat. You didn’t breathe between sentences or really pace the question.

And the congressman, an older man with a short temper and a penchant for being rattled, cut you off mid-sentence. He waved a hand like you were a mosquito buzzing too close to his ear.

“Get to the point please,” He’d said, clearly annoyed.

You had, but the damage was done.

And Jungkook? He didn't even need to smirk — a restraint that somehow made his victory all the more infuriating. He just leaned forward, elbows on knees, lips pressed in a neutral line. But you knew him well enough to spot the amusement hiding in his eyes. He didn't look directly at you because that would've been too obvious, too much like admitting that this little press room dance of yours is his favorite form of foreplay, which is precisely the kind of vulnerability neither of you would ever confess to even under the influence of truth serum.

Either way, Jungkook never needs to gloat out loud. He just waits for you to see that he saw.

That’s how it started. The silent, deadly, professional tug-of-war that is probably so entertaining for onlookers that the White House should start selling tickets.

Four years later and nothing’s changed — except now you’ve learned how to play the game too. How to keep your voice calm, how to pace your brain, how to smile like a threat. You studied your opponents playbook until the pages wore thin.

So you sit there, pen poised, chin high, and let Secretary Thompson drone on for another minute while the reporters around you settle. Jungkook is probably lounging in the back like the cocky bastard he is, no doubt smiling like a motherfucker.

When the next lull in her sentence comes, you speak.

“Madam Secretary, given the administration’s recent walkback on infrastructure spending and the pivot toward incentivizing private sector, can you clarify what measures are in place for companies receiving federal subsidies, especially those with prior violations?”

The room stills like a sitcom freeze frame, where some narrator would quip "it was at this moment they knew..." as your question hangs in the air.

Thompson blinks twice. And then, to everyone’s surprise including your own, she smiles; it’s a genuine reaction, not the wide campaign-trail grin but the subtle acknowledgment that screams, finally, a real question from someone who did their homework instead of skimming the briefing notes.

She answers in detail. All lengthy and thoughtful and some political jargon you’re jotting in your notepad like a madman. Meanwhile your chest burns with the sweet, silent glow of victory, something your overachieving soul has been chasing since you color-coded your first set of flash cards in elementary school.

You know it’s there before you see it — Jungkook’s gaze.

There will be no swiveling of your neck to face him because turning would mean acknowledging, and acknowledging would mean giving away a fraction of this perfect moment; you don't need visual confirmation when you can practically feel him watching, probably chewing the inside of his cheek with that nervous habit he thinks nobody notices, calculating how he missed this angle while the room leans forward collectively, listening harder now than they were during his question.

God, it is tempting, though.

Just one glance. One raised brow. Maybe even a middle finger held discreetly under your notepad.

But you’re better than that.

…Mostly.

Still, the corner of your mouth twitches microscopically.

Game on, Jeon. Let’s see who wins this round.

The next thirty minutes go by just like this:

You raise your hand to try and get another question in, he mirrors you half a second later.

You jot down a quote, he glances up like he’s writing the same one faster.

You whisper something to the correspondent next to you, and he makes a point to become the world’s friendliest man.

By the time the briefing wraps, your notepad is full, your recorder has thirty solid minutes of good material, and your blood pressure is only slightly elevated — which you’re going to count as a win. Secretary Thompson gives her usual nod, the press secretary calls it and the room begins to scatter in that chaotic shuffle unique to people who have five minutes to rewrite a headline before someone else beats them to it.

You pack up, shoving pens and postits and a mildly passive-aggressive question list into your leather tote. It’s not like you’re in a rush. You’ve got what you need. Jenna — your editor, manager, queen of never being impressed — will actually be pleased for once. Last week she told you your questions were “good, not great” which you’ve translated to mean “where’s the political bloodshed?” But today, you’ve got enough edge to headline the next two cycles.

You’re halfway to the exit, steps quick against the marble floor, when you hear it—

Shoes.

Nice ones. Expensive, but already too broken-in to be new.

And they’re moving quickly like the fire alarm just went off.

Your eyes don’t have to spare a look. Your spine already knows who it is.

You sigh, adjusting the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder, and keep walking. If you ignore him long enough, he might combust from the lack of attention.

“Smooth question.”

You blink up at the hallway ahead of you. What was that counting trick you were doing earlier? Oh, right.. four, five, six....

A sigh heaves from the depths of your lungs. Quite loudly it echoes off the walls.

“Jungkook.” you begin, not slowing your pace, “If I wanted your opinion, I’d ask the intern to print it out and shred it for recycling.”

He laughs at that amusedly.

“Come on,” he retorts, falling into step beside you now, “You stole my topic and framed it better. That was… mildly impressive.”

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. He’s got his press badge tucked half into his blazer pocket like it’s too cool to wear properly, and the top button of his shirt is now undone.

“Oh no,” you deadpan. “Mildly impressive? Should I frame that statement and hang it next to my degree? My… valedictorian degree, perhaps?”

He leans in, a little too close for comfort. “Don’t worry. Mine’s right behind yours.”

You bite back a smile that threatens to show face. “And don’t you forget it.”

“You know, you’re lucky I didn’t ask a second question just to steal the narrative out from under you,” Jungkook sticks his hands in his pockets, pulling out a packet of gum.

Your eyes roll back into your frontal lobe, “Oh, I’m counting on it. Watching you try to top yourself is half the fun.”

Your feet betray you before you have a chance to stop them, and they stop walking, finally turn to face him. “Are you like this with everyone? I’m starting to get a little flattered.”

He looks at you for a second longer than you like. No smirk this time, just that stillness he gets when he’s thinking. Or, worse… he’s about to be really, really honest.

He shrugs, pops the gum in his mouth, smile creeping back into place like it never left. “Nah,” he’s already walking backwards toward the exit. “You’re the only one who bites back.”

His body disappears into the hallway crowd as if he knows exactly when to exit a scene, melting into the Washington ecosystem of power suits, security earpieces, and polished shoes on marble.

Jeon Jungkook is an insufferable bastard — one of the best-of-breed kind of bastards, possibly the best one you’ve ever had the pleasure (or displeasure, depending on the angle) of going to school with. Decidedly not bad on the eyes, which is unfortunate. Counterproductive, really. Because it’s hard to maintain a healthy level of hatred toward someone when their jawline could headline a fashion campaign and their smirks come pre-loaded with cinematic timing.

And yet, somehow, you manage.

Ever since freshman year when he walked into your public policy seminar and had the audacity to sit in the front row — the seat you always took, the one closest to the professor, the one with the best lighting for scribbling down notes. He didn’t even glance at you when he took it.

You clashed immediately. Over literally everything. Theories and tone and comma placement. Who should’ve been chosen to moderate the midterm debate and who had more credible citations in their annotated bibliography. You can’t even remember the first real argument anymore; all you know is it escalated quickly, something about a poorly formatted slide deck and a long-winded tangent on federalism that he thought was charming and you thought were grounds for expulsion.

To your luck, that turned into this.

Into years of mutual loathing, thinly veiled behind professional respect that makes your coworkers say things like “you two should interview a senator together!” while you fantasize about pushing him down a flight of stairs and then writing his obituary out of spite.

You can’t describe your relationship with Jungkook without sounding emotionally unstable. It’s not just because he got that one A+ in International Relations. It’s not some awkward sexual tension. It’s whatever exists in that middle ground between admiration and provocation.

Listen, you recognize his intelligence. He definitely recognizes your ambition. He’s just always been naturally, effortlessly good. Jungkook doesn’t have to rehearse or over-prepare or go through mental flowcharts in the mirror before a press event.

And the only thing worse than someone who always competes with you is someone who doesn’t have to.

That’s what always gets you. You’ve spent your entire career building scaffolding around every step forward and you are nothing if not methodical. And then he waltzes in with gel in his hair and throws out a line you write down immediately to send to Jenna.

You push the briefing room door open with your hip and walk in, tote clutched tightly.

Emma doesn’t look up. Her fingers are flying over her laptop, nails clacking against keys in short bursts of aggression. Brows furrowed, glasses slipping slightly down her nose, and her tongue is poking between her teeth the way it always does.

“Any luck?” you ask, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl that you’re 98% sure was only restocked because Emma guilt-tripped the White House kitchen staff with that one story she wrote about USDA budget cuts and “the symbolic death of the American apple.”

She grunts in response, closing her laptop quickly and swiveling to face you in her chair.

You bite into the apple, placing your heavy bag down on the floor beside your desk, which is conveniently always placed next to hers.

“How was Jungkook today?” She asks casually as if it’s not one of the most emotionally loaded questions a person can be asked. It’s a routine part of your dynamic at this point. Morning coffee, afternoon sarcasm, and one post-briefing debrief where Emma asks you how Jungkook was, and you pretend he wasn’t Jungkook.

“Obnoxious,” you shrug instantly. “Duh.”

Emma snorts while you continue on, rotating your apple to take another bite. “He was wearing this stupid smile today. I lowkey feel like he was more smug than normal.“

Emma hums knowingly. “That’s your favorite one.”

You ignore that. Just Emma being Emma.

“And of course,” you exhale, “he asked my question.”

That gets her attention.

She scoots her chair toward you slowly, like she’s gearing up for the best tea of her life. “Wait. The question? The one about partnering with private sector organizations?”

“The very one,” You sigh dramatically.

Emma gasps, places a hand over her chest. “He didn’t.”

“Oh, but he did,” you say, taking another bite of your apple, chewing long enough to build suspense. “Fell for it and beat me to it by two seconds.“

She clutches her heart like she’s just witnessed a murder. “War criminal. Both you and him.”

“It’s fine,” you snicker to yourself. “Took the bait like always. Already texted it to Jenna.“

So… there’s this minor (major) thing you do that if anyone finds out, you’re absolutely getting the boot off the Hill. You leave notes around the newsrooms with concepts that you plan to ask at the press briefings and your initials on the paper, and when Jungkook inevitably picks one up and asks them, you send the answer to Jenna. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

Emma groans and throws her head back, dark brown hair cascading down her shoulders. “God, how do you come up with this? It’s diabolical.”

“I know.”

“You’re evil.”

“I know.”

She looks at you, tilts her neck, considers. “One of these days I’m gonna get it out of you… why you hate him so much. I swear to god, if the White House ever releases security cam footage, it’s over for you.”

You scoff, leaning against your desk. “Because he’s annoying.. and arrogant and—”

There’s a pause while your narrow your eyes like you’re compiling a legal case. “He’s allergic to shirts that fit.”

Emma just blinks at you.

“It’s not complicated,” You wave her off.

“Mmm,” she says unconvinced, already spinning back toward her laptop. “Sure. Not complicated. That’s exactly what people say before saying something really complicated.”

You flip her off.

She blows you a kiss, raising her watered-down iced latte as a toast, “I wish you a very get well soon.”

It’s nice having Emma. Someone who gets it. She was the only one who didn’t blink when you got hired straight out of school, the only one who didn’t second guess it when you worked your way into every White House event rotation. She never asks why you work late or why your standards are too high.

Emma’s seen you at your most terrifying and your most tired and knows they’re usually the same thing.

You finish your apple, toss the core into the bin, and stretch your neck. You’ve got a headline to punch up, an editor to impress, and a man to destroy.

Before you even have a chance to settle into your uncomfortable chair, Jenna, woman of the hour, bursts into the room like she’s just outrun a breaking news alert.

She’s breathless, auburn hair slightly windblown like she sprinted down the hall, which she probably did — Jenna’s never walked a day in her life. She’s powered exclusively by the adrenaline of publishing scoops before Politico can even spellcheck theirs.

“There you are!” she gasps, practically skidding to a stop beside your desk. Almost like you’ve been playing hide-and-seek instead of sitting where you’re supposed to be.

Emma startles, half-spilling her iced latte.

You don’t even look up from computer that you just rebooted on to life. “Hello to you too, Jenna. Everything okay?”

“Better than okay.” She’s already tossing her phone onto the nearest desk, face alight with manic glee that usually only happens when your publication beats everyone else to the punch. “We published first. That question you texted me. I’m already having it run the evening slot with a featured quote box and a goddamn infographic. Do you know how rare infographics are on pieces like this?”

Emma perks up immediately. “Infographics?”

“Motion animated ones. And it’s outperforming by like 400%. Who fed him that question? I know that was you. Don’t lie to me, you little minx.” Jenna’s eyes are sparkling, hazel flecks in her eyes popping out more than normal.

You blink at her, expression calm, the exact opposite of the excitement living beneath your ribs. “Hm. Was it me?”

“Was it?” Jenna nearly falls over the desk. “You literally texted it to me two seconds after he opened his mouth so I have my suspicions. I watched the tapes back.”

You shrug, sipping from your water bottle. “What can I say? Quick fingers. Predictable men.”

Jenna stares at you. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Well, I have noticed… if I leave a well-worded, question lying within reach, he’ll take it. Should I be reporting him?” Your degree was in Political Science, but right now, it’s sounding a lot more like Lying.

Emma coughs on her coffee. “Oh my god.”

“He delivers it perfectly. He never even changes the phrasing!! Almost like he wants me to know he found it,” You mimic a toddler who got pushed on the playground, all false petulance.

Jenna groans, facepalming. “Jesus, that’s terrifying. Worse than finding out you’re doing it on purpose.”

Emma gapes and plays along with it, your trusty sidekick. “He’s using you like a human press puppet.”

You smile. “Whatever. I got the best answer out of Secretary Thompson today anyway.”

You’re not wrong. Not entirely. In fact, you’re opening up Google Docs as you speak to start typing before any person beats you to the punch.

“Well,” Jenna begins, “Great job today.”

Mission accomplished.

Despite everything, you’re pretty pleased with yourself. Emma’s shoulders sag a little with those three words, though you hardly notice.

You sit back in your chair, fingers hovering over your keyboard.

Another question, another quote, another game won.

It’s not cheating. It’s journalism, baby.

Later that night, the building hums like it’s finally exhaled after holding its breath all day, kind of peaceful in the way only Capitol Hill can be when it’s past five and most of the egos have gone home. The usual bustle has evaporated into a familiar sound of click-clacking keyboards and the hum of vending machines that will forever only take singles.

You’re probably the only person left. Well. You and Jenna. But Jenna doesn’t really count — you swear to god she pays rent here.

She exists in this windowless purgatory like it’s her personal loft. Her desk is still lit, hair up in a claw clip. There’s a cold coffee sweating beside her keyboard and an unopened granola bar that’s been sitting there since at least noon. Her coat is slung over the back of her chair in a way that implies she might leave. News flash: she won’t.

Meanwhile you’re cross-referencing quote attributions for the day’s coverage when it hits.

Ping.

You barely register it at first. Just another email in the never-ending trickle of nonsense from Washington’s most noisy inbox.

But the subject line awakens something in you, jolts you back onto earth after being a zombie for the past three hours.

From: pressroom@cnnpolitics.com

Subject: URGENT — CONFIRMED LEAK: Rep. Monroe / Rep. Delgado

Your heart skips and then sprints to catch up. You open the email, trepidation bleeding into your every movement like it might bite. Skimming it at first glance, you see a bunch of buzz words: late night, caught, office, intern.

And then you're up out of your chair like you spotted free coffee in the break room before anyone else, your demeanor shattered by what's glowing on your screen.

“Jenna.”

No answer comes from your editor, who's apparently developed selective hearing after years of people bringing her stories that are "definitely going to change everything."

“Jenna!”

Her chair swivels, eyes already squinting. “What.” she says, less a question and more a verbal eyeroll.

You motion her over. She groans, wheels her chair two feet, and reads over your shoulder.

She doesn’t speak for a full five seconds, a silence so profound you’re starting to think you misinterpreted the email.

“Holy shit.”

Your head bobs up and down once. “Yeah.”

Both of you stand. Stare at the screen like the text might dissolve if you blink. The email is brief but pretty brutal. Something about a late-night vote hold, a closed-door committee session, and Monroe being seen leaving Delgado’s office at 1:43 a.m. by a very chatty intern with no understanding of political discretion. It’s like the equivalent of catching Romeo leaving Juliet’s balcony.

“Please tell me we’re already writing this,” Jenna breathes, pulling her phone out and typing. “Tell me we’re not about to get scooped.”

You’re already closing your laptop. “We’re not. I just got this a minute ago.”

“Crap, okay,” she undoes her claw clip, runs a hand through her tangled locks. “You think NBC and Fox got word too?”

“Probably,” You tuck your laptop into your bag. “But… we can figure out what the other teams are saying. If you’re game for it.”

There’s a knowing look you two share, an unspoken understanding that comes from years of working in close quarters.

Just like that, with only a few words shared, you’re both gone — shoulders brushing in the hallway, shoes scuffing in sync as you pass the security desk and head toward the press rooms. Tiny, overcrowded hives filled with correspondents from neighboring organizations who all know something but never enough, all refreshing Twitter, all waiting for the official statement that will inevitably say nothing and everything at once.

You pass two staffers whispering near the elevator, some dude pretending not to be texting frantically in the corner, and a communications intern standing so still you’re not sure if he’s waiting for an answer or just buffering.

Walk faster, you repeat to yourself. No shot you’re losing this battle.

This is it. Every correspondent’s wet dream. The moment when instinct meets information. When knowing the right people and knowing how to read them becomes everything.

Fortunately, you’re good at this. Like, really good at this.

Jenna tugs on your arm as you turn a corner.

“Remember what I said in March?” she mutters. “I told you, these senators get more scandalous by the second.”

“Well, yeah, but that was about the comms director’s divorce and a broken espresso machine,” You remind her.

“Still counts.”

A grin is suppressed from your face. Technically, it is true. In this building, nothing stays quiet for long. Rumors and gossip spread quicker than a high school hallway.

Even though CNN is the top news source in the world — objectively, indisputably, and according to your network’s annual conference PowerPoint — your rivals over at Fox, NBC, and a handful of other outlets you don’t care to name are often your best sources.

Everyone loves to talk and you adore talkers.

The Hill is built on whispers, and your favorite kind of people are the ones who don’t know how to keep secrets in the same breath they use to ask for anonymity. There’s something about long hours and winding hallways that makes people careless with information. Or maybe it’s the sense of power, that euphoric high of having access to things you shouldn’t, stories that haven’t broken yet.

Right now, you’re chasing one of them.

You and Jenna waltz into the Fox press room like you own it (which you don’t, but that’s never stopped you before.)

It’s mostly empty, except for a few people quietly panicking over the situation in that journalist way where they sit very still while their eyes scream.

It’s a solemn few feet of space, lit by flickering fluorescents and decorated with the same kind of soul-crushing government chairs that squeak if you so much as fart. Someone left a takeout container open on one of the desks and you do your best not to inhale near it.

A quick glance of the room tells you all you need to know and then, to your dismay — you see him.

Jungkook.

Hunched over his laptop at the far end of the room like he’s doing important work but probably just rereading something you published earlier to find holes in it. His blazer from the briefing is gone, slung somewhere out of sight, white dress shirt rolled up to the elbows, sleeves creased and casual and — God help you — revealing the tattoos on his right arm.

You’ve only seen it a handful of times. Most people on the Hill haven’t seen it at all. It’s not exactly Capitol dress code.

But he’s Jeon Jungkook so rules were always more like suggestions when it came to him.

Whatever. Not what you came here for. You focus on his colleague, Sana. She’s sharp as hell, desk always covered in four phones and three half-charged battery packs.

Most of the time, you like her. She’s blunt. She doesn’t pretend to like you more than she does, and she gives enough if you know how to ask.

“Sana,” You say, all business-like, sliding into her personal space like this is a casual catch-up and not an intel sweep. Jenna lingers behind you like a henchwoman.

Sana glances up and sighs. “What now?”

“Looking for background on Monroe and Delgado,” You busy yourself with your nail beds, pretending to be focused on the fact that your polish is chipping slightly.

“I know that’s not true,” she says, still typing. “You never ask for background. You ask for the stuff that makes our lawyers sweat.”

You smile, full canines on display. “Come on. You know I’d never get you sued. Fired, maybe.”

“Not funny.”

“A little funny.”

Sana rolls her eyes. “What do you want?”

You’re about to lean in with the next carefully worded ask when he speaks.

“You could just ask me, you know,” comes Jungkook’s voice from the corner of the room.

You don’t dare turn around.

Begrudgingly, you sigh, loud enough for him to hear. “Didn’t realize you were qualified to speak on matters you didn’t fabricate.”

Behind you, Jenna snorts.

Jungkook doesn’t miss a beat.

“You wound me,” he fires back. You can smell the sarcasm in his voice. “Especially after I gifted you that question earlier.”

You spin your body slowly to glance at him. He’s already looking at you, fingers paused over his keyboard, head tilted, one brow raised like he’s genuinely curious how you’ll respond.

Sometimes he does this. Pretends you’re having a conversation when you’re in the middle of ignoring him. Like he’s the main character and you’re just the supporting plot that hasn’t fallen for his clown act yet.

“I’d say thank you,” you retort, “but I think you’re confusing mediocrity for generosity.”

His mouth twitches, doesn't quite reach his eyes but manages to rattle something in your chest like a perfectly aimed pebble against a window, making noise without breaking glass.

“Well,” he stretches slightly in his chair, ink on his arm catching the overhead light, “I guess we’re both useful to each other, aren’t we?”

Verbally, there’s no response you can come up with. Almost like you’re trying to capture a complex emotion with an emoji.

He refuses to look away from you. All you can muster up is meeting his gaze, forcing your eyes not to back down from his own deep brown ones.

Which is stupid and arrogant of him.

And deeply, profoundly annoying.

One day, you’ll create a PowerPoint presentation documenting all the reasons he should be knocked down several pegs.

But, also, he’s kind of—

No.

No, not going there.

You turn back to Sana, who’s watching the whole exchange with the vaguely interested expression of someone who’s seen this movie before.

“Anyway,” you say, tone firm, “back to the real work.”

Jungkook chuckles under his breath sadistically.

Sana raises a brow. She adjusts her posture, closes out of whatever she was doing, and gives you that look. Sneaky one, might you add.

Jenna settles into the empty seat next to Sana with a soft thunk, all amusement and quiet observation, as if she’s pulled up to a live podcast and knows better than to interrupt the good part.

You lean in just a little, palms firmly planted down on her desk.

“You’ve always had great instincts,” you begin sweetly, “Way better than that guy over at NBC who thinks ‘no comment’ is an acceptable answer. And honestly? You’re usually two steps ahead of everyone in this room, including me.”

Sana’s face falls flat. “Flattery’s not free.”

“I’m just stating facts,” you reply, twirling your hair around your finger. “But if you happened to know anything about where Monroe actually was during the vote delay, and with who, and if that info happened to fall into my lap by accident…”

She taps her desk once.

You pause for dramatic effect. Jenna says nothing.

You know it’s working. Cross your heart and hope to die, Sana’s resolve is softening enough to consider it. This is the rhythm you’ve lived and died by for the past four years: collect the whispers, push at the edges, find the person who wants to feel a little important, and let them talk.

You hear the chair scrape before the words follow.

“Okay, you’re scalping her,” Jungkook says flatly, rising from his area like he’s decided to intervene on moral grounds — which is rich, considering he spent last week casually rephrasing your own coverage on-air without blinking.

You don’t even bat an eyelash in his direction.

“Boohoo,” you briefly flip through your mental Rolodex of dismissive expressions, “call the ethics board, Jeon.”

You hear his footsteps. He’s walking over like someone about to cut the red wire, like this is a bomb he’s been called in to defuse.

“Seriously,” he now stands a few feet away, arms crossed, that infuriatingly amused expression plastered across his stupidly symmetrical face. “You’ve got her in a journalistic chokehold. It’s not even subtle.”

You peer over at him and flutter your lashes innocently. “You’d prefer subtle? That’s funny, coming from the guy who once baited a senator with free Red Bull to confirm a time stamp.”

“That was different.”

“That was illegal.”

“It was unofficial.”

You scoff. “Right. Just like your fact-checking process.”

Jenna leans her chin on her fist and sighs. “Hereeee we go.”

Sana barely spares a look up. “Can you two keep it down? Some of us are trying to break a government scandal before midnight.”

Your lips are formed tightly in a line. “I’m so sorry. He just follows me everywhere.”

“This is literally the Fox pressroom.” Jungkook spits out automatically.

“And yet somehow I’m more valuable here than you are.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

You turn fully now, squaring your shoulders like this is war and he just stepped onto your side of the trench. He’s close enough that you can smell his cologne — something citrusy and woodsy that makes your thoughts inconveniently disorganized. Jaw set in that infuriating way it does when he thinks he’s being reasonable.

“You know,” he tilts his head slightly, “at some point, you’re gonna run out of tricks.”

“Jungkook, you still fall for all of them.”

Sana mutters something about noise levels.

There’s a smile on your face you do not mean. Jungkook’s watching you intently now, clearly waiting for the moment you lose your cool, which you won’t. You don’t lose your cool. That’s your thing. Your signature move. You’re composed, unbothered if you will.

If the others are tired of it? Too damn bad.

Both of you will continue to respectfully decline to flinch first.

“You’re exhausting,” he says, half-laughing, which would be charming if it weren’t directed at you.

“Good,” you snap, “I hope it costs you sleep.”

“I’ve started taking a higher dose of melatonin to account for that.”

Luckily, before you can retaliate with something that will absolutely haunt you in the shower later, Jenna cuts in, phone screen brightly illuminating her face. “Guys…?”

Neither of you turn. You’re in this weird standoff. First one to look away loses.

She’s louder this time. “Um. Guys?”

“What?” You and Jungkook say in unison, like children caught throwing hands in the sandbox.

She blinks at her iPhone once, then twice, and stands slowly, holding her phone out like it might spontaneously detonate.

“I just got the alert,” she swallows deeply. “CNN got invited to a press pool.”

The room stills. Nothing has technically changed, yet somehow everything feels different, like the universe just rearranged its furniture while no one was looking.

You snatch the phone from her hand without a second thought, scanning the email with speed, stomach already dropping because you know what this means.

Fox. NBC. CNN. Wall Street Journal. Pool assignment. Limited access. Confidential source briefings. Strict cooperation protocol.

Jungkook steps closer to read over your shoulder, and you can feel his body heat like a threat. You edge away out of pure spite.

Sana exhales, “Oh, that’s gonna be fun.”

“No,” you murmur, half to her and half to God, “it’s not.”

Jenna sits back down, hand outstretched waiting for her phone back, probably mentally forwarding the email to your entire team with ten exclamation points and the subject line ‘URGENT: PRESS POOL.’

But all your brain can focus on is the last line of the memo: PRESS POOL ASSIGNMENTS WILL BE FINALIZED BY MORNING.

You swallow, jaw setting in place. Currently, you’re trying not to imagine the absolute hell of being locked into a room with Jungkook and being expected to collaborate. Or even worse, share credit.

Press pools are the bane of your entire existence. It’s lazy reporting dressed up in exclusivity, a dog and pony show where no one’s allowed to ask real questions, just “coordinate coverage” and “represent their outlet professionally,” which basically means sit down, shut up, and don’t make your network look like a dick.

It also may have a tiny, minuscule detail to it that you deject everytime; it’s always you and Jungkook they send. The two best damn correspondents on the Hill, which everyone knows, even if they pretend they don’t. You’re the ones they trust to get the job done. To ask the things no one else will.

And that would be flattering — if it didn’t mean getting locked in a room with him, breathing the same recirculated air, trading quotes and knowing exactly which angle he’s going to try and spin. It’s not a compliment anymore. It’s a punishment dressed up in prestige.

Now — if you’ve read that email right (and you have, because you always do) — you’re going to have to share that twenty minute slot with the one man on Earth who treats interviews and policy like some sick game.

You lower the phone slowly, handing it back to Jenna in a daze.

Jenna looks at you, eyes gleaming. “If it makes you feel better, this is gonna be amazing for us.”

“Who’s us?”

You’re already praying for divine intervention. Or a natural disaster. Or a scheduling conflict. Or a press badge malfunction. Literally anything but this.

Really, there should be no surprise when Jenna is showcasing a small smile on her face, the words already forming on the tip of her lip-glossed tongue.

You beat her to it. “Let me guess. You’re going to ask me to go.”

She blinks, then nods sweetly, too sweetly for your liking.

“I mean,” she says, clasping her hands, “you’re the sharpest we’ve got. You’re strategic. Respected on both sides of the aisle—”

“C’mon, I’ve gone to every single one. Can you please send Emma?” You may as well get on your knees and beg at this point.

Jenna disregards that completely.

“I want you to own the scandal,” she corrects, beaming now. “Control the narrative. Just, you know… professionally.“

You roll your eyes so hard you see your own childhood trauma. Turning to Sana, you’re already half-defeated.

“Thanks for your help,” you sigh, giving her a nod. “And for not actively reporting me to HR during that conversation.”

She shrugs her shoulders. “It was close.”

You’re halfway out the door, already planning what stress snack you’re going to inhale before opening a shared Google Doc with 45 other correspondents when it happens.

“See you Thursday, then. Three o’clock.”

You freeze. Actually, scratch that. You malfunction.

Your body halts so fast you nearly swing into the doorframe. You swivel on your heel, well aware of how the universe personally loves to torment you.

Jeon Jungkook is smiling, cheek to cheek.

He’s leaned back in his own chair now, one leg crossed over the other like he’s settling into a fireside chat, phone lifted lazily in the air, Gmail open and illuminating.

You can only assume his own boss forwarded the press pool email to him. God isn’t exactly subtle when he wants you to suffer.

“They letting just anybody in now?” You muster up the insult.

He shakes his head. “Didn’t even have to ask. Must be fate.”

No part of you falters. You stare at him. “Or a curse. It’s also not even confirmed yet, dimwit.”

“I don’t make the rules,” He raises his hands in mock defeat, and somehow you know that’s a lie. You’re almost certain he knew this was coming and bribed someone.

Jenna pats you on the back as she walks past. “Think of it as a growth opportunity.”

You glance at her like she just told you to do trust falls into oncoming traffic. “I don’t want a growth opportunity. I want a restraining order.”

Jungkook hums solemnly. “You’ll miss me.”

“Like a migraine,” You quip.

You step into the hallway and exhale, followed by a brief intermission where you regret every life decision that led you here.

A few distant feet away, Jungkook calls out all bright and cheerful, like this is a fun little reunion instead of your personal hell, “Should I bring the talking points or are we winging it like last time?”

Not a fiber in your body stops. You just keep walking, steps fast, fury simmering beneath the surface like a pot that’s about to boil over.

Of course you’ll be stuck sharing air and quotes and probably a goddamn printer with him.

Like you said, press pools… bane of your entire existence.

masterlist + ask

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

[dantes-jacket]

Chill weekends with you

Dante x fem reader

Author notes: request #4!! After a long hard week, Dante makes your weekend fun and relaxing for a nice break! So so so much fluff. I made him make a pillow fort and the more I think about it, he would 100% make one ;)

Work has been nothing but hectic this week. Between emails, meetings, annoying coworkers, many due dates came up, new projects getting assigned, and so much more things to keep you busy. Working every day this week has been truly a drag.

You see the eye bags under your eyes and feel the complete exhaustion your body is dealing with right now. You’re dragging yourself back to Devil May Cry. All you want to do is cuddle and sleep with your boyfriend.

Dante the king of not relaxing. Even when he isn’t out hunting demons he’s not resting. He’s always moving around and on his feet. The man can’t sit still. You’re hoping you can have his hyper self actually rest with you instead of running around.

You finally get back home and head inside. You then see the massive creation Dante made while you were gone.

“I’m home.” You call out hoping that you will find the creator of this masterpiece in front of you.

Dante peaks his head out from his creation and lights up seeing you. “You’re back!” He jumps up and run over to you. “Look I made a pillow fort! I even set it up so we can sleep down here tonight for a relaxing movie night. I also went to the store to get a bunch of snacks like popcorn and ice cream.”

Seeing his childlike excitement over the pillow fort makes all the stress you’ve felt this week melt off of you. “It looks great handsome. Let me go change and we can start a movie.”

You head up stairs and change into some sweatpants and one of Dante’s hoodies. Even in comfy clothes you feel so much relaxed compared to the endless anxiety you were having this week.

You walk back downstairs to see Dante crawling into the fort with a big bowl of popcorn and two bowls of ice cream. You giggle and follow behind him. He really wasn’t joking, he took his time with this. The inside is massive and has a big comfy set up with a perfect view of the tv.

You slide under a blanket and cuddle up to Dante. You two agree on a movie and dig into the snacks. Both of you started with the bowls of ice cream then moved to the popcorn.

Watching movies with Dante is interesting because he wants to know every single detail but he’s always talking and missing key points. Which makes you have to rewind the movie to make sure you two don’t miss anything and that is happening right now.

“Come on the cousin has to be the killer! Why else would he be so freaked out to let the cops check his basement? That screams sus to me.”

“Dante baby they just said why he doesn’t want them in the basement.”

“WAIT REALLY!!!? Give me the remote I gotta rewind it.”

You shake your head and wrap both arms around him trying to keep him as close as you can. You’re starting to get a little cold and this man is your personal heater. Dante rewinds and pauses, “You cold?”

You nod in response and that has Dante shift behind you. He pulls your back again his chest. He uses the blanket you’re under and covers the both of you. He wraps his arms around you and rests his chin on your shoulder, “Better?”

“Much better. You’re like my personal heater.”

Dante lets out a deep chuckle and you feel it against your back. Hearing him laugh is one of your favorite sounds in the entire world. Dante starts up the movie again and focuses deeply this time. He won’t miss any more important details in this movie.

With the much added warmth you’re starting to feel super sleepy. You lean back more into Dante and close your eyes. You tell yourself it’s only going to be for a second. Then you slip into a deep sleep.

Dante feels you lay on him more so he looks down to see you asleep. He smiles lightly and brushes some hair out of your face. He knows it’s been a long week for you so he wanted to make sure this weekend is super relaxing for you.

He turns off the tv and shimmies down with you still on top of him. You snuggle into him more once he’s lying down and it makes his heart flutter. You look so small in his arms but you’re so adorable. He places a kiss on your hairline then falls into a deep sleep himself.

The next morning you wake up before Dante. Your back is facing his chest still. You spin around trying not to wake him up. Once you’re facing him you trace his features. You start with his eyebrows, then run it down his nose and end off at his jaw. You keep repeating this for a couple more minutes until your arm gets tired.

“Why’d you stoppppp,” Dante whines.

You kiss the tip of his nose and ignore his question. “Wanna make some pancakes?”

“Let’s cuddle a bit longer than we can.”

You two lay in the fort just running your hands softly over each other’s bodies. It’s rare you two get to do this and take time to yourselves and enjoy the moment. His life is very much go go go and never waiting too long. So when you two actually get to rest like this, it’s refreshing.

Dante’s stomach then growls and you laugh. “I guess it’s time for pancakes now.”

“Ah how’d you know?”

Going along with his sarcasm, “I took a guess, turns out I got lucky.”

You two get up and head out the fort. Making your way to the kitchen you get the ingredients out while Dante sets up the stove. With you two tag teaming breakfast is done and served quickly.

You cut up some strawberries to throw on top of the pancakes while also pouring maple syrup on them. You were more conservative with the toppings compared to Dante, you can barely see his pancakes.

“What?” He asks with a mouth full of food.

“Don’t talk with food in your mouth.” You smack his shoulder. “Anyways do you want to make cookies today? I got all the stuff last weekend but ended up getting too busy.”

“Sure sounds fun to me. But don’t be mad when I eat all the dough.”

You roll your eyes and go back to eating. Once you’re finished you take your plates and put them in the dishwasher. When you’re finished you start to get all the stuff for the cookies out.

You’re just going to keep it simple and make some sugar cookies along with some vanilla frosting. “Dante can you make the frosting? With your strength you’ll be able to make it perfectly.”

“Sure can baby. Just give me the directions and I’ll do it.” You hand the recipe over and slide the stuff he needs over to him.

You start with mixing the wet ingredients together. While they are mixing in the mixer you get a bowl to mix all of the dry ingredients together. Once both ingredients are mixed separately, you start adding the dry to the wet. You let them mix until they are fully combined.

You look over to Dante who is just finishing up the frosting. You’re thankful for his insane strength because you would be mixing the frosting for a long time until it got to how it needed to be.

He finishes and turns to you proudly showing you the frosting in the bowl. “Look! It’s looks delicious.”

“Good job. It looks great. Let’s form these into balls and then we can bake them!”

Dante walks over and takes half of the dough. You two tag team again and get the dough split evenly onto two cookie sheets. You take the cookie sheets and slide them into the oven Dante opened for you.

Once they’re in you walk over to take a taste test of the frosting. You dip a finger into the bowl and pick some of it up then put it into your mouth.

“No fair I didn’t even try it yet and I made it!”

You look at him and catch him lying. You can see some frosting on the edge of his mouth. “Mhm sure, I can see the frosting on the side of your mouth liar.”

Dante is quick to swipe at his lips then marches over. You dip some of your fingers back into the frosting then turn around once Dante got closer. You wipe the frosting on his face and watch him freeze.

Dante’s eyes widen by the sudden attack of frosting against him. He licks most of it off since it mainly ended on his lips. “You little shit.” He reaches out for you and you dart out of the kitchen. You hear him hot on your tail.

You run around the dining room table then to his desk. You two stand on opposite sides and he uses his height to lean over and try to grab you. You duck and miss his hands then run off into the living room.

You keep running until you are tackled onto the ground that is covered in pillows from the fort. He spins you around so you’re lying on your back and looking up at him. He takes both of your wrists in one hand and pins them above you.

Dante then leans down and kisses you. He moves his lips, tongue, and face to make sure he wipes the frosting all over you. It’s a mix of vanilla frosting and salvia. You never knew you’d like that mix but hey you learn new things everyday.

Dante pulls back once he feels like he got you messy enough. He sees you covered in frosting and salvia glistening off your lips, he can’t stop himself from laughing. It’s another deep on like he let out last night. Yet he’s throwing his head back and laughing even harder.

You start laughing along with him because he’s just so goofy. His laugh is a true treasure from this world. You’re blessed you get to hear it from him often.

“You’re a little messy babe.”

“Well I could say the same thing about you.”

Dante goes to lean back in for another kiss but the oven goes off. You push his chest indicating him to get up so you can check the cookies. He pouts but does what you silently asked.

You walk back into the kitchen and open the oven. You look at the cookies and you see them golden brown indicating they’re done. You grab pot holders and pull the cookie sheets out. You place them on the counter to let them cool before you decorate them.

You first wipe your face off of all the frosting that was smeared onto it. You get out some knives to decorate the cookies with then plates to place the frosted cookies on. By the time you have the frosting station all the set up the cookies are done cooling.

You and Dante frost cookies for about forty five minutes. Once you’re done Dante holds out a cookie to you. You go to grab it but he pulls it back, “No let me feed you.”

You relent and lean forward for him to feed you. You take a bite and moan, “This is soooo good!”

“I know something better,” Dante says with a smirk. You shake your head and go back for another bite. You finish the cookie and hold one out to him. He takes the whole cookie in one big bite. You shake your head at him and reach for another cookie. You two end up watching another movie and eating all the cookies while falling asleep again in the pillow fort.

The next day Dante wakes up before you. He kisses your forehead then sneaks out of the fort. He heads to the kitchen to make some breakfast sandwiches for you two. He hopes he can get it done it time so you don’t have to lift a finger.

Dante cookies the eggs and bacon fast. The bagels he put in the toaster pop up when he’s finished making the stuff on the stove. He starts assembling the sandwiches. He starts with one bottom of the bagel then puts the eggs, cheese, bacon and tops it off with the top of the bagel. He repeats the process for the next sandwich. He remembers there’s still cut up strawberries from yesterday so he throws some of those on each plate and head over to the fort.

He places the plates on the ground then lightly shakes your shoulder, “Baby I made breakfast.”

You groan while sitting up, you then stretch and look at him. He’s giving you the softest and boyish smile you can imagine. He hands out the plate and you two dig in. You two talk between bites on how your weeks are going to look like. You should have an easy work week but it seems like Dante is going to be busy with a couple different missions. But at least they still keep him in town so you’ll still see him.

You two finish up and sadly look at each other. You knew what today meant. It meant reset and getting ready for the next week. You two silently get up and place the plates next to the sink. You’ll come back to do the dishes later because right now you two are going to shower together first.

After a quick shower you two are back downstairs getting ready to clean everything up. Before you start Dante turns on some music so you two aren’t working in silence.

You two decide to start in the kitchen first because that’s where most of the mess is. You decide to do the dishes while Dante wipes down the countertop and cleans all the appliances.

While you’re cleaning Dante sings along with the songs and dances around the kitchen. Seeing him so carefree and letting loose is something rare. Yeah he’s goofy and silly most of the time but he’s still always around of his surroundings and always on guard. Seeing him not have to worry about anything is so fun to see because he just lets out so much positive energy.

You finish before Dante does so you help him by finishing wiping down the counter while he finishes cleaning the stovetop. You two finally finish in the kitchen the head over to the living room. It’s sadly time to take down the fort.

You start with the blankets and fold them while Dante gathers all the pillows and makes piles on where they go. You end up doing the same so it’s a smooth transition putting them away. Once everything is sorted in its piles you two put everything away in its respective areas.

Once everything is clean you head back into the living room releasing a content sigh. You then feel hands on your waist then a blur until you see Dante standing in front of you. He holds out his hand, “Dance with me.”

You grab his hand and follow his wacky movements. It’s not like you two are dancing to a slow classical song, you two are dancing to a rock song. You try to follow his crazy lead but he’s going with the flow and you don’t know how to keep up. This is truly a workout out keeping up with him.

After dancing to a couple songs you flop down on the couch. You lay on your back facing the ceiling. You take deep breaths trying to steady your breathing from that crazy dance session.

Dante then gets on the couch and hovers over you. He leans his head close so that your noses are touching. “Hi.”

“Hi.” You run your hand through his white hair and brushing out any knots that came to be while dancing. “Thank you for making this a fun weekend. I had a great time. Relaxing with you is so nice.”

“It really was fun. I’m glad you had such a great time.” He presses a loving kiss to your lips and slightly pulls back to the point your lips are almost touching, “I love you.”

You place a hand on his chest above his heart and draw a little heart with your finger, “I love you too Dante.”

@whatdoesthevixensay

[ediblechainsaw]

Stalker!König, who thinks that the word 'stalker' is a gross word. He prefers 'adorer' or 'devoted', he believes that those words suit him better. He worships you. He believes that you deserve everything, and that he is just the man to give it to you.

If he could work up the courage to talk to you, he would tell you that. But every time he thinks he's going to talk to you, his mind blanks and he ends up losing the courage.

So when he overhears you telling your coworker about your pets expensive vet bill, he decides to help you out.

It's closing time and you're wiping off tables when you see something left on a table. The guy who usually sits there is a little.. intimidating. He gets a coffee, then sits there and taps away on his computer. That part isn't the worst thing, but you swear you can feel his eyes on you when you aren't looking at him.

Normally, he leaves a small tip on his table for you to pick up. Emphasis on 'small tip.'

This, you think, looking at the folded Benjamins on his table, is not a small tip. His coffee costed ten dollars.

The next day, König sits at his usual table.

You see him and walk up with a smile, "hey, welcome in. Um, sorry but I think you left more money yesterday than you meant to?" You hold the cash out to him.

"Nein, no mistake," his voice is deep and slightly nervous, his accent almost hypnotic. This is the first time you've heard him talk, and God, you wish he would talk more.

You keep your hand out, his money between you fingers, "I.. I can't take this. It's too much."

'It's too much', your voice repeats that one line in Königs mind. He wants to hear you say that when he has you bent over, ''it's too much', as he dicks you down and makes you scream.

"For your pet," he states, "for the vet. I overheard you yesterday. Ja, take it."

You stare at him for another moment, then reluctantly lower your hand. "I.. thank you. But why?"

König just shrugs, "why not?"

You return to work, but later you see another tip at his table, this one with a note beside it. The tip is twenty dollars, still way too much for how simple and cheap his coffee is.

The note is small, a ripped piece of paper with neat, blocky handwriting on it. Why, you ask, my goddess? Because I would do anything to help you, to prove that I am a man that will worship you and make sure you have everything you have ever wanted, that is why.

At the bottom, he signed, your devoted.

[freakoutgirl]

i'm like trying sooo hard to work on my mental health but i still feel like i'm fucking drowning

[crimsonblackrose]

.

I think I usually view myself as the nervous cheetah in the enclosure in need of a buddy golden retriever. But my boss essentially just told me I'm doing great and she's hoping I rub off on one of my nervous coworkers so she's scheming ways for me to work with that coworker. I.e. I'm the golden retriever.

[quillvice]

"was there a reason you didn't cancel this" honestly I thought I had so no there wasn't a reason but also if clients are going to have Your personal number and reach out to You about canceling (when they Should be reaching out via email per our cancelation policy) then You should be canceling the appt anyway imo. all the other trainers cancel their appointments AND add their appointments to the system 🤪

[chartreuxcatz]

I swear to God my brain tries to pull me in a thousand directions at once and it always looks like I'm just standing there ignoring people.

[akchually]

.

[prismaticsaltedink]

Going through life this is a challenge.

Trying to mask so you can hold a job and people either question what is wrong with you or assume you're an idiot... Currently going through that challenge.

It's a struggle. God is it a struggle.

the curse of adhd:

i will remember with absolute clarity, when the thought strikes me that i have a text to send someone, that this is the fourth time in three days i've attempted to send this specific text

i will forget, in the time it takes me to pick up my phone, that i picked it up intending to send a text

[shadesofmauve]

I want to step away from the art-vs-artist side of the Gaiman issue for a bit, and talk about, well, the rest of it. Because those emotions you're feeling would be the same without the art; the art just adds another layer.

Source: I worked with a guy who turned out to be heavily involved in an international, multi-state sex-slavery/trafficking ring.

He was really nice.

Yeah.

It hits like a dumptruck of shit. You don't feel stable in your world anymore. How could someone you interacted with, liked, also be a truly horrible person? How could your judgement be that bad? How can real people, not stylized cartoon bogeymen, be actually doing this shit?

You have to sit with the fact that you couldn't, or probably couldn't, have known. You should have no guilt as part of this horror — but guilt is almost certainly part of that mess you're feeling, because our brains do this associative thing, and somehow "I liked [the version of] the guy [that I knew]", or his creations, becomes "I made a horrible mistake and should feel guilty."

You didn't, loves, you didn't.

We're human, and we can only go by the information we have. And the information we have is only the smallest glimpse into someone else's life.

I didn't work closely with the guy I knew at work, but we chatted. He wasn't just nice; he was one of the only people outside my tiny department who seemed genuinely nice in a workplace that was rapidly becoming incredibly toxic. He loaned me a bike trainer. Occasionally he'd see me at the bus stop and give me a lift home.

Yup. I was a young woman in my twenties and rode in this guy's car. More than once.

When I tell this story that part usually makes people gasp. "You must feel so scared about what could have happened to you!" "You're so lucky nothing happened!"

No, that's not how it worked. I was never in danger. This guy targeted Korean women with little-to-no English who were coerced and powerless. A white, fluent, US citizen coworker wasn't a potential victim. I got to be a person, not prey.

Y'know that little warning bell that goes off, when you're around someone who might be a danger to you? That animal sense that says "Something is off here, watch out"?

Yeah, that doesn't ping if the preferred prey isn't around.

That's what rattled me the most about this. I liked to think of myself as willing to stand up for people with less power than me. I worked with Japanese exchange students in college and put myself bodily between them and creeps, and I sure as hell got that little alarm when some asian-schoolgirl fetishist schmoozed on them. But we were all there.

I had to learn that the alarm won't go off when the hunter isn't hunting. That it's not the solid indicator I might've thought it was. That sometimes this is what the privilege of not being prey does; it completely masks your ability to detect the horrors that are going on.

A lot of people point out that 'people like that' have amazing charisma and ability to lie and manipulate, and that's true. Anyone who's gotten away with this shit for decades is going to be way smoother than the pathetic little hangers-on I dealt with in university. But it's not just that. I seriously, deeply believe that he saw me as a person, and he did not extend personhood to his victims. We didn't have a fake coworker relationship. We had a real one. And just like I don't know the ins-and-outs of most of my coworkers lives, I had no idea that what he did on his down time was perpetrate horrors.

I know this is getting off the topic, but it's so very important. Especially as a message to cis guys: please understand that you won't recognize a creep the way you might think you will. If you're not the preferred prey, the hind-brain alarm won't go off. You have to listen to victims, not your gut feeling that the person seems perfectly nice and normal. It doesn't mean there's never a false accusation, but face the fact that it's usually real, and you don't have enough information to say otherwise.

So, yeah. It fucking sucks. Writing about this twists my insides into tense knots, and it was almost a decade ago. I was never in danger. No one I knew was hurt!

Just countless, powerless women, horrifically abused by someone who was nice to me.

You don't trust your own judgement quite the same way, after. And as utterly shitty as it is, as twisted up and unstead-in-the-world as I felt the day I found out — I don't actually think that's a bad thing.

I think we all need to question our own judgement. It makes us better people.

I don't see villains around every corner just because I knew one, once. But I do own the fact that I can't know, really know, about anyone except those closest to me. They have their own full lives. They'll go from the pinnacles of kindness to the depths of depravity — and I won't know.

It's not a failing. It's just being human. Something to remember before you slap labels on people, before you condemn them or idolize them. Think about how much you can't know, and how flawed our judgement always is.

Grieve for victims, and the feeling of betrayal. But maybe let yourself off the hook, and be a bit slower to skewer others on it.

[what-even-is-thiss]

The reason people don’t want to work is that it’s just normal for them to be in bad work environments.

My issue with working at Walmart wasn’t the work itself I was doing. It was the circumstances around it. The concrete floor, lack of places to sit, having to put up with asshole customers, not getting time off for injuries, and bad pay.

If I had been given shock pads to stand on or a few chairs to rest on sometimes, if they paid me a livable amount of money and I was allowed to yell back at asshole customers, if they had given me any amount of training, I would happily work part time folding clothes all day and telling people where the swimsuit section is.

I’m a creative type. I’m a writer. I’m pretty smart, even. But if I could make a living folding shirts and listening to podcasts in one ear and helping people find the scented candles for 30 hours a week? I would. Leaves some mental space free for me to brainstorm. Lets me catch up on my reading with audiobooks.

But instead I was treated so badly by upper management and customers that I’m like legitimately a little frightened whenever I step into a Walmart now. And I only worked there for three months a few years ago.

I’m a good lower level worker. When I’m treated well. I like finishing tasks. I like being helpful. I like having some time to talk to coworkers and some time alone with my thoughts. I’m a frickin team player. And that’s how I was at my first job. I was treated well by my supervisor. I was trained. They were patient with me. I was so good at being low on the totem pole at that job because I was valued and felt like I was being listened to. I was able to sit still when there was nothing left to do which made it feel less bad when we were on a time crunch. I didn’t mind working hard at that job because it was fun even though I was doing all the low level stuff that the supervisors didn’t want do.

But at Walmart I was like that for all of two days. Then I figured out that nobody appreciated my work and if I worked in my normal people pleasing manner I’d kill myself because their standards were high and the rewards for meeting them were low.

So I slowed down. I started avoiding customers. I started taking a lot longer to get to my breaks and to come back from them. I became worse at my job because no matter how good I was at it there would be no reward, no appreciation, and I’d just be pushed further beyond my limits.

My only level of happiness from that job came from the people who were working with me. The old ladies and my department manager who made sure I wasn’t overextending myself. The one other young man working in the clothing department who always got sent with me to unload the heavy stuff and commiserated with me about the shoulder injuries, the hurting feet we were too young to have.

But none of that was enough to make me stay. We were constantly understaffed. I was constantly abused by customers and not able to do a thing about it. I was not paid much at all. So as soon as I had enough saved up for what I was trying to do and my last semester of college was about to start I handed in my two weeks.

I would have found a way to stay if I liked that job. If I liked that job I would’ve pushed myself to my mental limits to finish college and keep that job at the same time. Heck that job could’ve been a rest from college. A place to get away from it. But I hate that job so I got out as soon as I could.

I want to work. I want enough money to live sort of comfortably. I want to have some tasks to do to give my creativity a rest. I want to be a part of something. But the way that modern corporate run work environments are set up does not give me any of the things I actually want out of a job. And I think that’s the same for millions of people right now. A lot of people would happily spend their lives as a waitress or an Uber driver or a warehouse worker or a farmhand or any other “low skill” job you can possibly think of. But with the way the world works right now those jobs are absolutely miserable. It doesn’t have to be that way. I know because I’ve had a fulfilling part time minimum wage job that I looked forward to going to every week. A job where I was listened to and allowed to sit when I needed to. I miss that job. Especially now since I’ve realized that’s not the standard. It should be. People should look forward to going to work or at the very least not get mild ptsd whenever they set foot into a Walmart.

[hallowed-heratic]

read an article today talking about how people who hire gen z workers are often reluctant to because of our "reputation for being entitled and easily offended" (it was like, 1 in 6 employers cited this hesitation and reasoning) and i find it insanely funny for like 3 reasons.

age bias is insane. this is true for both young and old workers. my boyfriend's dad was fired basically the second he turned 62 (iirc, he may have been a little older) and his old employers made him sign a contract that basically said "you won't sue us for firing you for being old." it's blatant ableism in that case. if you won't hire old people, and you won't hire young people, what the fuck are you going to do when the middle-aged people that you hired get old???

we're also often called lazy, because we don't work, very similarly to how millennials were treated when most of them were graduating high school and college. but how the fuck are we supposed to work when we can't get a job because no one will hire us

the idea that gen z is entitled or easily offended is just wrong. a lot of us just have standards for how we want to be treated in the professional environment, and a lot of us treat our jobs for what they are: a way to survive. we're not a family. there is no reason to be overly polite.

the article also cites a lack of understanding for workplace etiquette as a reason for firing, but does not elaborate on what proper workplace etiquette is. if what you're asking for is for people to respect the physical space, then i understand that, but if what you're asking for is for me to kiss ass, that's unreasonable and i'm not going to do that. i have self respect.

additionally the article bullies people for having to rely on their parents to find jobs, and i don't think this article has spent any time researching the job searching environment at the moment. even when places are literally saying that they are hiring, and you apply for a job there, most of the time, they straight up do not respond to you. they don't email you, they don't ask to set up an interview, nothing. i have some personal experience in this regard. you need connections to get jobs anywhere it feels like, and you probably won't have those connections on your own.

overall, the issue here is deeper than the article itself, or even any of the points i brought up about it. the fact that we have to work in order to survive is the issue. anything else (like how difficult it is to even find a job to live) is just additional salt in the wound. idk where else i'm going with this, but i'd love to hear some people's personal experiences either as a working gen z or someone who works with gen z. here's a link to the article if you want to read it.

[stopfunkinwmyheart]

it'll be a brother with an iten I've never seen in my entire life. I'll be like "heyy can I help ya" buddy will rly deadass be like "ye so I need one of these but smaller. it has to be the one for a rounded corner as well, it can not be the standard. this is crucial bcos I am doing rounded corners and will not be working w a flat surface. now ideally I want this exact iten, I can't remembered if I got it here or not bcos it was 35 years ago. I'm not sure if they even make them anymore. I don't even know what it's called or what it does. I'm unsure why I even want to complete this project. I don't even remember who I am or how I got here. do you know if these keys are for my car? who am I? you don't know who I am? who gave you this job? where is your manager little boy......."

[munch-mumbles]

i keep trying to be more social at work and put myself out there more but it just keeps ending up with me feeling like an obnoxious annoying asshole when i get home uurrrghhhhhhhh

[sketchtastrophee]

old art again!! this time a rough animation of sawyer and yarnaby 😎 (looks better if u click to view 😭)

im working on a short ppt animation rn. im thinking i should post it to my youtube channel, though im not sure if people here would see it. i think i can link videos on here?? idk

okay I'm gonna talk abt more chapter 4 stuff.. this time about prototype's previous identity.. ch4 spoilers and also a theory below..

hiding the solo yarnaby under here LOL

people theorized 1006 was elliot, which was recently disproven in the chapter 4 tape where poppy refers to elliot as her dad and wishes he were there. in the same tape she addresses prototype as a completely different person. also recall that elliot died in the 90s, meanwhile prototype met theo in 1989. so yeah, they aren't the same person

I've also seen people say rich is prototype, which cannot be true either. in a ch4 tape he speaks to one of the employees under his supervision. the kid mentions his coworkers joking about him going missing. before the bbi, it would not make sense for this to be a common rumor at the company, which means this tape had to happen after harley was hired in 1990; at a time when the company would have a reason to silence people

prototype existed in 1989 at the minimum, but considering he says "it's always been about you and me" to poppy, he's likely the prototype of HER. she's elliots daughter, she died in the 60s, meaning prototype was probably created around that time as well.

this means that rich can't be the prototype because he was human long after prototype was made

if you want my take on who prototype truly is, i'd say his identity doesn't necessarily matter. i don't mean to say his origins aren't important, just that his name and specific role in the past probably doesn't mean anything in the long run. i've never believed he was elliot or rich, and maybe in the future i'll be proven wrong but for now i'll tell you the theory i've had since june of last year

elliot's daughter dies in the 60s. he divorced his wife in 1930, so his daughter is probably in her 30s when she dies. she gets sick or injured, maybe she's actively dying or already dead by the time elliot begins his research. he looks for ways to bring her back, but it doesn't work on the rats (as he mentioned a note in the 2nd chapter)

so what does he do? he tries it on something bigger as he said he would: a human. of course he's not going to try this experimental method on his own daughter, even if she's already dead, so he finds someone else to use it on. we know that elliot wasn't evil or anything, so it's unlikely he killed anybody to use for the experiment. considering the orphanage isn't open yet (it opened in the 70s, not the 60s), prototype probably wasn't an orphan child either. if i run with my simple version of the theory, elliot may have dug up a body in a graveyard and used that. maybe a fresh one, who knows. he tried it, it worked, then he revived his daughter with the same method.

this is likely what harley wanted to know about in the chapter 3 tape (the "i learn something new about you every day" one), and also what prototype is asking harley to figure out in the ch4 tape they're both in. in that case, sawyer never actually figured out how to revive people with the poppy substance. sure, he can transfer people into the toys, but he can't bring anybody back to life

more reason to believe prototype and poppy are of the same "batch" is because it seems they are the only two who don't need food. it's outright stated about him in the ch1 trailer, and insinuated with her saying the "toys will starve otherwise" when she's talking about how nasty them eating humans is. she refers to them, not herself. her and prototype are probably the only 2 who were ever brought back from the dead, which circles back around to his monologue and gives meaning to the "it's always been about you and me, poppy. what we are". when i heard him say that i felt like my theory was lowk confirmed 😭😭

no guarantee this is right, but it's been my guess for a long time

[kisssukuna33]

Thinking about your Chef HusbandSukuna! Who always uses you as his personal food critic whenever he experiments with a new dish. You are the first to taste it before it goes into the restaurant menu. When you question him about it one time he said you're his personal lucky charm because whenever you taste a new dish first it instantly becomes a hit in the menu.

Chef HusbandSukuna! Who has a whole wall dedicated to you and the pics of you two together in his restaurant. Oh but did I mention about the big wall art next to those pics? A wall art of you smiling that he painted himself. He still talks about that art piece proudly to this day.

Chef HusbandSukuna! who has no problem attracting customers. His restaurant is widely known in the town as one of the best spots but the only problem he faces is when people come into his restaurant being attracted to something other than his food. You can only imagine the amount of thirsty comments from both men and women under his restaurant reviews.

Chef HusbandSukuna! Who HATES it when people flirt with him even after clearly seeing the wedding ring he wears daily. That's why he lets his co-workers do all the serving and he rarely comes out of the kitchen until someone ask for his presence.

And whenever a customer flirt with him or ask for his number he straight up points to the wall art of you displayed in the restaurant and murmur "my wife" as he go back into the kitchen unbothered.

Chef HusbandSukuna! Who never lets you cook anything in the kitchen. He always prepare you food and snacks whenever you ask him without complaining and you slowly came to realize that's his way of showing his love for you. And when he prepares food for you it's never anything simple either,he makes sure his wife eats a 5 star meal everyday.

Chef HusbandSukuna! Who takes it as personal offense whenever you recommend take out for dinner. He doesn't understand why you want to eat that unhealthy junk shit when you have a whole chef as your husband.

"Just say you don't love me anymore"

"Kuna.. You are being dramatic I asked it for a change not because I don't love your cooking"

"Then marry a fast food worker that way you can eat junk shit everyday"

"Sukuna!!"

Chef HusbandSukuna! Who always decorate your bento box so cutely when you go to work. He doesn't miss with the hello kitty shaped rice balls and the heart shaped vegetables everytime. One time you remember your coworker asking if you're married to a woman because they refuse to believe a bento box that cute was a work of a man.

Safe to say your coworker was even more suprised after seeing the intimidating 6'4 tatted man who came to pick you up later.

Chef HusbandSukuna! Who always knows to prioritize you over his beloved restaurant. You are sick? Yeah he closes the restaurant and stay by your side all day taking care of you. You want to go on a date? Say no more restaurant is closed within a minute. You took a day off ? yeah the restaurant is closed that day. You wonder how he even keep up the popularity of this restaurant like this.

Chef HusbandSukuna! Who always loves telling people the story about how you two met and how his restaurant took off after he started dating you. In his eyes you were a blessing given to him. He always wonder how his life started getting better and better after meeting you. A cold heart that was completely untouched by everyone started melting at the presence of yours.

But one thing he knows is that he's going to cherish the blessing given to him for the rest of his life.