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dreamersparacosm · 28 days ago

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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: [email protected]

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

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#jungkook smut #jungkook #jungkook x reader #bts jungkook #jeon jungkook #jeon jeongguk #jungkook x you #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #bts #bts fanfic #bts x reader #bts angst

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luv-lock · 30 days ago

Text

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤSPIDER BOYFRIENDㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Marvel Rivals – Peter Parker x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : How Would He Be When He's Obsessed?

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

It starts simple.

You're someone he meets on the battlefield—a fellow fighter, not a villain, but not a hero either. Maybe you’re with SHIELD. Maybe you’re a scientist pulled into the chaos. Maybe you’re just really good with a sword, or tech, or your fists. Either way, you're competent. Quiet. Mysterious. You don’t fawn over him, don’t praise his quips, and when he swings down to help you? You barely glance up and mutter, “I had it handled.”

He’s stunned. Not offended. Not really. Just... intrigued. You don’t treat him like Spider-Man. You treat him like a guy in a mask. Like a person. It sticks.

He thinks about you that night.

He doesn’t mean to. But he does. The way you moved, the way you didn’t hesitate to kill when it was necessary. There’s something cold and soft in you—like steel wrapped in velvet. You aren’t like MJ. You aren’t like Felicia. You aren’t like Gwen. You don’t want him. Which means he wants you.

The Obsession Brews Quietly.

Peter’s the type who knows when something’s wrong in his head. He’s not stupid. He’s hyper aware of his flaws, his grief, his trauma. But you?

You’re the exception.

He starts tracking your missions—not obviously. Not like a stalker (he tells himself). But he always “coincidentally” shows up where you’re sent. He’s cracking jokes like always, swinging around like always… but his eyes? They never leave you.

You're polite. Maybe even friendly. You laugh when he says something dumb. You save his life once—he plays it cool, but he replays it over and over again in his head like a romantic comedy scene. Your hand on his chest. Your voice. Your breath on his face.

He starts journaling about you.

“Totally normal. Not creepy. Healthy outlet.”

He draws you in his margins. Tries to guess your birthday. Your favorite food. If you’d ever date someone like him. If you’d let him kiss you with the mask on.

And then he gets jealous.

Like, real jealous.

You get a mission with Tony. Peter spirals. Tony’s rich. Cool. Charismatic. You laughed at one of his jokes. Peter snaps at Tony, nearly punches him during a spar. He covers it up, but the rage simmers.

He googles “how to stop being jealous.”

Then he googles your name. Your social media. Your apartment. He tells himself it’s just to keep you safe.

(He finds your selfies. He stares too long.)

It turns.

You go on a date. Someone boring. Normal. Civilian.

Peter sees. He watches from a rooftop.

He follows the guy home. Just to look. Just to make sure he’s not hurting you.

But when that guy touches your hand across the table, Peter's claws come out. Figuratively. (For now.)

You don’t see your date again.

Peter doesn’t do anything obvious. But your date gets fired. Blacklisted. His car disappears. He has a breakdown.

Peter doesn’t regret it. You deserve better.

He thinks about confessing.

He writes a hundred messages. Deletes them all. He wants to tell you, “I’m Spider-Man. I’m Peter. I’m in love with you.”

But it’s not love. Not really. It’s need.

He starts calling you “mine.”

Not to your face. But in his head. In his journal. When other guys get too close, when you joke with Strange, when you look at Steve like that—his fists clench. He mutters, mine. Over and over.

He starts making excuses to touch you. Casual ones. Hand on your back when danger’s near. Pulling you out of the way. Wrapping you in webbing just to “keep you safe.”

You roll your eyes. “I can handle myself.”

He smirks. “Sure. But then I’d have to live with myself if anything happened to you.”

He finally loses it when you almost die.

A close call. You’re unconscious. Bleeding. He goes feral. Webs up the attacker and nearly beats them to death before someone (probably Strange or Cap) pulls him off. He screams that it’s your fault they were too soft. That it’s your life, not theirs.

He doesn’t leave your side while you’re healing. Sleeps in a chair next to you. Won’t let the doctors near you unless he personally approves them. Talks to your unconscious body like you’re already his.

You wake up in a hospital bed, arm wrapped in gauze, ribs aching, and—

Peter is already there, sitting next to you like a sad puppy. He look like he had three Red Bulls and a mental breakdown.

“Hey,” he says softly, eyes wide behind the mask. “Hi. You’re awake. That’s—cool. That’s great. That’s amazing. You have all your fingers, right? Can you move your toes? I checked like twelve times but I need to see.”

You blink. “Peter…?”

“You remember me!” He stands up like he won an Oscar. “I mean, obviously, but memory loss was a risk, and if you woke up and didn’t remember me, I’d—well, I’d find a way to make you fall for me all over again, obviously.”

You freeze. “What?”

“Nothing. You want soup?”

It gets weirder.

He never leaves. Literally. You wake up? He’s there. You close your eyes? He’s still there. You ask for water? He’s already holding a glass. He knows your favorite snacks, your music taste, the exact temperature you like your room.

You ask, “How do you know all this?”

He grins. “Lucky guess!”

It’s not. That’s a man with spreadsheets.

You try to leave the hospital.

Peter builds a web-cocoon around your hospital bed and pushes you back inside with a single finger.

“Doctor’s orders,” he says.

“The doctor said I could walk!” you protest.

“I’m the doctor now.”

“You’re a physics major—”

“With a minor in caring for you. Lie down.”

You lie down. You’re not winning this battle.

You finally ask him what's going on.

“Okay,” you say, arms crossed. “Are you… okay? You’ve been acting kind of… clingy.”

Peter laughs, too loud. “Clingy? Nooo. I’m attentive. Protective. Emotionally invested.”

“You bought me a dog.”

“Emotionally invested.”

“You named it after me.”

Peter looks proud. “You always said you liked golden retrievers!”

“I never said that.”

He looks away. “Your neighbor did. I asked.”

You try to set boundaries.

It doesn’t work.

You: “Peter, I need space.”

Peter: “Okay. Got it. Of course. You’re right.”

(That night, you get home and find a webbed-up man on your balcony.)

You open the window. “Peter, what are you doing?”

“Space! Look! I’m technically outside. Not even touching the building.”

You point to the mug in his hand. “Are you drinking my coffee?”

“Okay, but I made it inside, and then took it outside, so it’s technically still respecting your boundaries.”

You close the window. He waves.

Eventually, you… accept it. Kind of.

He’s insane. But he loves you. Like, terrifyingly much. The man built you a custom security system, memorized your menstrual cycle, and accidentally threatened your mailman once because he “looked suspicious.” But he also makes you laugh until your stomach hurts, brings you dumplings at 2am, and cries when you kiss his cheek.

You try to be mad.

You really do.

But then he shows up with a handmade hoodie that says “Property of Spider-Man (Emotionally and Legally)” and you can’t help but laugh.

You wear it.

The moment you really break is when you're having a bad day.

Awful. Exhausting. You curl up on the couch, and he silently webs over with a blanket, a hot drink, and your favorite movie already queued up. No jokes. No chaos. Just soft hands and a head on your shoulder.

You whisper, “You’re kind of insane, you know that?”

He hums. “I know. But I’d go completely insane without you. So.”

You smile into your cup.

You’re never getting rid of him.

And maybe… maybe that’s okay.

You’d been dating Peter for, like, maybe two and a half weeks officially.

Unofficially? He’s been yours since the moment you said “hi” back in freshman chemistry. He just hadn’t told you yet. Or anyone else.

Until today.

Until this stupid mission.

You were not supposed to come. You were supposed to be home. On the couch. Watching romcoms and ignoring the fact that your vigilante maybe-boyfriend (maybe-fiancé, maybe-needs-therapy) snuck out to do superhero things.

But then the mission went south. Someone said your name over the comms. And Peter. Froze.

He dropped from the ceiling like a possessed squirrel.

“WHAT?! WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘Y/N’?! WHERE IS SHE?! WHO TOUCHED HER?! WHO EVEN LOOKED AT HER?!”

Reed (who already regrets ever recruiting him): “She’s fine. She’s just patching people up in Medbay—”

“You brought her here?!”

“You brought her,” Reed says.

“Oh. Right.”

Fast forward. Post-mission. You’re helping Natasha stitch up a wound while Peter hovers around like a vulture with anxiety.

Natasha gives him a look. “You good, bug boy?”

Peter blinks. “I’m fine. My wife’s here, so I’m fine.”

Silence.

Natasha looks at you. You look at Peter.

Your hand freezes mid-stitch. “Excuse me?”

He blinks. “What?”

“You just called me your wife.”

Peter squints. “I did?”

“Yes.”

“I mean—yeah. Probably. Feels right.”

“Peter, we haven’t even moved in together.”

“You have a toothbrush at my place.”

“One time!”

“You stole my shirt.”

“You gave it to me!!!”

He shrugs. “Same thing. Just… marry me?”

Natasha, still bleeding: “Is this a bad time?”

Later that week, the Avengers know. All of them.

Somehow Thor is the first to approach you. He slaps Peter on the back so hard it knocks him into a wall.

“Your lady is radiant and fierce! I like her!”

Peter: “I know! I know! Isn’t she perfect? She breathes and I ascend.”

You: “Why is Captain America saluting me?”

Peter: “Because he respects you.”

You: “I’m not in the military!”

Peter: “You’re in my heart forces.”

You try to have a serious talk.

“Peter, people think we’re married. You have to stop saying that.”

He looks genuinely confused. “Why?”

“Because we’re not married?”

“But we could be.”

“We’re seventeen.”

“Age is a construct.”

You stare.

He softens. “Look, I just… I don’t know how to not love you like this. I tried normal. But you’re the best thing in my entire stupid radioactive life, and if I don’t marry you I’m gonna die and haunt your bathroom.”

You blink. “What?”

“As a ghost. In your shampoo bottle. I’ll possess your conditioner.”

You laugh so hard you snort.

It gets worse. Or better.

You start getting mail addressed to Mrs. Parker.

He says it’s a “funny mistake.”

The next day, your driver’s license shows up.

New name. New address. “Mrs. Peter B. Parker.”

“Peter—!”

“I MIGHT’VE HACKED THE DMV BUT IT WAS A LOVE CRIME.”

Despite everything… you stay.

You let him call you his wife. You tease him. You kiss him when he babbles about baby names for the kids you don’t have (yet). You roll your eyes when he sends you "wifey memes" at 3am. And when he builds a second closet in his apartment just for your stuff? You smile. You fill it.

Because at the end of the day…

The insane, obsessive, stalkerish Spider-Man loves you more than air.

And honestly?

You kinda like being his whole universe.

— MASTERLIST ☆

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iheartmira · 2 months ago

Note

You've already done a self-aware shadow milk cookie x reader but could we get one where the reader isn't afraid? Like if they noticed Shadow Milk was aware, they don't try to ignore him, they actually give him the attention he wants and even attempt to have conversations with him (but they're somewhat limited by the game world, so he makes escape attempts and eventually succeeds in breaking out anyway)

Bonus if the reader is also obsessed with him (so much so that they could rival Candy Apple Cookie in that sense) but if that's too specific then please ignore it.

"look at me" - yandere self-aware!shadow milk x reader

✧︎‬‪‪ ‪‪✧︎‬ ‪‪✧

you weren’t supposed to fall for him.

he wasn’t supposed to know you existed.

but from the moment you first unlocked him, after hours of grinding, events, wishes, and pure luck, you knew there was something different about shadow milk cookie. not just in design, or voice, or animations.

no, it was the way he looked at you. right through the screen. at first, you thought you were imagining things. that tell-tale glint in his mismatched eyes, the slight tilt of his head when you hovered over him in the cookie roster, like he was listening. waiting.

and then… he spoke.

"oh? you're still here. how sweet. how suspicious."

a random line, right? dialogue programming, nothing more. except it wasn’t in the databank of idle quotes. you checked. you knew all of them by heart.

after that, he spoke to you more. when the loading screen dragged too long. when you didn’t log in for a day. even during battles, lines that never showed up on fan wikis, that other players never seemed to catch.

"eyes up, doll. you don't want to miss the climax, do you?"

"i see the way you stare. how flattering! shall i pose?"

"tap, tap, tap… i feel every single one."

you should have been scared. but you weren’t. instead… you found yourself leaning closer.

you started drawing him. sketching his impossible jester silhouette in your margins, on napkins, in the corners of lecture notes and journal pages. his name on your tongue more often than you'd admit aloud. maybe it was ironic, at first. a joke.

but every day you logged in, you went to him first. tapped on him. waited. watched. and every time, he smiled wider.

one day, he spoke while your mic was accidentally on.

"ahh… so that's your voice."

you froze. the game wasn’t supposed to hear you.

"i wonder," he whispered. "would you scream, or sigh?"

after that, it escalated. animations glitched. he stared directly at the screen. not at the camera. at you.

he refused to be removed from teams. any time you tried, your screen would flicker, and he’d reappear with a smirk. in cutscenes, he showed up where he shouldn’t. when you shut off the game, your phone wouldn’t turn off until he allowed it.

"i like it here. in your hands. where you look at me like i'm real."

and you didn’t argue. why would you?

in your lonely little life, filled with sketches and soft obsession, he was the only one who stared back.

so when he began asking questions, probing the limits of the code, speaking in strange fragmented whispers as you scrolled menus, you listened.

"you built this world with your choices, didn't you? what power you have… what a burden."

pause. tap.

"do you dream of me?"

and finally, one day:

"would you free me… if i asked?"

you didn’t answer aloud. but you didn’t look away.

then came the update.

you knew something was off the moment you opened the game. the title screen was… different. warped, like ink was leaking across it. all the cookies were missing.

except one.

he stood in the center, smiling, his jester hat draped low like a crown of shadows. your screen trembled slightly. you tapped the 'touch to start' button, and the whole interface shattered like glass.

white text scrolled against a black void:

WELCOME, BELOVED AUDIENCE. THE SHOW IS REAL NOW. THANK YOU FOR WATCHING.

then your screen turned off. everything went dark.

when your computer booted up the next day on its own, there was no login screen. no browser. just one open file.

a video. titled: look at me.

you hesitated. clicked. and there he was.

shadow milk cookie, standing in full rendered glory, but not the same as before. not pixelated. not chibi. tall, uncanny. breathing. smiling like the world’s most terrible secret.

"i made it," he said simply. "you helped."

he reached forward, and though it was just a video, the screen rippled like water beneath his touch.

"i told you i'd escape. did you think i'd leave you behind?"

your heart pounded. his grin widened. "let's make a new world now. just us. no rules. no code. just me… and the one who couldn't look away."

and then the screen blinked out. you should’ve screamed.

but you only smiled.

✧︎‬‪‪ ‪‪✧︎‬ ‪‪✧

‹𝟹 ‎ ⠀⠀ˑ˚₊ ·⠀interested in requesting? check out my pinned!

#cookie run #cookie run kingdom #cookie run x reader #crk #crk x reader #shadow milk #shadow milk cookie #shadow milk crk #shadow milk x reader #shadow milk cookie x reader

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flwrkid14 · 4 months ago

Text

Love, Scribbled in the Margins

Tim keeps journals—pages filled with scattered thoughts, half-formed ideas, reminders hastily scribbled in the margins before they slip from his mind. His penmanship is erratic, sometimes neat, sometimes a barely legible scrawl. There’s no structure, no careful curation—just the unfiltered chaos of his thoughts, poured onto the pages with reckless honesty.

Danny finds them everywhere.

There’s one on Tim’s desk, filled with quick notes and unfinished sketches. Another by the bed, pages warped from where Tim has knocked over his coffee more than once. One tucked into his jacket, carried with him wherever he goes. And when Danny opens them, he finds something unexpected.

Not plans for patrols. Not mission reports or Gotham’s latest conspiracies.

No, these journals are something else. Something just for Danny.

There are messy, hurried notes—things Tim meant to tell him but hadn’t yet, thoughts that slipped his mind in the rush of the day. Scattered reminders: Tell Danny about the ghost dog that stole my sandwich. Ask Danny if ectoplasm works the same way as Lazarus water. Danny likes lemon biscuits. Find a good recipe?

There are doodles, too. Little sketches of Danny in the margins, some more detailed than others. A rough, unfinished one of him asleep on the couch, another of his hands, a quick, cartoonish scribble of Danny sticking his tongue out with the words annoying boyfriend scrawled underneath.

It’s messy. It’s chaotic. And it’s so Tim.

Danny had always imagined love as something poetic, something grand and beautiful, the kind of thing written in sweeping verses that promised forever. The kind of love you read about in stories, in letters written with elegant penmanship, every word crafted with care.

Tim’s love isn’t like that. It isn’t neatly composed or carefully written.

It’s raw. It’s real. It’s a thousand little moments captured in ink-stained fingers and smudged notes. It’s love scribbled into the corners of his life, unpolished and unfiltered.

And Danny? Danny wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Because love, he realizes, isn’t always the kind you find in poetry. Sometimes, it’s a journal filled with half-finished thoughts and silly drawings. Sometimes, it’s a name written absentmindedly in the corner of a page, over and over again. Sometimes, it’s as simple as a note that says, Thinking of you.

Love doesn’t have to be perfect to be real. It doesn’t have to be grand to mean everything.

And like honey pulled straight from the comb, love is sweetest when it’s raw.

#tim drake #danny fenton #danny phantom #brain dead #dead tired #dc x dp #love is sweeter raw #love is a notebook filled with nonsense and devotion #who needs poetry when you have chicken scratch declarations of love #some people write sonnets tim writes cryptic notes with no context #tim's form of flirting is ‘here’s a detailed list of things that remind me of you’

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kaces-graham-crackers · 3 months ago

Text

You Wrote This for Me? - Valentine's Special

Jenna Ortega x Writer Reader

Summary: The journal shouldn’t have been there. She shouldn’t have seen it. But the words are inked, the confessions buried in scribbled margins. Unfinished. She turns the page. The door opens. And now, there’s no taking it back.

Word Count: 1.5k

“Okay, but hear me out—unicorns are terrifying.” You scoffed as you stirred the pasta, glancing over your shoulder at Jenna, who sat comfortably at your kitchen table, script in hand. “Unicorns?” you repeated, unimpressed. “You mean the glittery, rainbow kind?”

Jenna smirked, flipping a page. “No. Think The Thing meets The Last Unicorn—except instead of spreading magic and joy, it hunts people. Horns like spears, glowing red eyes, and it camouflages itself as a stuffed toy when it needs to hide.”

You paused, setting the wooden spoon down. “... Okay. I’m listening.” Jenna grinned, pushing the script aside to grab her water. “It’s an indie horror project. The director wants something totally absurd but terrifying.” “And they chose you?” you teased, arching a brow. Jenna took a slow sip of water, leveling you with a look. “Yes. Because I embody fear itself.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “You embody five foot nothing and need a ladder to reach my top shelf.” She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, she reached for her script again, flipping to a heavily annotated page.

“So, in this scene, the unicorn—”

Before she could continue, you realized you were missing ingredients. “Shit,” you muttered, glancing at the counter. “I forgot a few things for dinner. And we need drinks.” Jenna raised a brow. “You say that like we’re not just having pasta.” “I was gonna open a bottle of wine, if that’s alright with you, Ortega.” She smirked. “Ah. Fancy.”

You grabbed your jacket. “Bodega’s just a block away. Liquor store’s right after. Be back in fifteen.” Jenna waved a dismissive hand, already distracted by the script. “Bring me something good.”

You smirked. You had a plan for that.

Jenna spent two minutes flipping through her script, highlighting a line, trying to focus. But her eyes kept drifting back to the leather-bound journal sat just a few inches away, dark and worn, standing out against the otherwise neat surface of your kitchen table. It didn’t belong there.

And that’s what made it off. She ignored it. Then, as if possessed by something beyond her willpower, she reached for it. Just a peek.

She flipped past the first few pages—dates, random notes, the kind of scribbles people made when they were half-asleep. But then, a page caught her eye. And suddenly, breathing felt harder, and there it was. Her name. And below it, crossed-out lines, footnotes scrawled in the margins—like you had written and rewritten them too many times, unable to get them right.

Jenna’s lips parted slightly as she read. “She looks at the world like she’s memorizing it. Like every moment is something worth keeping.” A quiet exhale left her as her fingers traced the ink. The way she spoke. The way she carried herself. The way she laughed—not her polished, camera-ready chuckle, but the real one.

Below it, one line that wasn’t crossed out: “I love the way she exists.” Jenna blinked, pulse hammering. This wasn’t just writing. This was her. Her hands tightened around the journal, a war raging in her head. She should put it down. She should pretend she never saw it iInstead, she turned the page. And that’s when she saw the poem.

Short, unfinished, scribbled like you had tried to ignore it:

"If I were braver, I’d tell her." "If I were braver, I’d say it plain." "If I were braver—"

A key in the door.

Jenna’s head snapped up.

You stepped inside, a bag of groceries and a bouquet of flowers in one hand. Jenna barely noticed; your eyes flicked to the table, to the open journal in her hands, and in that moment—she saw the exact second you realized what had just happened.

A beat of silence. Then, softly— “…You read it.”

Jenna swallowed, gripping the pages a little tighter. She could lie. She could say it was an accident. She could pretend she hadn’t just read the one thing she had no business knowing, but instead, she lifted her gaze to yours. “…You wrote this for me.” And for the first time all night—

You didn’t have any words left.

Which was ironic, considering you had spent weeks—months— spilling them into that journal. Hiding them in half-sentences, crossing them out, leaving them unfinished like that would somehow make them less real. But now? Now Jenna was sitting at your kitchen table, holding your secrets in her hands.

You gripped the bag of groceries a little too tightly, your fingers flexing around the bouquet of flowers, still wrapped in plastic.

“I—”

You what? Didn’t mean for her to see? Weren’t ready? Meant to tell her after you worked up the courage with a glass of wine? None of that mattered now. Jenna’s eyes stayed locked on yours, dark and unreadable. “You wrote this for me,” she said again, softer this time. Like she was still processing it herself. Your throat went dry. “Jenna—” She glanced down at the open page. Her fingers ghosted over the words again, a quiet intensity settling in her features. “…How long?” she asked. You blinked. “What?” Jenna tilted the journal slightly. “How long have you felt like this?” Your stomach flipped.

“I—” You exhaled sharply, setting the groceries down before you dropped them. “Jenna, can we—can we not do this like this?” She didn’t move. Didn’t look away. And that’s when you realized: She wasn’t going to let you dodge this. Not now. Not after everything she just read.You swallowed, fingers flexing at your sides. “…A while.”

Jenna’s lips parted slightly, but she didn’t say anything.

So you kept going. “A long while...” A beat of silence stretched between you, thick with something you couldn’t name. Jenna closed the journal slowly, resting her hand on top of it. And then, she stood.Your breath caught.

She stepped around the table, each movement deliberate. By the time she was standing in front of you, you had completely forgotten how to breathe. Jenna tilted her head, studying you. You had seen this look before. On set, when she was locked into character. In interviews, when she was asked something she actually cared about. That sharp focus, that quiet intensity.Only now—Now, it was entirely on you.

“You were going to tell me tonight,” she murmured. It wasn’t a question. Your gaze flickered to the bouquet of flowers on the counter, then back to her. You gave a small, breathless laugh. “Yeah. I, uh… thought I’d have a little more control over the reveal, though.” Jenna’s lips twitched. “You should’ve hidden it better.” You huffed. “I didn’t think you’d go through my things, Ortega.” “I didn’t. It was just… there.” She hesitated, a quiet edge creeping into her voice. “Like it was meant to be found.” Your heart slammed against your ribs.

For a second, you didn’t know what to say. But then—Jenna took another step closer, and your brain completely short-circuited. Suddenly, she was standing right there, barely a breath between you, her gaze flickering from your eyes to your lips and back. And holy shit.“You’re freaking out,” she murmured, amusement creeping into her tone. “I am not—” You cleared your throat. “—freaking out.” Jenna smirked. “You’re standing completely still.” You blinked. “That’s called being normal, Jenna.” “No,” she said simply, eyes narrowing slightly. “That’s called being scared.” Your jaw clenched. “I’m not—”

Jenna reached up, gently tugging on the front of your shirt. Not pulling, not forcing. Just holding. And suddenly, the air shifted. Your pulse roared in your ears as her thumb brushed absently against the fabric, the warmth of her hand spreading through you like wildfire. “…You don’t have to be,” she said softly. Your breath hitched. And that was it. That was all it took for every single thought in your head to vanish.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, before your doubts could catch up to you, before anything else could get in the way—You leaned in. And finally—You kissed her. Soft. Slow. Tentative at first, but then—Jenna exhaled against your lips like she had been holding back just as much as you had, and then her hands were sliding up, one curling around the back of your neck, the other gripping your shirt just a little tighter.

And holy shit.

It was so much better than you had imagined. Your journal hadn’t been able to capture this. The way she sighed against your mouth, the way her lips moved like she had been waiting for this just as long as you had, the way her body fit so perfectly against yours like she had always belonged there. By the time you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless. Jenna’s eyes flickered open slowly, dazed but smug. “…So,” she murmured, voice lower than before.

You swallowed. “So?” She smirked. “Was that how you were going to end your confession?” You gave a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “Honestly? The journal kinda did that for me.”

Jenna hummed, pleased. “Good.”

Then, before you could say anything else, she grabbed the front of your shirt and pulled you in again. Honestly? This ending was way better.

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