#green tomato face mask

[meaninginmakeup]

Product gifted by Fully in exchange for my honest review. You can watch the one minute review on Instagram or Tiktok.

It's no secret that I tend to really enjoy multi-use products, and this one was no different! I very much enjoyed this. I think of the two ways I showed off how to use this product, I actually enjoyed using it as a cleanser even more. But I've been dealing with a break out, so using it as a mask treatment was also welcome! It features six different types of clays in the formula, and mint powder, which means you need to keep it away from your eye area. So my advice is to only apply to your orbital bone area to protect your eyes.

I misspoke in the video! You can technically use this three ways instead of just two. Depending on your skin type, you can either use this as a thick or thin clay mask, or as a foaming cleanser. Or after letting this sit on your skin for 3-5 minutes, you can activate the foam and scrub this into your skin for even better results. Because I couldn't use this on my eyes, I give this a four out of five star rating.

As an Amazon associate, I earn from qualifying purchases. You can find this product on Amazon: https://amzn.to/3Rt0PSj

[himbo-kuto]

idol!reader x pilot!caleb 

plot: your performing a song with some suggestive lyrics to hundreds and thousands of people 👀

caleb | rafayel | zayne | sylus | xavier 

“linkon stadium!” 

the sudden eruption of cheers from thousands of people in front of you made your heart warm. you had just finished your costume change for your secret stage that you switched up at every location and you were giddy with anticipation. it was a frilly green two piece that didn’t leave much room for imagination. 

caleb had asked you a billion times on what the song was since you told him all the others but you kept it under lock and key knowing that you were essentially dedicating this stage to him. 

“for the last time, no caleb! i’m not telling you!” you scolded as you propped your phone up on the bathroom mirror during your routine video call. you finished off your skin care routine with a lip mask, cleaning up the corners with your finger before looking right at the camera.   “but just know, that stage is dedicated to you.” he groaned in response, covering his now blushing cheeks with his hand.  “you’re going to be the death of me, pipsqueak.”

you knew it was rough on him as you were traveling the world and even though he was a pilot, you two rarely found yourselves in the same place but today you knew that caleb was coming and you couldn’t wait to be in his arms once again. 

you looked out to the audience to the section that your management had blocked off for your friends and family and if your eyes were correct, you could see him right in the middle wearing some light up headband with your name on it. 

“i feel blessed to be able to finish out my tour in my home town with my friends, family and partner out here in the audience tonight” another wave of cheers came through from your fans, and maybe you were crazy, but you thought you heard caleb’s scream as clear as day. you couldn’t help the smile that spread across your lips as you began to get into places for the beginning of the song.

“you have all have given me so much of your time and energy– i want to make sure we keep it up until the very end, what do you say?” you held your hand up to ear, and the microphone out to the audience.

“if you know the words to this song, i want you to sing them as loud as you can with me alright?” the lights dimmed, the crowd once again screamed at the top of their lungs in anticipation before the first few notes from sabrina carpenter’s nonsense started playing over the speakers. you read the conspiracies on what your fans thought your stage was going to be. you were proud in knowing that none of them guessed this song, leaving everyone in shock. especially the person whose reaction you anticipated the most. you secretly texted tara before heading on stage, asking her to record caleb’s reaction and she quickly obliged.

only a few lines into the first verse, you and your dancers could feel the energy of the audience as the lyrics could be heard loud and clear. you wanted to give them a good send off before you took a long break to recuperate and you were glad they were vibing along with you. 

I'm talkin' all around clock I'm talkin' hope nobody knocks I'm talkin' opposite of soft I'm talkin' wild, wild thoughts

on caleb’s end he was thankful to whatever god above that the venue was dimly lit because his whole neck and face were bright red. there you were, looking right at the camera that plastered your face on the big screens with your hair perfectly done and your makeup all sparkly. you looked immaculate and he was blown away. sure, he’s seen you perform– heck he’s watched every single one of your performances even the more suggestive ones. but he knew you chose this song with those lyrics intentionally and the fact that he could only stand there and watch from afar is what killed him. he didn’t even notice tara laughing out loud as she captured his reaction to the chorus, flashing back and forth from the big screens with your face to your tomato of a boyfriend.

he was rendered speechless and all he could do was absent mindedly clap along to the song, he couldn’t take his eyes off you. a sudden burst of screams broke caleb out of his trance. he watched as you reached out to a fan that was close to the stage and put on a pilot’s hat. you couldn’t even contain yourself at how perfect the timing was and laughed as you continued to sing the lyrics.

that man was done for. he loved seeing you in his uniform, whether it was his hat or jacket he would go weak at the knees, wanting to take as many pictures as possible (he was definitely going on to social media later and download all your concert pics) he couldn’t help but laugh as well seeing how much fun you were having up there. yeah it was hard being away from you for extended periods of time, but seeing you perform was always worth it. he was planning on giving you an ear full but maybe now there wasn’t going to be much talking. you were nearing the end of the song where different adlibs could be sung depending on the situation.

This song catchier than chickenpox is I bet your house is where my other sock is

you held the brim of your hat, with a flirty look on your face as you tried to hold your composure as you sang your practiced adlibs. 

He’s my pilot, i’ll meet him in the cockpit Mile High Club, can you keep a secret?

you gave a salute as your ending fairy, giving a knowing laugh as your boyfriend has most likely passed out on the floor. 

“thank you linkon, i’ll keep this night in my heart forever!” 

—

bonus:

“babe that’s literally the 20th time you’ve watched that clip– i’m right here” he couldn’t hear you as he kept replaying a video a fan took of the ending adlibs. he had surely given you a stern “talking to” when you were able to make it back to your house. he laid there freshly showered after doing all the things that were listed out in that song– you might add. smiling like an idiot at his phone as you made your way back into his embrace. you watched as he continued to scroll through more videos from your concert.

he put his phone down as he held you closer. you buried your face into his neck, closing your eyes as you inhaled deeply. you missed him dearly and it was good to be back. 

“we haven’t even had sex in my plane– are you trying to tell me something?” your eyes shot open as you landed a square slap right on his chest. 

“CALEB–” he laughed out loud as he held his hands up in defense. 

“you’re the one who said it pipsqueak, not me!” you bit his arm before making your way back into his neck. 

“would you rather have me say ‘that autopilot got me boun–’” the rest of your sentence was muffled as he covered your mouth. 

“shhh…. the world doesn’t need to know that much.”

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - off the record (part four)

part four ; prom: white house edition

warnings ; alcohol consumption, oc spiraling hard af, emma and paul ?? deserves its own warning

prompt ; in which you’re paired with your insufferably charming ex-academic rival turned coworker to cover a congressional scandal, and suddenly, professional boundaries becomes the only thing holding you two apart.

note ; *comes out from behind corner, tucks hair shyly behind ear* heyyy.. how yall doing..?

pls no tomatoes thrown at me for how long this part took. mommy was unfortunately quite busy AND this story is taking a complete left turn in my brain. let’s unpack that real quick, shall we? initially, this story was supposed to be a clean ten part fic. however i got inspired by one of abby jiminez’s books and could not restrain myself from exploring a longer slowburn with these two because it fits them SO WELL. so, moral of the story, is you’ll be seeing more of them. how many parts you ask? idk, ask someone else fr

anyways! onto this part — there’s a lot going on here. this whole White House gala is just jungkook circling oc like a hawk and her slowly, sloooooowly softening at the edges (but not too damn much). forgive my girl for not immediately succumbing to him, she grew up in a poor family and doesn’t like to feel the weight of the world on her shoulders (lol see what i did there)

please enjoy to your heart’s content, and read slow (like it’s legit 12k words. what you in a rush for??!!) ALSOOOOSDKD MAJORRRRR MF shoutout to @httpsincity, one of my cutie little beta readers who listened to me spiral about being true to their characters for like an hour and struggled to use box.com😔

playlist here

series masterlist here

The red dress was a mistake of catastrophic proportions. 

You’ll be paying the consequences of it until you’re 85 and muttering about shapewear in a retirement home with subpar pudding. 

It pinches at your hips, digs into your ribs, and you’re walking like someone has a gun to your back. You’re also sweating in places you didn’t know you had sweat glands.

You had pitched every excuse to not attend the gala known to man for the past week. Claimed to have contracted a rare airborne virus (possibly made up), hinted at a tragic scalp burn from a curling iron incident, even floated the idea that you were morally opposed to large public gatherings.

Jenna wouldn’t budge. 

“It’s good optics,” she called it, waving you off like an uncooperative wedding planner. 

You could give two shits about optics. What you do care about is being home in your sweats with a charcoal face mask on and Season 4 of Suits playing in the background while you judge Meghan Markle’s legal ethics. 

Now, you’re trapped beneath an arch of peonies and imported orchids that you're quite certain cost more than your entire salary. You’re lingering — loitering, really — by this floral monstrosity, heels already in mortal pain.

To add insult to injury, three interns glide past you, high on sparkling wine and great expectations. “Did you see the dessert table?” one of them squeals. “It’s shaped like the White House!”

Avoid the dessert table at all costs. Got it. 

You stare after them, slack-jawed. There is simply no way on God’s green earth these interns are going to have a better time at this event than you. You skipped Suits for this.

Pushing off the floral arch, you roll your shoulders back, and decide that if you are stuck here, if you are doing this, then so be it. 

If this is the hand life is going to deal you, then you might as well not bite it off. 

Tentatively, you step into the Hay Adams ballroom like you’re being lowered into a trap. The lighting is spilling warm buttery hues across the room, strategically placed crystal fixtures drawing people under them like moths to a flame. The marble floors are polished so well that when you look down, you can make out every pore on your face. 

There are waiters floating through the crowd, balancing trays of drinks you don’t recognize and appetizers that look too sophisticated to actually enjoy. Some band is playing near the front, but it’s jazz so it mostly just sounds like everyone forgot the melody at the same time. 

You pause a few steps in, eyes scanning the room, instinct already kicking in: assess, categorize, survive. There’s a burn in your chest, a familiar swoop of anxiety that overtakes you. 

You’re mid-gaze into the ballroom, performing what can only be described as an elite-level social avoidance, when something — or rather, someone incredibly clumsy — collides with your left side. 

“Where the fuck have you been?!” Emma’s voice accuses, latching onto your arm desperately, like she’s afraid you might jump out the nearest window. There’s still enough time that you might. 

She smells like a perfume counter had a passionate affair with the open bar. Her lipstick has migrated slightly north of her mouth, body vibrating with the energy of someone who discovered the champagne fountain approximately four glasses ago. 

“Good lord,” you mutter, finding your balance both literally and metaphorically. “How long have you been terrorizing this event?” 

“Unclear,” she grins stupidly. “Time is fake. You look hot by the way.”

You blink at her, absorbing her physical assessment of your appearance. You can't say hot is what you were going for. Scary, maybe. Not hot. “I’ll take it.”

“You absolutely should,” she insists, squeezing your arm. “Wait, did you just get here?”

The way Emma’s looking at you tells you that you probably need to lie, need to tell her you got here precisely an hour ago and she just somehow missed you. However after years of working together, there’s nothing that gets past her. You whine, shoulders slumping, “C’mon, you know I hate this stupid fucking gala.”

She rolls her eyes, yanking your arm as if she’s dragging her reluctant cat to the vet. “You say that every year and still end up at the after afterparty at someone’s penthouse.” 

Okay, it was one time. You were 24, way too drunk off Moet & Chandon, and the man you were with smelled like a mix of bergamot and cedar. It was nice. Sue you. 

Your heels betray you on the slippery marble tiles, sending you forward. “Emma, I really don’t—”

“No, absolutely not,” she declares, voice dropping to a dangerous register that means she’s made an executive decision about your night. “The ‘silently judging everyone’ portion of tonight’s programming has been canceled. You’re not allowed to roll your eyes in corners until you get drunk enough to start socializing.”

You attempt to come up with a plausible defense, but she’s already steering you past the dessert table, which has become a feeding ground for the interns. One of them clutches what appears to be the Capitol dome covered in chocolate ganache. Your soul recoils instinctively. 

“Have you tried the constitution-shaped cookies?” another squeals, eyes wide with wonder. 

“Who the fuck let them in here?” you whisper mostly to yourself with narrowed eyes. 

Emma catches it, laugh bellowing off the walls and above all the chatter as she guides you around the ballroom like her emotional support pet. “Be nice. They still believe journalism might save democracy. It’s adorable.”

You scan the room, heels skidding with each step Emma drags you. There’s the reporter who “borrowed” your framework for his feature, the communications director who used to hook up with Jenna before she remembered she had a Hinge+ subscription, and that insufferable New York Times correspondent who once corrected your pronunciation of ‘bipartisan’ so smugly you considered a career change. 

Several other journalists you recognize make eye contact across the room. Paul also looks over at you, gives you The Nod, a universal signal that communicates professional acknowledgement but could also mean you look hot (based on Emma’s drunken opinion). 

Emma navigates you closer to the bar, halting right in front of two barstools, “Okay. You need alcohol. I need you to have fun. Both seem fairly easy to accomplish with the help of the other.”

“Just so you’re aware, I despise everything about this,” you sneer, fixing the strap on your shoulder that threatens to fall loose. 

“You say that like it’s breaking news.” 

It isn’t. You hate the lighting designed to flatter the undeserving, the artificial laughter, the way everyone pretends to be off-duty while mentally writing Monday’s opinion piece. You hate the performative glamor and calculated smiles and the overwhelming pressure to network when all you want is to dematerialize through the nearest exit. 

Emma’s already ordering you a vodka soda, draped halfway across the bartop, projecting her voice as if she’s sober enough to make decisions for either of you. You catch her saying “absolutely no lime—I can handle my liquor” and you log out of that conversation so fast before you can do something stupid like get involved. Emma gets hot-headed when she drinks, and although it’s not often, you’ve learned to turn a blind eye when the inevitable does occur. 

You let your gaze perform a sweep of the room, mentally cataloguing emergency exits for once it hits midnight and all hell starts breaking loose. 

Paul, three people over. Awkward eye contact, check. You both give the other a tight-lipped smile and move onto the next person in your line of sight. 

Gavin’s talking to his wife enthusiastically, gesturing in a way that suggests he’s either four rum and cokes deep or recounting a professional tale where he singlehandledly saved journalism. His narrative reaches a dramatic pause as he catches your eye mid-sentence. Your internal alarm system flashes a bright, unambiguous absolutely not across your forehead. 

Your eyes glide past the dessert station, beyond another towering floral display that looks like the florist had a meltdown, and land on Sana in the far corner. She’s laughing at something, body angled like she’s engaged fully in what the other person is saying. There’s a soft radiance about her tonight — not that she hasn’t always been stunning — and it reminds you that she’s one of those people who’s universally beloved with no effort. Hell, even you love her when she gives into your interrogations and spills Fox’s insight into certain current events. You take an imaginary sip from your yet-to-materialize drink and mentally file away a good for her with approximately sixty percent sincerity. 

But then, a few strategic inches to her left, you discover exactly who Sana is honed in on.

Jungkook. 

He’s standing with one hand in his pocket, head tipped towards Sana, listening intently. His shirt is white, crisp and fitted, sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow. Enough that you can see his tattoo sleeve — bold that he would do that at White House prom but, whatever, to each their own. 

His tie is loosened, a glass in his left hand, half-full with something dark and his watch catches the light when you look at it. 

Which is not to say you’re looking. 

You’re scanning. It’s a sweep. An environmental awareness thing. Nothing more. 

Except then he nods at something Sana says and mid-turn, his eyes snag on you. 

Those dark brown eyes flick up, mouth relaxing. His brows twitch upward slightly. You nearly step backwards from the intensity. 

His gaze travels downward. A flicker of assessment so understated yet brazenly deliberate that your skin erupts into goosebumps under the fabric of your dress. Suddenly, it feels like your body is operating at a temperature that violates several laws of thermodynamics. There’s also a weird pit in your stomach that feels like you just went barreling 100 miles per hour down a rollercoaster. 

His eyes snap up to meet yours again. Your skin prickles with a wave of awareness that starts at your nape and cascades downward. 

If you’re not totally blind, you’re about ninety percent sure Jungkook just checked you out head to toe. 

Are you drunk? Did Emma somehow magically slip you a roofie when she stumbled across the ballroom with you?

Jungkook, the same dude who got caught re-watching your press briefing, the one who’s been purposefully making your life hell since you were a freshman in college. 

Your breath catches somewhere between your lungs and your throat, suspended in the no-man’s-land of Things We Will Not Be Discussing. Those eyes of yours are getting you into more trouble than you’d like. You swivel your body away from him, redirect your attention back to Emma, who’s now negotiating with the poor bartender like she’s brokering Middle East peace talks, all for a drink you're not entirely sure you want anymore. 

The last real interaction you had with Jungkook was Tuesday, when you discovered him perched on the steps of the west wing, watching your press pool briefing like he was some championship chess player contemplating their opponent’s queen.

Monroe came down with some vague “flu” that’s kept her out of meetings, which — to your luck — means you haven’t had a reason to step into the same room as him since then. Honestly it’s been a little peaceful. No hallway stalking, no press conferences, no internal panic about whether he’s going to pull the rug out from under you with another cheating tactic. 

But still, seeing him here now, in that shirt, sends a weird ripple through your body. Like vertigo. Like nausea. Like—

No. It’s clearly too hot in here. It’s just the combination of societal oppression and your body’s sudden, urgent desire to evacuate itself from your consciousness.

Emma thrusts an overflowing vodka soda into your hand like she just negotiated a hostage release. “It’s a little strong. I tipped extra in cash so he gave me a pour that’s probably illegal in three states.”

You nod numbly. Sip, And then cough because, yeah, it’s mostly vodka. Apparently, Emma’s definition of “a little strong” means “practically moonshine with ice.” 

You take another substantial sip — purely medicinal — and direct a silent, desperate prayer to whatever deity oversees your life that Jungkook has found something more interesting to look at than you. Sana, please, keep that man engaged. 

“So, hear me out.”

Yes, Emma, that is exactly what you’ll do to keep your brain occupied from Sana and those tattoos and the glance that got thrown your way that feels dirty. Borderline explicit. 

“Hm?” you hum, taking another massive gulp of your vodka with a splash of soda, trying to calm the storm of unwelcome feelings swirling inside you. 

She leans against the bar, holding her own martini glass hostage. “We should go talk to those guys over there.”

You squint at the ominous tall figures her nail is pointing towards. She can’t possibly be serious. “What guys?!”

“Those ones!” She tilts her head so aggressively it’s a miracle her earrings don’t fall off. “You know, Paul, his friend in the blue tie.. He’s like, kinda hot.” 

You guess, but refusal is your middle name right now. 

“I do not want to do that.” You deadpan at her, bewildered, sharing a look reserved for work best friends who have clearly crossed several lines of judgement. 

Emma’s basically vibrating with excitement as she studies the two men like she’s just discovered an all-you-can-eat buffet after a week of intermittent fasting. When you follow her gaze, sizing up the two men, you realize… you don’t really know that dude in the blue tie. Never seen him a day in your life. And you happen to know every correspondent that walks through those doors. 

The first thing you notice is his height — six feet tall at the minimum. He has shaggy brown hair, clearly possessing fortunate genetics, and has a wholesome, eager energy about him that just screams “golden retriever.” 

You could probably eat him for dinner.

Emma whines beside you, stomping her heel down, “Come on, what happened to the old [Y/N]? Remember… a few months ago… we went to that bar on 9th street…”

Now that she mentions it, you’ve been actively trying to scrub that entire night from your hard drive until Rosalie brought it up a few days ago.  

“Some memories are meant to remain buried in the graveyard of my brain, Em,” You cut her off, desperately trying to prevent your most embarrassing memories from being aired in public. 

“Just a little fun?” she nudges your shoulder. 

“I don’t—”

But Emma, the hot-headed drunk she is, is already moving, your hand gripped tightly in hers. Your vodka soda tilts over the edge, spilling a little on the marble floor. There’s something admirable about her complete disregard for social conventions, the way she approaches interpersonal chaos. 

She weaves you through the crowd, mumbling ‘excuse me’s’ and ‘pardon me’ at a rate that earns her a few crass side-glances. You find yourself apologizing for each shoe she accidentally steps on.

You’re trying — genuinely attempting to embrace the evening, live in the moment, take a page out of Emma’s book. But your dress has developed its own mind tonight, the air feels thick enough to bottle, and every time you perform a quick pass over the room, you feel like your heart is going to leap out of your chest like a caterpillar escaping its cocoon. 

The entire experience feels like standing in a glittery fishbowl where everyone’s pretending the water isn’t slowly reaching to a boil. 

You begin after another few steps in what feels like the wrong direction. “You know, I really think—”

She barely looks at you over her shoulder, “Respectfully, shut up.”

Yes, sergeant Emma. 

You attempt to reorganize your posture, rolling your shoulders back in a futile effort to project confidence. Trying to breathe without appearing like you’re still actively monitoring those emergency exits (although you did spot one in the far right corner). Trying not to look like you’re not cataloguing every face in the room while Emma drags you through the depths of this crowd, as if it’s some march to your final breaths. 

All things considered, you’re not looking for anyone specific. 

Obviously. 

That would be ridiculous. 

Except… your gaze does go rogue again.

Again, those basic survival instincts are just kicking in. But there is this inexplicable gravitational pull, this soft magnetic curiosity that keeps dragging your attention, past the florals, past the swarm of interns at the dessert table. 

Before you can even think of moving your eyes to that far corner again, you take a sip of your drink forcibly. The vodka burns a straight line down your throat. 

Emma parks you in front of Paul and his blue-tied buddy, releasing your hand almost immediately upon contact. “Heyyyy, Paul. How’s the night treating you?”

Her voice is sickly sweet, completely and totally unlike the Emma you see five days a week in the CNN press room. 

He blinks heavily. “Pretty good, Emma. You doing alright?”

It’s endearing how he’s trying to act all cool, calm and collected while clearly having no idea what to do with Emma’s sudden attention. By all means, he really wouldn’t know how to handle all of her. Her long brown hair cascades down her back, tan skin glowing under the golden tone of the chandelier, eyes piercing into his own. 

You think he might cream his pants. 

“Oh, I’m fantastic,” Emma purrs, leaning in intimately. You want to disappear into the nearest floral arrangement. “You know, I was just thinking — we don’t really talk much around the office.”

Paul blinks again, looking genuinely confused. “Yeah, well, you did say I was weird for listening to NPR during my lunch break.”

“NPR, sh-menPR,” Emma waves dismissively, as if yesterday’s mockery was merely a charming misunderstanding rather than a full-on ten minute roast session about his “geriatric taste in current events.”

Somewhere in the distance, a male voice bellows with laughter. You wish there was something to laugh about at this exact moment.

You’re having trouble processing the fact that Emma — who literally just yesterday compared Paul’s open-toed office shoes to a cry for help in leather — is now batting her eyelashes like he’s the last available bachelor in the D.C area. 

Meanwhile, Blue Tie Guy’s gaze has been ping-ponging back and forth between you and Emma. You can practically see the calculations happening behind his golden retriever eyes: Who’s her friend? What’s the dynamic here? Are we running a two-man?

No, Blue Tie Guy. You are not running a two-man. 

You remain silent while Emma blabbers on, mouth super-glued to your vodka soda, which has become alarmingly depleted despite your memory of only taking a few sips. 

Blue Tie shifts his weight, obviously debating whether to introduce himself to you or stare awkwardly into the distance. You take the final sip of your drink and pray that Emma’s sudden lust for Paul doesn’t require you to participate in whatever bizarre social experiment she’s conducting. 

Paul’s now doing that thing that guys do where he tries to lean casually against something that isn’t there, catching himself before gravity betrays him. “So, uh, what changed your mind? About the whole… talking thing?” 

He’s helpless. 

Emma flashes a smile that could probably power a small grid. “Maybe I’m just full of surprises tonight.”

“Right…” Paul nods. He spares a passing glance at you, an afterthought to his attraction to Emma. “Surprises. That’s… good?”

You’re witnessing what can only be described as the world’s most awkward mating dance… if mating dances involved this much uncertainty about whether anyone wants to be actually participating. 

Emma’s radiating pheromones. “I like your tie.” She reaches out, feeling the fabric beneath her fingers.

Paul’s entire face turns an embarrassing shade of red. “Thanks. It’s, uh… my grandpa’s.”

“Vintage,” Emma hums solemnly. “Very nice.”

You’re so absorbed in this exchange that you almost miss Blue Tie Guy’s approach, an expression of friendliness on his face that means he’s been psyching himself up for this interaction for the past five minutes you’ve stood there. 

Why the fuck did you wear this red dress again?

“I’m Steve,” he says, extending his hand.

You accept his handshake against your better judgment. This wasn’t exactly penciled into tonight’s agenda, which had primarily consisted of avoid making eye contact with anyone who might expect conversation.

“[Y/N],” you respond, and Steve grins, teeth on full display. He definitely had braces in middle school. Professional teeth whitening too. 

Theoretically, he seems charming. Steve (Rest in Peace, Blue Tie Guy) is objectively attractive. He definitely photographs well at family events. 

But the problem is your brain has apparently decided that a pleasant conversation with an attractive stranger falls somewhere below a voluntary root canal on a list of things you want to do tonight. 

“So what do you do for work?” 

Oh sweet, sweet Steve. 

Any man who’s gotten laid before knows no woman wants to talk about work. They want to talk about anything but deadlines, their coworkers, and their boss. 

“Correspondent.” 

That’ll be all for tonight, folks. 

It’s pretty clear he’s Paul’s plus-one, and while you also were afforded the luxury of bringing one, you didn’t really have anyone. Rosalie left mid-week on another voyage with her Daddy, and you were honestly still a little weird with her after your last conversation. 

“Oh, cool. I work in private equity not too far from here.” He tilts his body into you, body language sending you all the signals. Steve puffs out his chest a little, like that’s supposed to have you begging him to bend you over the dessert table. 

“That’s nice,” you tightly smile. “How long you been in D.C?” 

And then your mind drifts off to your cozy little apartment. He’s definitely making sounds, mouth moving with hand gestures involved but you’ve completely dissociated into the land of face masks and Netflix.  

You catch fragments of it: best opportunities in private equity are where the politicians are, passionate about bridging the gap between financial institutions and government (yawn), all the ex-New Yorkers are moving out here (fake news).

You nod politely, ignoring how barren your glass seems now that you’re talking to someone who isn’t Emma. 

“I just think your job is really cool, like, how politics is evolving. Like the digital landscape is changing everything, you know?” 

He has the energy of a paper towel. Like the inside of a dentist’s office. Your brain has started playing elevator music. 

He smiles, pleased with himself as if he thinks he just said something incredibly profound. 

Glancing down at your glass, you stare at the melting ice. Still empty. Fantastic. “Yeah, totally.”

“Paul said you work with him at CNN?” Steve’s eyes light up. 

You shake your head agreeably. You don’t really know when they exchanged information about you but you don’t really want to ask. 

“That’s so cool,” he rushes to say, “I was actually talking to someone at Politico the other day about all this. It’s just like.. your work is so important.”

Damn you, Jenna. This is exactly what you had nightmares about. 

If you’re running right on schedule, the Reuters editor should be appearing at any minute now to perform a drunken rendition of WAP, exclusively singing Cardi B’s verse. 

You open your mouth to say something bitter but close it again. You’re almost certain he’s trying to sleep with you, which is fine, you guess, but you really just want to go home at an acceptable hour. 

You offer a polite smile and nod again, and that encourages him to continue. You are now being held hostage by a man with the least amount of edge on this forsaken planet. 

“Paul says you’re a killer in press briefings,” he lowers his voice, leaning in. “I’d love to see that sometime.”

“It’s… all on YouTube.”

This topic should be completely irrelevant to you. Who cares? Every press briefing has been filmed since the dawn of time. 

And yet, a flash of a distant memory you tried to bury wanders to the forefront of your brain — Jungkook, planted on those West Wing steps, with a notebook splayed open, laptop playing your section of a press briefing. 

The memory crawls up your spine, leaving behind a shiver that you immediately blame on the air conditioning. 

“Right,” his cheeks flush a little. “No, yeah. I meant like.. In person.”

Please, Steve. We don’t have to do this. 

“Hm,” you utter passively. “Maybe at the next briefing.”

Steve chuckles like you’ve made a joke, even though you absolutely have not. “That’d be so fun,” he says as if you just invited him to Disneyworld. “Do you get called on, or is it random?”

“It’s not a raffle.” 

“Oh, obviously, I didn’t mean it like that,” he laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant it’d be cool to see you in action. I bet it’s intense.” 

It is. It’s cutthroat. You argue with men on the daily, fight to get your question in. But right now, none of those words are making it past the dull throb in your temple or the vodka-less self-awareness happening inside your head. 

You glance down at your cup. It is, without a question, empty. A ghost of ice. 

“Yeah, definitely that.”

Steve leans in, undeterred. “You ever get nervous?”

Is he really flirting via patronization?

You flash a tight smile. “Not really.”

He laughs loudly at that, beaming at you like he just successfully completed a meet-cute you’ll be telling your kids about. 

It’s obvious to you he’s waiting for something. For what, you don’t know. More insight into the wonderful world of journalism? A Linkedin connection? You’re not sure, and you also don’t want to find out. 

“Excuse me,” you say as nicely as you can manage. Most women have gathered this skill by the age of five; learning how to exit conversations with just the bat of their eyelashes to avoid harsh confrontation. “Gonna go grab a refill.”

You wave your empty cup in front of him, and there’s a gleam in his eyes that suggests he’ll try and follow you to the bar, use this as some kind of excuse to get you nice and drunk. 

But you’re turning around quicker than he can move, and all you hear behind you is “Cool! I’ll be here!”

Of course you will Steve. 

You glance over your shoulder once you’re a safe distance away, ensuring Emma hasn’t been abducted or listening to NPR with Paul. But nope — there she is, giggling with him like they’ve known each other since birth. Her hand is resting on his bicep, and he looks like he might explode if she doesn't remove it soon. 

This night is absolutely fucking bonkers. 

A red dress is getting you in the worst situations, your coworker is flirting with a man she’s spent years publicly ridiculing, and somewhere in the midst of it all, you feel completely out of place. 

You slam your elbows onto the mahogany and slightly damp surface of the bartop, chin dropping into your palms, social battery exploding in a shower of sparks. 

“Vodka soda, please,” you tell the bartender the second you make eye contact with him. “And a shot. Dealer’s choice. Surprise me.”

You’re feeling dangerously open to possibilities. 

The bartender raises an eyebrow but nods. You don’t particularly care if he serves you tequila or rum or battery acid, but at this point, if it burns going down, it’s doing exactly what you need it to do. 

You let out a deep exhale through your nose. You’re fairly certain you came here with some kind of plan — something involving networking, the word ‘optics’ and liquidating the open bar. But the details have become frustratingly unclear after what feels like several hours trapped in a room with too many floral arrangements. 

The bartender returns, sliding both drinks towards you sympathetically. You contemplate the shot — some yellow liquid, kind of fruity — and decide a sip of your vodka soda to cleanse the palate is probably the best way to go.  

And then you feel it. An unfortunate warmth behind your body, the heat of a person near you. You swear to god, if Steve followed you, you’ll call security—

“Wow,” a voice begins, smooth like honey poured over a knife. “So we’re just letting civilians into press galas these days.”

The sigh that escapes you could probably be heard from space. 

One of your hands, the one not clutching your drink, promptly facepalms. 

“Please don’t start,” you mutter into your palm. “I’m one drink away from faking a fainting spell.”

But then your stomach does that thing again. That ridiculous little drop it did earlier in the night, followed by a flutter that feels suspiciously like anticipation wrapped in nausea. Your rational brain would very much like to blame this on Emma’s nuclear-strength vodka concoction rather than acknowledge it as anything resembling interest. 

That would just be inconvenient, and absolutely not something you’ll process while you’re wearing a red dress that’s already testing your limits. 

You don’t turn around. Some survival instinct within you is warning you that eye contact with the origin of that voice would be the equivalent of staring into a solar eclipse.

Hopefully, if you ignore him long enough, he might dissolve back into whatever corner of the ballroom he emerged from, taking with him the reminder that your body now apparently has formed opinions about him that your brain would like to shut off. 

Apparently, peace was not something the universe promised for you tonight. 

He moves around the bar to claim the space beside you, hips angled and shoulders brushing the air near yours. The dark brown liquid in his cup sloshes as he adjusts to the small centimeters of wiggle room. 

The scent of him hits you in waves — first his drink, all expensive whiskey, followed by his cologne that always smells like bergamot and cedar. It’s familiar. Nice. 

You stare down into your own drink and the untouched shot that’s sitting beside you, mocking you. 

“Didn’t peg you for a vodka soda girl,” Jungkook observes. His rings catch the lighting as he raises his own glass. Your eyes stay locked on them. “Figured you were more of a dry martini, twist-of-lemon kinda girl.” 

You refuse to grant him the satisfaction of eye contact. “I don’t want to be perceived tonight. Somehow I feel like ordering that kind of drink is asking for it.” 

He laughs, and the pit in your stomach drops even further you’re certain it’s on the marble floors. “Ah. Hiding in plain sight during this event? Classic CIA. You sure you not a narc?”

You finally turn your head to look over at him. Naturally, he’s already intently looking back. 

His chin is tilted, a little curve playing at the corners of his mouth. His hair is disheveled, top strands doing interesting things near his temples. 

His lips —and wow, your observational skills have apparently decided to become deeply unprofessional tonight— are glossy, something that normally happens when someone’s spent the night drinking liquor. A flush washes over his cheekbones, and you take a peek at the scar you noticed the other day on his cheek. 

You briefly wonder where he got it from. 

“You’re staring.” 

You blink. He is insane. You are not. 

“I’m assessing,” you correct, taking what you can only hope looks like a casual sip of your drink. 

“Assessing what, exactly?” 

My escape route, you think, but instead say, “Whether you’re drunk enough for me to win an argument.” 

His laugh is easier this time. “Not even close. You’ll have to rely on insults other than my appearance or work ethic tonight.”

“Damn,” you mumble, peering into your glass. Somehow, despite yourself, you barely notice you’re almost smiling. “There goes my strategy.” 

“Ah, I’ve missed this,” he begins. “You, snapping at me. The thrill of not knowing if I’ll make it out of the room alive.”

You arch a brow. “You’re a masochist.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I just like watching you be better than everyone else in the room.”

That lands in your chest like a dropped weight. Just drops right into your ribcage and sits there. Did everyone in the room inhale laughing gas before you got here?

But he doesn’t let it sit there too long for you to overthink it. “I mean, not that the bar’s high,” he adds, “Half of any briefing room’s asleep on their feet.”

“Don’t.” you warn, lifting your drink to your lips. You’re not entirely sure what you’re asking him not to do. Don’t be nice? Don’t notice things? 

He continues on, eyes twinkling, “With Monroe out, I haven’t even gotten a chance to try and give you a run for your money.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, “She’s out sick, not dead.”

“Right. The flu.. Or the plague. Whatever it was.”

“She’ll be back by Monday.” You roll your eyes. “And if not, I’ve got about twenty pages of questions I’m emailing her way.” 

“Mm.” The sound rumbles in his throat as he swirls his drink, and your eyes can’t help but flicker down to his rolled-up cufflinks, his tattoos peeking out underneath. “True.”

A pause unfurls between you two, and you want to crawl under the bar and die. 

“You know..” he says casually. “I thought you'd been avoiding me this week. Which would be adorable, if you weren’t so obvious about it.” 

Literally what on earth is he talking about? The only reason you haven’t run into him is because your only shared project is out on indefinite leave due to the plague. 

You chuckle uninterestedly at that. “Avoiding you implies I think about you long enough to plan my schedule around you.” 

“Right,” Jungkook’s eyes stare into yours, and you immediately fidget with the straw in your drink. “So, you not coming into the Fox room once this week to ask about any new updates to the student visa crisis..”

“Got my own intel.” 

“Didn’t show up at happy hour on Thursday to make fun of my new piece?”

“Calendar management. I had better things to do.” 

His smile unfolds slowly. “Of course. My bad.” 

Your brows pinch before you can stop them. A soundless what leaves from your parted lips. There’s a lag in your brain, like someone forgot to hit play again, and you just… stand there, Processing. 

What you thought was just fortunate coincidences was apparently strategic hiding tactics. You weren’t doing it on purpose, not one bit. It’s not like you sat down with your calendar and a red pen, plotting routes that would minimize Jungkook encounters. But now that he’s pointed it out, you’re forced to confront the uncomfortable possibility that your body has been making decisions about your proximity to him before your brain can. 

You do your best to puff your chest out. “Don’t flatter yourself.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he quips, but his eyes suggest otherwise. Suggest, unfortunately, that he’s been doing his own study on you and reached some conclusions he will indeed be sharing. 

“Well, clearly, you have been.” You take another sip of your drink, hardly noticing you’re down to your final few sips. 

“Every time I look around lately, I don’t see you or hear your little opinions. It’s hard to miss.” The smile on his face imprints deeper into his skin. 

You snort, placing your drink down. “Congrats, you’ve finally scared me off.” 

“Oh come on,” he leans in, far past your comfort zone, and now you’re inhaling too much of him and your head is slightly spinning. “You’re not that easy to scare. I’d know.”

“Really?” you scoff incredulously. “You’d know?”

“I would,” he tuts, bumping his shoulder with yours. You move your body an inch farther away. 

“I guess it’s not all that weird you think that,” you agree, letting your gaze wander the overstuffed ballroom before landing back on him. “You are practically studying me.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, and that pit in your stomach returns when you realize how big his biceps look from this angle. “Studying you?”

“Steps of the West Wing ring any bells? My voice echoing out into the universe, your notebook wide open..?”

The image burns into the crevices of your brain. And now that you’re rehashing it out loud, you’re admitting something incredibly mortifying. Him, sat upon the steps in the sunlight, has been haunting the halls of your mind like an uninvited guest. 

He has the audacity to smile like this is some charming story you’ll share at the holiday party this year. “Ah,” he shifts his weight onto his other foot. “That.”

“Yes, that,” you echo drily. “Care to explain? Because from where I was standing, it looked like you were trying to copy me for the next press briefing.” 

There’s a flicker of amusement that appears on his features — mixed in with surprise or appreciation for the directness of your words. Like he wasn’t expecting you to address it head-on, which makes you wonder what kind of avoidant people he usually deals with. 

“You want the truth?” He ducks his head towards you, looking around like he’s about to impart the president’s nuclear codes.

“Is that even possible coming from you?” Your pointer finger jabs into his chest. Truthfully, both the alcohol and the way your head is reeling from the proximity of him have the move lacking any real punch, but it still leaves you a little bewildered. 

His laugh comes softer this time. Beneath your finger, the muscles are hard and his heartbeat stable. Then you realize you’re still touching him and withdraw your hand as if you’ve put your palm over an open flame. “I was trying to figure out how you do it.” 

“Do what, exactly?” 

“Make it look effortless.” He gestures vaguely into the open air. “You ask questions that make people tell you things they didn’t plan to reveal. It’s… intriguing.”

You tilt your head and shift your weight onto another heel. A quick glance over your shoulder like maybe someone else heard this too, because surely you didn’t hallucinate whatever the hell just came out of his mouth. 

“So you thought the best approach was to… lurk my stuff? Like a stalker?” 

“When you put it like that, it sounds significantly less charming than I thought it would be.” He takes a final swig of his drink. 

“You’re a fucking freak, Jungkook.” 

His eyes never linger from yours, almost daring you to keep going, like this is some sick, twisted game he enjoys playing every night. 

It feels as if the room is closing in on you. 

“Sounds like it left a bit of an impression on you,” he replies smoothly. 

“Oh I’ve told my therapist allll about it,” you bite back. “Right after we finished unpacking how you got your little paws on Kara Devlin’s quote.”

He pauses for a second before chuckling under his breath. Something involuntary and deeply stupid happens in your chest cavity. You stare down into your melted drink and remind yourself that Jungkook has been unreasonably irritating and easy to look at since you met him eight years ago. None of this is breaking news. 

“So you’re still mad, I’m assuming.” He shakes his head. “Come on, it was nothing. Name of the game. You liked arguing with me before we were paid to do it.”

“Oh yeah, totally,” you deadpan. “You know what really gets me going? Espionage.”

He grins at that, but not with a mean expression. “Same here.”

You side-eye him before turning back to the bartender who’s now juggling 45 drunk orders, “I’m going to need another drink if you’re gonna stand here all night.”

“Make it two,” He downs the rest of the liquid in his cup down his throat and you shift away from him when his elbow brushes against yours.

Emma’s favorite bartender is busy arguing with a New York Times correspondent, so you opt for the girl who seems more interested in texting someone back on her phone than taking your drink order. 

Your mouth parts open to speak when she finally puts her phone down, sauntering over to you while fixing her hair as she spots Jungkook beside you. “Hi, can—”

“Can we get two vodka sodas please?”

He’s far closer than you’d like him to be, warmth radiating off him like a human furnace. Jungkook’s displaced himself behind you — just a smidge, with one hand pressed onto the bar, caging you in — enough for the girl bartender to notice, sigh and nod before pulling up two clean glasses. He’s in your nostrils with that smoky scent of whiskey, in your ears with the hoarseness of his voice. 

God, why is he so close? Why is he standing like that? Why is your skin doing that thing where it feels like it’s been plugged into an electrical outlet?

Please, please let this bartender be the kind of professional who minds her own business. The last thing you need is someone else cataloguing the clear tension crackling between you two like a livewire. 

You fixate on her bartending skills, terrified to acknowledge anything else. He moves behind you again, his other elbow brushing against your back as he puts it somewhere. 

That stupid, treacherous flutter returns. A whole swarm of butterflies or something more like wasps that you immediately begin exterminating mentally. Get away, you absolute pests. 

“Here you go,” she presses her lips in a tight smile as she slides the two drinks towards you both. She takes another moment to eye Jungkook before moving on to her next victim. 

But he’s not looking at her. 

When you turn around to hand him his drink dismissively, he’s staring down at you. “Thanks,” he whispers, taking the glass. 

“Whatever.” 

You whip back around, managing down a few colossal gulps that you’ll remember tomorrow morning as your last ones. A bit of it spills down your neck onto your chest, but all you care about is how it feels going down. 

Setting the glass down, you wipe your mouth and some of the residue with the back of your hand.

When you whip around to make your way back to Emma (and potentially let another lethal comment fall from your lips), you realize Jungkook’s gone. 

No comment lingering in the air like cigar smoke. Gone as if he’d never been there at all. 

You know he was, though, because your whole body still feels like it’s recovering from it. Like standing next to him required physical exertion. 

Somehow your mouth is dry even though you just chugged half a vodka soda. 

You don’t even know why you notice it, or why those wasps in your stomach slowly replace themselves with something else. On the bartop next to you, is the citrusy shot you never ended up taking. It taunts you, condensation melting onto the surface. 

Your eyes dart around, looking wildly. Searching for Emma, duh. But you’re also looking for a sleeve of tattoos that you just spent an abhorrent amount of time with. 

Treason of the highest fucking order.

With that, you swivel back around, wrap your fingers around the shot glass, and down it in one go. It faintly tastes tart, going down like molasses. It’s heavy in your throat and you mash it down with saliva. 

But even with the extra liquor in your body, his absence feels louder in your mind than his presence ever did. 

Four. That’s how many it’s been. 

Four lemon drop shots — because that’s how many Jenna, who has now appointed herself the Chief of Boosting Morale, decided was an appropriate amount. She stopped keeping tally after two. 

After each shot, she says something stupid like “To journalistic integrity!” Declining her felt like admitting defeat in some endurance competition, so you’ve been silently suffering while each shot drags you further and further down the drunk rabbit hole.

Jenna’s husband is too polite to say no to a round so he’s been glued to her side the entire time, whereas Jenna’s arm has been threaded through yours, laughing at something her husband finally contributed to the conversation. Something about a senator using an emoji in a tweet. 

It’s not even that funny, but you’ve reached that point of the night where everything feels a little like a sitcom. 

“Oh my god,” Jenna wheezes, tightening her grip on your arm. “Do you remember when our editor tried to convince us to use ‘yeet’ in a headline?”

You snort into your fifth vodka soda (or is the sixth?), barely dodging a splash up the rim. “No. No. I blocked it out like a traumatic memory.”

“He said it meant to throw??”

“It does mean to throw!” Her husband interjects. 

“Yeah, but the headline was about the debt ceiling,” you giggle. 

Jenna’s husband chuckles politely while his eyes scan the room, probably wondering when it’s socially acceptable to go home and watch a movie.

Jenna is in a very rare form. She’s always put-together, but tonight her dress is perfectly tailored, makeup hasn’t budged an inch, and her nails are a crimson red to match her lipstick.

Tonight, you’re incredibly grateful for her. Grateful she came, grateful she’s kept you busy.

You swish what’s left in your glass and blink through the haze. 

It’s starting to hit, that warm syrupy lag behind your thoughts. Liquid confidence that whispers lies about your ability to be graceful and sophisticated. 

“You know, I don’t know how half those pieces fucking run,” Jenna sips her espresso martini. 

“Don’t you just, like, put a stop to them?” You’ve seen her do it before. 

“I physically intercept like a human firewall, yes,” she grins with all her teeth. 

“We all owe you a medal.”

You both erupt into cackles, and her husband — poor, sweet Greg or Grant or whatever he said his name was — offers a little smile as if he has even the slightest clue of what’s going on.

Your gaze drifts across the ballroom, and Jenna follows your line of sight, brows lifting amusedly in recognition. 

“Would you look at that,” she elbows you gently in the ribs. “They’re still talking.”

Emma and Paul. Paul is upright like a soldier, like he doesn’t fully trust his legs to hold up under the pressure of Emma’s approval, while Emma lounges against the dessert table you swore off.

“I give it twenty minutes before she asks something like ‘can I see your Spotify Wrapped?’” you mutter, rolling your eyes. 

“Ten,” Jenna counters. “And if she sees any NPR podcasts, she’s bolting.”

“He probably listens to Benson Boone. Gives me that vibe.” 

“Maybe he has layers,” she shrugs, leaning her head lightly against your shoulder. “Not that it matters. I’m just glad you haven’t ditched me for a man.”

You turn your head slowly to meet her expression. “Ew. At this event? Literally not a soul worth my time.”

She breaks into laughter, lifting her head up, "Right, right. How dare I?”

“I would never do you like that,” you clutch your chest dramatically. “Who else am I going to split an uber with later while we trash every senator we saw leave with someone who isn’t their wife?”

“That’s why you’re my favorite.”

Your head turns sharply, eyes narrowing. “Wait, what?”

She gives you a sly smile over the rim of her glass, “I said what I said.”

It hits a second later, like a stone dropped into a still lake. A single splash, followed by a thousand ripples. Your chest tightens and there’s a flutter of pride making a home in your heart. 

She hasn’t brought it up again since your one-on-one on Monday. Where she may or may not have hinted at you getting the promotion of your dreams. You’ve done an exemplary job of playing it cool ever since. No prying, no follow ups. 

Hearing the word favorite, however, feels like someone pressed a thumb right into your sternum. 

“I’m touched,” you exclaim. “Even if I know you tell that to everyone.”

She scoffs while looping her arm through her husband’s, “Please. You think I say that to Emma?”

“Fair.”

She takes a final swig of her caffeinated martini, a little tipsier than she was earlier. “Just promise you won’t forget me when you get to my role, okay?”

You snort. “Never. But we still gotta Uber together always.”

“Deal.”

Your eyes wander again around the ballroom. Like clockwork, they land where they always do. On that kaleidoscope of tattoos you can’t miss. 

But you don’t look at him or who he’s talking to for too long. Maybe long enough to question your intoxication but as soon as the moment comes, it goes, and you’re back to Jenna, who’s now talking to her husband sweetly. 

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the two sharpest women in Washington.”

It’s like the universe has a vendetta against you. Did you accidentally trip over a time traveler or steal candy from a baby in a past life?

It’s an overconfident voice you hadn’t heard in a while that sets off an almost Pavlovian reaction in your brain. 

You and Jenna turn in tandem like a pair of synchronized swimmers. Sure enough — and to your detriment — it’s Mike Montgomery. 

Mike is one of the editors you work with, and has the face of someone who’s probably been told he looks like a young Richard Gere and has never once disagreed. He once unironically told you ‘let’s circle back.’

Last year at the gala, you allegedly had a thirty minute conversation with him near the end of the night where the phrase aesthetic fascism in political media kept getting tossed around freely. But who’s to say. Last year was also the year you had tequila sodas instead of vodka sodas so really, the whole universe was off course.  

“Mike,” Jenna starts, tone flat. She doesn’t even fake a smile, which further proves your love for her. “You remember Greg.”

Greg. Right. Yes — her husband. You mentally file that away. 

“Of course,” Mike sticks out his hand. “Man of the hour.”

Greg blinks back at him like he was plucked straight out of his daydream. “Hey.”

Raising your eyebrows, you tease. “Man of the hour?”

Mike shrugs, letting out a little chuckle, “Well anyone who can keep up with Jenna at one of these things deserves a prize right?”

“He’s had some drinks and a shrimp cocktail. Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves.” She pats Greg’s chest lovingly, and that seems to bring him back to life.

Mike laughs loudly at that. He always laughs too loud, like he wants everyone’s attention in the room. 

“So how’s the correspondent life?” he asks, glancing between you and Jenna like he’s forgotten which one of you he’s more afraid of. “Still dealing with the same old bullshit?”

You purse your lips, cross your arms over your chest. “Are you under the impression the bullshit ended?”

“Fair,” he tries to laugh but it comes out more like a cough, “Yeah, I’ve been currently working on a little passion project, something about profiles of influential parties in media. You two came up, obviously.”

A look is exchanged between you and Jenna. You don't remember agreeing to be profiled. 

“Oh. Cool.”

“Yeah,” he shoves one of his hands into his pocket. “Just really trying to dig into the psyche of the rising class, you know? What drives you, who you look up to.”

Your arms squeeze tighter around your chest. “Sounds like a very healthy exercise.”

Mike smiles at that. You take an extra long sip of your drink and imagine throwing it directly in his face.

Greg, bless him, tries to nod along, although he has no idea who this man is or what series he’s referencing or why Jenna’s throwing daggers with her eyes.

Mike keeps going. “Anyway, just wanted to say hey. You know. Been a while since I edited your stuff.”

“Funny. I’m actually still waiting for the piece you were supposed to factcheck before publishing last May,” Jenna’s smile is poisonous. If looks could kill, he would be floating in a box down the river. 

Mike clears his throat. “Technical error. I think there was a glitch last time..”

“Mmm,” Jenna nods slowly. “Happens to the best.”

Mike readjusts his tie, sensing perhaps this might not be the enthusiastic crowd he’d envisioned. His eyes flit towards you briefly like he’s about to pivot into a new strategy. 

Please, god, let this man go flirt with an intern. 

“So,” he draws out the word for like, four seconds. “I don’t think we ever got to talk. You and me.”

There’s two routes you can go down. Play dumb, which somehow feels like the smarter decision. Or play smart, which feels like the dumber decision. 

“Yup. Tragic that we never spoke.”

Playing dumb it is. 

He bellows out a laugh, like you’ve just made the world’s wittiest joke instead of insulting him. 

“I always read your work,” he clarifies. “Your coverage during the midterm elections was really impressive.”

You glance over at Jenna, whose lips are now pressed together like she's trying to restrain herself from intervening. Meanwhile Greg (and you will not forget his name this time), has spotted someone he knows but is trying to find the courage to approach them. 

“That’s… nice.” You’re unsure what else to offer up. You can’t tell if he’s flirting or awkwardly trying to send you journalistic admiration. 

Mike’s lips stretch wider. “I get it, you know? Women like you don’t always get credit, but for what it’s worth, you’re one of the best out there.”

You nod, already looking past his shoulder at the crowd. Your drink is also damn near empty, and that simply won’t do. Time for drink six (or is it seven?). “Thanks. Appreciate that.”

He leans into you, “If you ever wanna talk shop.. Or, you know.. not shop.”

He’s so goddamn insufferable. 

You frown, not because you’re offended but because you literally have no comprehension right now. “Not shop?”

“Yeah, like… not about work?”

“Oh. Uh..” you blink, glance down at your drink, and then look back into his eager eyes. “I think I’m good.”

A long pause fills the air. Long enough for Mike to register the rejection, though he recovers fast, snapping back into a cocky grin like nothing demoralizing happened. 

“Open invite,” he says with a wink that makes your molars grind. “In case you change your mind.”

You hum noncommittally before angling back towards Jenna, who has a brow raised and a husband who’s gone from her sight. 

Jenna inquires, “You didn’t clock that?”

“Clock what?” You shrug your shoulders, scrambling for nonchalance. 

She shakes her head, smiling to herself, “Nothing. You’re still my favorite.”

And that makes you feel better than anything Mike could've said. 

“Alright, I’ve gotta get a refill before I lose my mind.” You shake your drink at her like it’s going to magically refill itself. 

"I've gotta go find Greg,” she sighs. “Text me when you’re down to leave?”

“Duh.” You flash her a salute, then pivot toward the bar, slipping back into the current of people. You nearly step in a puddle of what you hope is someone’s spilled gin and not a gastrointestinal emergency. 

You snake your way forward, elbow grazing someone’s sequined bag, catching the edge of someone’s shoulder and finally land in a spot wedged between a man in a tux and a woman who shoveled a half-eaten shrimp into a napkin. 

“Vodka soda,” you tell the bartender when she makes brief eye contact, and you lean your forearms on the table. The bartop is sticky again. 

You haven't checked your phone all night. Part of it was intentional. Nothing good happens on your phone at events like this. Nothing you want to deal with, anyway. 

But you’ve got a few minutes while your drink’s being made and your feet kind of hurt and you’re incredibly tipsy and suddenly the soft glow of your phone screen feels too tempting to ignore. 

So you dig into your purse. Pull out your device. 

When your phone boots to life, you lazily scroll through the notifications. A few texts from your college group chat. Texts from Emma asking ‘where are you??’ even though you’re maybe 50 feet away from her. You snort under your breath. 

And then, below that, a message from Rosalie. 

Rosalie❤️: hey, did jungkook ever say anything abt me?? dmed him when i was drunk and never heard back :( lol 

You stare at the screen like it’s displaying launch codes in a foreign language. 

There’s this erratic rhythm tugging at your heart, like someone’s tapping impatiently against your ribcage. 

It’s fine. Obviously, it’s fine. Who cares about Rosalie’s romantic DMs or her apparent inability to handle rejection with grace? You could have predicted this development from three miles away, honestly. Rosalie drunk texting someone tracks with her pattern of impulsive behavior. 

But.. you are curious. That’s all. Curiosity is a natural human reflex. 

Why would she message him despite your entirely fictional narrative about STDs? And why, more importantly, do you find yourself genuinely invested as to why he didn’t respond to her?

You lock your phone and shove it back into your purse. 

“Vodka soda,” the bartender slides the drink towards you and you grip onto it like a life raft. 

You barely get a full step away from the bar before that voice — his voice — is haunting your ears again. 

“Careful. You keep showing up at my favorite spot in the room, people are gonna start talking.”

Mid-step, you pause and inhale once through your nose like you’re gathering patience from thin air. 

Slowly, you swivel to meet his eyes. His tie is long gone, brown hair even more unkempt from when you last saw him. You lean back against the bar with all the theatrical grace of someone who’s had four, maybe five, lemon drop shots and has decided, for once in her life, not to flee when Jungkook starts speaking to you. 

God will strike you down for this. You can feel the lightning forming. But whatever, you’ve had a long week. You’ll repent tomorrow. 

“Are you gonna sneak up on me all night?” you ask flatly, raising your glass to your lips. You’re not even going to try and hide the exhaustion in your tone. 

“Potentially,” he takes a step closer. “Everyone here’s boring.”

You cock a brow. “What? No one here worth your time?”

He tips his glass a little, watching the ice swirl. The liquid is clear. It looks unusually familiar… like a vodka soda. You wonder if it’s the same one from an hour ago or if he ordered one on his own merit. “Nah, you know I like to be intellectually stimulated.”

Your laugh comes out dry. “Oh, so I stimulate you?”

His eyes lift to meet yours. They’re darker despite the hue of the chandelier you’re standing under. “In more ways than one.”

“You’re fucking gross.”

“Mm,” he hums, and it’s definitely not an apology, but moreso an acknowledgement. Like he’s well aware of the filth he peddles and would sell it to you wholesale if you gave him the chance.  “You set that one up.”

“Did not.”

He takes another step closer. The man that was beside you earlier has fled the scene, and Jungkook wedges himself into the open spot. When did it get so crowded in here? 

“Did too.” His fingers tap lazily against his glass. “You know, you always act like conversation with me is a federal offense.”

You roll your eyes. “Because every conversation with you is like stepping into quicksand.”

“You haven’t left me yet, so am I winning?” His eyes are twinkling with amusement. 

Scoffing, you deflect. Deny. “I’m tipsy. I make bad decisions when I’m tipsy.”

“Noted.” His gaze flickers down to your mouth for a millisecond. The gesture lands somewhere in your stomach, sending an embarrassing, vodka-amplified flutter cascading through your body. 

God, you need a priest. Or someone to physically remove you from this ballroom. 

“I saw you talking to Mike earlier,” Jungkook casually says, like he’s commenting on something trivial like the weather or whether or not vodka sodas are his new go-to drink. 

You groan immediately. “God, don’t remind me.”

“That bad?” His lips twitch as he settles his glass on the bartop.

“He tried to flirt with me, I think. According to Jenna.” You want to mentally facepalm at the memory. 

“Mike?”

You give him a look. “Yes, Mike.”

Jungkook whistles softly, shaking his head as if this is genuinely a tragedy. “Wow. I always thought his type was more fresh out of college and terrified.”

“It probably is,” you agree. “I thought maybe he was doing community service.”

“Hmm,” he looks deep in thought. Surveys the room for a beat. “What did you mean by according to Jenna?”

You shrug, lifting your glass to your lips to take a quick sip. “I don’t know. She caught onto the flirting before I did, I guess.”

“Oh.” His expression shifts a little, into one you can't make out. After knowing Jungkook for eight years, you’ve gotten familiar with the faces he has. But this one is unrecognizable. “You always that clueless?” 

“I guess,” you concede. He looks like he wants to say something more to that but decides against it. 

“So, what did he say?” 

“Something about how we never really speak, which is just rich coming from him considering we had a long ass conversation at last year’s gala about fascism.”

Jungkook chokes on his spit. “No.”

“Oh yes,” you nod solemnly. “He also pronounces Kremlin as Krim-lin. I rest my case on him.”

You expect him to chuckle or at least fake one, but it doesn’t come. He looks at you for a second, drinking you in. It almost feels like you’re back on the steps of the West Wing, where he was seeing every part of yourself you bore to the world. Like he’s been listening this whole time, which is somehow worse. 

“You’re funny when you’re off-duty,” He smiles into his glass. 

“When am I ever off-duty?”

“Right now,” he gestures toward you with his cup. “Sort of.”

You narrow your eyes. “You think this is me relaxed?”

“I think this is you after a few shots,” he jokes. “And slightly less terrified of being seen with me in public.” 

“Bold assumption, buddy,” you quip. You need to find your sanity and walk far away as hell from this conversation. 

“Is it wrong?”

You hesitate long enough for that to be a confession, and the look on his face says I win. 

“Exactly.” And there’s that smug tone you know so well. “Maybe I’m growing on you.”

You let something between a snort and laugh fall from your mouth. “Like a tumor.”

But the smile you’re biting back makes it a little harder to sell the insult. 

You clear your throat and straighten up slightly, ignoring how the vodka seems to have settled in your bloodstream like a warm compress. 

“Anyway,” you say, “How’s your coverage going for Monroe?”

He raises an eyebrow haughtily. “Pivoting? And to Monroe?”

“I just don’t think I’m in the mood to talk about how you think I’m growing on you.” 

Jungkook’s smile could light up half of DC. “You started it.”

“Ending it right now.” 

“You always think you’re the one ending things,” he counters. 

You shoot him a look, then echo louder this time “How’s your coverage going?”

He leans an elbow onto the bar, glass resting loosely between his fingers. “Good. Bet you’re dying to talk to her again, though.”

You shrug nonchalantly, pretending to scan the room like you’re searching for someone — Emma, Jenna, literally even Blue Tie Guy at this point — but all you really find are name tags you don’t care about and plates of passed shrimp. 

“Not my fault she came down with that rare plague. But it is weird she came down with it just after we had our first session with her,” you mutter. 

“You sound disappointed,” he points out. To be honest, you are. She has a hell of a story to tell and you want to write it. 

You glance at him again. “What?” 

“You miss her,” he coos at you playfully, “Now admit you miss me too. It’s okay, I won’t tell anyone.”

You roll your eyes, using the motion to buy yourself a few seconds of mental reorganization. “I miss being able to ask real questions.”

He nods, fingers drumming thoughtfully against the glass. “Yeah. You're good at those.”

You gape at him through your lashes. They’re just words that are perfectly arranged in an ordinary sequence that just so happens to reference your competence. But now it’s one time too many that he’s praised you for something, and you're running out of fingers and toes to count on.

It lands in your chest with a quiet thud, like he tossed a coin into a wishing well you didn't realize was inside you. 

You shift your weight and conduct another sweep of the ballroom. Still no Emma, no Jenna. 

“I really should find Emma..” you trail off, eyes darting across the room like a prisoner looking for a fire escape. “Before I start enjoying this conversation and lose all sense of who I am.”

Jungkook leans into your body. His cologne hits you again square in the face. “That would be tragic… if you forgot you hated me.”

You clench your jaw. “Please. I don’t hate you, that’s too much energy. I just think you’re—”

“Objectively infuriating?” he offers. 

“Exhausting.”

“Better than forgettable,” he smirks. 

You grip your near empty cup and wish you had something better to throw at him. Or honestly, something else to look at — something that doesn’t talk like him, look like him, smell like him. 

And as you’re searching in your repertoire for that something, your brain decides to shove Rosalie into frame. 

Her text. That stupid little ‘lol.’ The digital ghost of her face.

The alcohol in your body is doing that unfortunate thing where your filter stops working but your nerve hasn’t quite kicked in yet. And his cologne — Jesus, it’s warping your actual brain chemistry, 

Before you can stop yourself, you blurt the words out. “Have you.. heard from Rosalie?”

“Rosalie?” He cocks his head, scratches his jaw. 

You shake your head up and down, suddenly extremely interested in the ice melting in your cup. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause. Slow furrow of his brows. “Rosalie from college?” 

You aim to keep your expression cool but your stomach does something distinctly uncool. Like a fish flopping on the deck. “The one and only.”

Jungkook blinks at you. His body is still, but his face guards itself. He’s squinting as if he’s scanning you for the motive behind your question. 

You hate how well he reads people. You hate that he’s doing it to you right now.

“Why?” he treads lightly.

You shake your head quickly, “Just tell me.”

He hesitates. It’s pretty obvious to you both this isn’t a nothing question. 

“Yeah,” he says finally, “She reached out to me.”

Your throat goes uncharacteristically dry. 

The lightness from before — his little jabs, the crooked smile — it’s all taut now. Like he’s waiting to see what this really is. You also would like to know what this is. 

You scramble for a reason, anything to make this make sense outloud.

Feeling caught, you busy yourself with one of the bracelets on your wrist. “She’s my best friend,” you shrug like it’s no big deal. “She tells me everything.”

He flinches subtly, a brief twitch in his jaw. “Well,” he utters finally. “I didn’t answer her. If that’s what you want to know.”

And that is when your chest does the thing again. 

It’s an awful, disloyal twist. It heard the words and immediately reached for them, clutching at some fragile thread of relief you didn’t place there.

You inhale, trying to drown it back down. The thump thump of your heart, the tiny voice in your conscious going, good. 

The wasps are back too. Buzzing and furious and unavoidable, even as you swipe at them with your mental fly swatter, one by one. 

You feel regrettably stupid. Now you’re standing there, tipsy and humiliated and flinching at your own internal reaction like a girl in some cheap romance novel where the brooding rival turns out to be a chill dude and your panties fall off in chapter eight. 

No thank you. Not today. You are a professional, a fully grown woman with access to two-factor authentication and press credentials.

You do not feel things when Jungkook says things like “I didn’t answer her.”

Though, clearly you’re having trouble leaving it alone. Clearly, that little skill of yours of asking the right questions — the one people applaud, the one Jungkook complimented an hour or two ago — has decided to clock in right now, under a chandelier and several ounces of vodka. 

You meet his eyes even though your gut is screaming don’t, and say, “Why didn't you respond?”

Air leaves his lungs, barely. His jaw tenses for a fraction of a second. One flicker of thought behind his eyes before he smoothes it all back out. 

The silence looms over you two like an unsuspecting fog. Your stomach starts writing its own obituary. 

You’re about to take it back, about to say never mind ha ha silly me asking about your DMs, when he finally responds with, “She’s not who I’m interested in.”

There’s a hiccup in your brain. Like someone pulled the emergency brake on the subway and your neurons are just stuck, powering down and firing blanks.

She’s not who I’m interested in. 

You don’t dare blink, breathe, or even think, which is crazy because thinking is your whole personality. His pupils practically eat up his entire eye as he peers down at you, 

A whole rolodex of faces spins through your head. Maybe someone new started at Fox? There was that blonde you passed in the cafeteria, maybe that’s his type. Or maybe… maybe he made a move on Sana tonight. He and her always had that weird click, right? They have matching resumes, wouldn’t that just be poetic? Full circle and all that.

Your voice is crawling up your throat again, forming something stupid like oh yeah? Who’s someone you’re interested in? Because apparently vodka and lemon drop shots have taken control of your frontal lobe and are now driving the bus.

But before the words can land, there’s a blur of movement from your left. 

“Where the hell have you been?” 

Emma materializes beside you in a cloud of perfume, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. 

Your neck whips to her. “Jesus.” 

She latches onto your arm immediately. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she’s breathless. “Did you die? Be honest.”

“I was just —” You flick a glance at Jungkook and regret it upon impact. 

Emma doesn’t notice or care, undoubtedly in a bubble of her own. “Ugh, I have so much to tell you, I feel like I’ve been living a double life tonight.”

Right, and that’s cool and all. But your body is still humming, tingling under your skin as if someone left a speaker buzzing in your chest. She’s not who I’m interested in. 

Your brain is dying to ask then who the fuck is?

Emma’s too busy blabbering away to care about any of it; your facial expression, Jungkook’s eyes that haven’t moved from you, the way your hands are slightly trembling as they hang loosely down at your side. “Okay, I know I’ve ignored him for the past few years but Paul is actually so funny. He told me this story earlier about his dog and I was crying. Literally crying. I’m just like, why have I never given this man the time of day—”

She pauses suddenly, looks over at Jungkook. Freezes mid-sentence like she just saw a coworker she drunkenly sexted. 

“...Well.” Her voice drops multiple octaves. “Whatever.”

Words aren’t coming to you as easily as you’d like. 

Emnma clears her throat, forcing her gaze back to you. “Anyway. You’ve been summoned.”

“For what?” you question, but your voice comes out thinner than when you practiced it in your head. 

“Afterparty,” a sinister smile makes its way onto her lips. “Duh. Do you not realize what time it is?”

“No, Emma,” you bite back. “You don’t realize what time it is because you’ve spent the past few hours eye-fucking Paul.”

Emma shrugs. “Okay and? I told you, he’s kinda funny.”

You sink your teeth into your lower lip. 

“And he also knows about the current crisis in Venezuela,” she adds proudly, like that qualifies him for marriage. “Which is honestly more than I can say for half the men I’ve dated.”

You sigh. “I’m not going to an afterparty.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes.”

“Emma—”

“You owe me. For that night.”

You do actually owe her. That night a few months ago, where you went home with that random guy, she went home alone and buried her face in a Dominos pizza while you had mediocre sex. 

Your body is already 40% vodka and 60% bad decisions, and you’re hovering alarmingly close to making another one—

She turns to Jungkook. “You’re coming too, right?”

You whip your head toward her. You absolute fucking traitor, Emma. 

Jungkook’s grin is so infuriatingly cheerful that you’re torn between wanting to punch him in the teeth or seeking refuge behind the bar, anything to avoid that smile.

“I mean…” he replies. “If she’s going..”

Why are you the deciding factor in all of this?

Emma snorts. “Oh, she’s going.”

“I really wasn’t—” you start, but then realize they’re making eye contact over your shoulder like they’ve coordinated to ruin your night. 

“I’ll… see you there?” Jungkook asks, shooting Emma a look you don’t miss.

You can't help but daydream about what it’d be like to toss all your worries out the window, party like there’s no tomorrow, drown yourself in whatever booze is lying around the afterparty, and wake up to the faint memory of a random hookup who’s definitely ghosting you before you even finish your breakfast. 

You, a tipsy bundle of bad decisions, look at Jungkook — his hair a windswept disaster, eyes twinkling like he's just heard the world's worst joke, and those tattoos dancing on his golden skin — and as tempting as it is, you remind yourself you really should just say no and sprint away from this mess, while dreaming of a life where the world isn’t dragging you down like an anchor in a swimming pool. 

But… you have always been dangerously open to possibilities after a few shots. 

You drain the rest of your drink and go, “I’ll see you there.”

masterlist + ask

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

[meadowfics]

not your concern

the salesman x f!reader

part two to the regular

warnings: mentions of death, I used the actor's name as a placement name for the salesman (who's real name is not known or canon)

one year.  

three hundred and sixty-five days of marriage. when you had agreed to his offer, you never thought life would turn out this way. better than you expected, even. there had not been a single time when you had to think about money.

gong yoo had taken care of everything before you even had the chance to. rent? nonexistent. bills? never crossed your mind. your old habit of checking your bank balance every night before bed? unnecessary.  

your life, once dictated by numbers, debt collectors, and sleepless nights at that rundown café, had transformed into something entirely foreign. no financial stress. no work. only comfort.  

he had only one rule: never ask about his work.  

fine, you thought at the time. you had worked enough in your life, exhausted yourself in ways you never wanted to again. so you stayed out of it. no questions. no curiosity. just… existing in the life he gave you.  

in your free time, you indulged in things you had once pushed aside… painting, skincare, even sightseeing. sometimes, you spent entire afternoons in art galleries, admiring brushstrokes and colors. 

other times, you lost yourself in the quiet ritual of self-care, trying every serum, every mask, every oil you once could never afford.  

it was a strange kind of freedom. one you had to get used to.  

as a husband, he had been nothing short of great. loving, attentive, surprisingly kind. not once had he been cold or dismissive. he touched you like he cherished you, looked at you like he meant it. 

intimacy between you both was never lacking. it was fulfilling, tender, and, above all, real. he wasn’t a sugar daddy figure at all, just an older man that you’ve grown to love, just after getting the ring. 

nothing to complain about. no reason to question anything.  

until one encounter on a late afternoon. 

you remember the scent of fresh herbs and ripe fruit filling the air as you browsed through the produce store, picking out what you needed for dinner. cooking had become something you enjoyed since you no longer had to work long shifts. 

now, you had the time to make meals from scratch, experiment with recipes, and create something warm for whenever your husband returns home. it was a simple pleasure, one you never got to indulge in before. its been turning out great, since gong yoo always compliments your skill in culinary. 

you grabbed a bunch of green onions, then turned to head toward the tomatoes when—  

thud.  

"oh my… sorry! excuse me," you said instinctively, stepping back.  

the man you had bumped into didn’t move right away. he was dressed in all black, a cap pulled low over his face, obscuring most of his features. something about him made you uneasy, but he didn’t seem outright dangerous. 

still, you weren’t in the mood for small talk, so you moved to step around him.  

"wait," his voice stopped you.  

your fingers curled slightly around the plastic bag in your hand. 

"...yes?"  

"i have a question..” 

the man says, determined for an answer that you’ll say.

“go ahead?” you say in confusion. 

you hope it's not a date proposal, you’re already married to the man of your dreams. 

“do you know a man who’s always in suits? plays ddakji with strangers all around seoul? hands out cards with shapes on them afterward?"  

your heart nearly stopped.  

he was describing gong yoo.  

your husband.  

your expression remained unreadable, the years of learning to mask your emotions paying off. you blinked once before shaking your head, feigning confusion. 

"i’m sorry, i haven’t seen anyone like that before."  

you had no reason to trust this man. your loyalty was to your husband, not to some stranger lurking in a grocery store asking odd questions.  

the man hummed, tilting his head slightly, as if studying you. 

"i ask because i’m looking for him," he continued, "he’s partially responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people every year."  

the man's words were absurd. ridiculous, even. you almost wanted to scoff. sure, you didn’t know the details of your husband’s job, but murder? hundreds of people dying because of him?  

yeah, right.  

"i’m sorry, but i have no clue who you’re talking about," you said, shaking your head again, reinforcing the lie.  

the man exhaled through his nose. 

"you’re protecting him," he stated. not an accusation, just a fact.  

this time, your heart did stutter.  

he knew.  

you kept your face neutral, but the blood in your veins felt like ice. 

"you must’ve gotten the wrong person," you said smoothly, forcing out a small, apologetic smile, 

"i’m sorry, but i have to go."  

without waiting for a response, you walked to the register, casually placing your items on the counter. your fingers trembled slightly as you tapped your card, but otherwise, you kept yourself composed.  

as soon as you stepped outside, you checked, subtly, carefully, if the man was following.  

he wasn’t.  

still, the unease didn’t leave you.  

clutching the bag of produce a little tighter, you made your way home, the stranger’s words replaying in your head.

when you returned home to your sky-rise penthouse, the tension in your chest still hadn’t fully dissipated. the city lights casted soft glows along the sleek, expensive interior of your home. it was a lifestyle you had grown accustomed to, one of quiet luxury, security, and ease.  

however, placing the bag of produce on the marble kitchen island, you let out a slow breath. that encounter had shaken you more than you wanted to admit. you weren’t naive. you knew gong yoo’s work wasn’t normal. 

the idea that he was responsible for people’s deaths? that part didn’t fit or make sense.  

before you could spiral too much, the sound of the door unlocking pulled you from your thoughts.  

"y/n, sweetheart, i'm home," his familiar voice filled the space.  

you turned, greeted by the sight of your husband stepping inside. he loosened his tie as he walked toward you, the usual warmth in his expression unchanged. 

as always, he wrapped an arm around your waist, pressing a soft kiss against your temple before pulling back just enough to look at you.  

"how was your day?" he asked, brushing a strand of hair from your face.  

"fine," you replied, but your hesitation must have been obvious. he tilted his head slightly, silently prompting you to continue.  

you sighed, leaning against the counter. 

"something strange happened today. i ran into this man at the store. he asked if i knew someone who plays ddakji in subway stations and hands out cards to strangers."  

gong yoo’s expression didn’t change. not even a flicker of surprise, even though he knew exactly who you were talking about.  

seong gi-hun.

"what did you say?"  

"i told him i didn’t know anyone like that," you admitted, "but then he said he was looking for you because you’re responsible for… the deaths of hundreds of people every year."  

for a moment, there was only silence between you.  

suddenly, gong yoo exhaled lightly, a small, almost amused smile on his lips, "and do you believe him?"  

you hesitated. 

"...i don’t know. i mean, i don’t know much about what you actually do."  

he reached out, gently cupping your chin, his thumb brushing over your jawline. 

"you don’t have to. that’s not your concern."  

he said it so easily. so calmly.  

you searched his eyes for something, anything, but all you found was unwavering certainty and really, what more could you ask for?  

as long as you were comfortable, as long as you weren’t in danger, what reason did you have to dig any deeper? you had agreed to this life a long time ago, and it had given you everything you never thought you’d have.  

so, you nodded. 

"you’re right. it’s not my concern."  

he smiled, pleased with your answer, and pressed another kiss to your forehead. 

"good girl."  

just like that, the subject was closed.  

you turned back to prepping dinner, the encounter at the store already beginning to fade from your mind. 

after all, you had everything you could ever want so why question it?

masterlist

[anjelicawrites]

Paring: modern!Aegon II Targaryen x reader

Synopsis: AU based on the movie Happy Death Day. King of fratboys Aegon II Targaryen is struck in a timeloop caused by his violent death. Every day he wakes up in your bed, knowing there’s a masked killer on the loose. Plagued by his own misdemeanors and insecurities, he has to navigate his own budding feelings for you, and solve his own murder. Will he succeed, or will he die again?

Warnings: non graphic description of murder, botchy physics, anxiety, self loathing, alcohol consumption, hangover, crying, Aegon tries to kiss reader when they say they don’t want to be kissed, injuries, hugging, kissing, p in v sex, begging0.

A/N: reader is AFAB but not described. Where needed, they/them pronouns used.

You finish cutting the tomatoes and place them in your bowl, carefully. You know you’re biding your time and pondering all the information Aegon has just unloaded upon you; you can feel his restless energy filling the kitchen even though he’s standing by the sink, big purple eyes fixated upon you. You wish he was moving and not simply wringing his hand,   unloading all of that turmoil in some way, any way; the fact that he’s simply staring at you unnerves you, after his confession. The non physicist side of your brain is wondering if you need to call the hospital, the physicist in you knows that what he’s saying has been theorized yet never proven, it should be impossible to happen in real life, shouldn’t it?

The jingle of your roommate’s keys snaps you out of your thoughts; as much as you love her, you don’t have the mental capacity to deal with her right now.

“Will you take the mugs, please? My room is better for talking.” You tell Aegon.

“Green tea? Really?”

He has the audacity to stare at you while holding the two steaming mugs as if they personally offended him.

“Just take the God damned things!”

Behind him, your roommate is giving you thumbs ups with a smile on her face, you groan inwardly, she has no idea what’s going on.

You’re not in a chatty mood, not after last night when, a bit too tipsy for your tastes, you have picked up Aegon, king of frat boys Aegon, who has awoken in your bed, stared at you with desperation in his eyes and flopped back with a defeated ‘not again’.

Just because of that you should have kicked out of your apartment, the fact that he told you, as serious as a heart attack, that he has re lived this day repeatedly, to the point that he has lost count of the times he has woken up in your bed, tried to stop the loop, only to finish his day butchered by a masked killer, all of this should have warranted a call to the mental health office of King’s Landing University, yet you didn’t. It wasn’t because you expected him to tell you it was all a prank, or the fact that quantum physics explores the idea of time loops, it was how defeated he looked, alone against an evil he couldn’t fight.

According to him, he has woken up in your cramped room thousands of times, this doesn’t stop him from looking around, taking in all the posters you have hung over the bed and the overflowing bookshelves against each and every free wall. He’s not judging what he sees, he appears to be sincerely curious of the tomes you have to study for you classes. Not that he has the ability to understand an ounce of the syllabus, he barely follows what he is supposed to study, but his family has funneled too much money to the University, for him to fail.

“We can sit on the bed. My desk is too small.” You say, awkwardly.

“Bed, yeah.”

The first time he awoke there, he was torn between the hangover crushing his brain, and being horrified to have hooked up with you: you are so out of his fucking league he couldn’t fathom you even wanting to bed him! After the first ten times he has opened his eyes here, to relive his last day on Earth, he has learned to like the smell of your bed sheets, a mix of detergent and your own smell: probably the only good thing happening to him during this hellish experience.

He’s crushed that you have changed your bedding while he was in the bathroom. If he were to smell the pillows now, he wouldn’t be able to pick up your scent.

“Are you sure you don’t want more salt?”

“No, no, this is fine.”

There’s a lull in the conversation where he picks at his food, ignoring the elephant in the room and the ticking of time that means he’s going to die soon.

“I know how it sounds.”

You lift your eyes from your own food to stare at him. Apart from the hangover he must still be nursing, he looks like he’s aged ten years, his voice sounds hollow, devoid of any human emotion; whether or not he’s bullshitting you, there is something eating at him. 

You can’t say you know him on a personal level to judge his reactions, you’ve only seen him around with his frat boys friends and he’s always given you the vibes of someone trying to show the world he doesn’t have a single problem in his life, and lacks the mental capacity to even care for anything, it’s unsettling to see him like this, fidgety and haunted.

“It’s no stranger than any of my quantum physics classes. Look, I’m not going to bother you with the specifics, but some have theorized that time loops might be possible.”

The fork falls from his hand, it’s a miracle that his food doesn’t follow all over the bed when he sets his plate aside to grab your hand in a tight vise.

“How do I make it stop?”

His eyes have a desperate glint, the sides of his mouth are set downward, negating any hope his words might carry. You try to get your hand loose but he doesn’t let you, his grip increased until you decided to stop trying to get away from him.

“I don’t know.”

The way his shoulders drop breaks your heart. Lie or not, he is in shambles.

“I told you, some physicists talk about time loops in theory. The community can’t even decide on a possible cause, let alone how to break free from one. They are just ideas, working theories we use. As scientists we can’t even decide if time is a social construct or not!”

He hides his face in his hands, you can’t make out what he’s saying, only that his words are becoming sobs and he’s rocking on the bed, desperate.

“Look! Look!” You grab his shoulders and shake him until he stares at you, his eyes red. “The fact that I can’t give you an answer, doesn’t mean there isn’t one. Let’s walk through this together once again.”

“I already did.”

His voice sounds so small you just want to give him a hug.

“Do you really think that the big guns didn’t discuss their ideas again and again? Until they were done with the sound of their own voices? Tell me everything again, Aegon.”

“I re lived this day so many times and I still couldn’t find a solution. What makes you think that you can?”

“Because I am smarter than most and I am not personally involved. I can bring a fresh pair of eyes.”

“You would love my little brother Aemond. He thinks he’s better than anyone.”

“I highly doubt that. Stop stalling!”

You watch Aegon take a sip from his mug and set it on the floor; awkwardly he sits with his back to the headboard, facing you.

Having to spell it out all over again makes Aegon feel even worse, as if he is in the clutch of a nightmare he can’t escape and, on some levels, he is.

Come to think of it, the first time he had awoken, his bigger issue was the hangover, the blood pulsating in his head like a drummer from hell. Now he knows that you biding him good morning and asking how he was feeling, was you being a nice person, at that precise moment? He only wanted you to shut your trap and give him all the Tylenol his body could manage to absorb.

The second time? It was probably the worst, because he could feel that something was amiss, but couldn’t put his finger on it. He didn’t know you personally, then why did he feel like he’s already woken up to your smile? The walk of shame to his Frat House had been the worse part, not because he felt judged by his peers, but because his brain couldn’t put together the fact that he, somehow, knew what was going to happen: the two girls staring at him like they wanted to eat him up, the alarm of a random van blaring in the distance, the group of students falling prey to the automatic sprinkler or the guy falling all over his face, why did he feel like he has already seen all of this? It wasn’t possible.

In retrospect he knows when the two twin days diverge: at the end. The second day, as awkward as it felt, went on like the other: as soon as he was in his room, one of his friends had given him a cupcake, chocolate and peanut butter, his favorite, for his nameday, but he was too nauseous to eat it. He then went out on a walk with Sunfyre and saw the elderly lady having an issue crossing the road and he ignored her. With shame, now he recollects how badly he treated you when you came to the Frat House to give him back his signet ring, how he had told his friends that he “Didn’t know what this bitch is talking about” and took the ring from your hand.

He had gone on with this day that, suspiciously it felt like the one he had just lived, down to one of his friends popping by his room to ask him if he was coming to the party at one of the sorority houses on campus (at the time Aegon didn’t know it was a surprise birthday party for him), him ignoring his mom's phone calls for the whole day and the sudden blackout that had plunged his room into darkness.

The split happened at the underpass that connects the old Campus to the new.

The first day, he was butchered there. He had walked through a group of rugby fans wearing the University's mascot mask, Balerion, until he had reached the creepy underpass, made even more disturbing by the dead lamp posts, and the carillon left in the middle of it.

He wasn’t scared, he had thought it must have been a stupid prank from his friends, he had even joked with the person who had appeared behind him, clad in a black coverall, wearing Balerion’s mask, until the person, whomever they were, had stabbed him through the eye.

The second day he had stubbornly gone through the motions, choking on the déjà-vu feeling, until he had gotten to the underpass and noped out of there, opting to use the longer way to go to the new Campus. It still felt like trudging through a bad dream: why did he know what would happen? Was it a case of Dragon Dreaming? Perhaps all the drugs he had taken during his life had finally taken a toll on him? 

As he died, stabbed with a broken piece of dope pipe, he had thought that this wasn’t a case of Dragon Dreaming.

He tells you of all the ways he’s tried to outsmart his killer: lock himself in his room, leave campus, get arrested, nothing had worked, he would die, stabbed, shot or set afire, and would wake up to your smile and a terrible hangover.

By the time he’s finished, you have set your plate aside and reached for the windowsill, where your pack of smokes lie.

“This is all I have.” He tells you, defeated, his head hunched between his shoulders. “It’s not much.”

“It’s a lot, actually.” You answer. “Do you mind?”

His purple eyes focus on the cigarette in your hand and he shakes his head.

“I might have one myself.” He adds, fishing for his vape.

“Of course you vape.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

The genuine curiosity in his tone makes you crack a smile. You don’t answer, though, your theories about fuckboys and vaping are for another day.

Calmly you light your cigarette and take a long drag, staring at the Schrodinger’s Cat poster over your bed.

“One thing we know is that your death, albeit the circumstances, re sets the clock to this morning. Now, there are some questions we need to ask ourselves: were you supposed to die altogether? If not, why is the universe forcing you to go through that again and again?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Me neither, which brings me to the second question: why don’t you stay dead?”

You see him turn an alarming shade of gray. Perhaps you should have worded that phrase more carefully, but you’ve already made the mess, might as well turn his focus on something else.

“Let’s see it this way. Why does the universe want to undo what’s happening to you? Why would time bend and shape itself in this way for you?”

He looks lost and so are you. Why would the fabric of the universe itself modify and go against all the laws known to mankind, for frat boy Aegon II Targaryen? Why him and not someone else?

“If I had to go by vibes alone, it feels like the universe is trying to give you a chance. Perhaps you weren’t supposed to die, your passing is like an annoying wrinkle that doesn’t want to be smothered.”

“I have been called many things, ‘annoying wrinkle’ is new.”

You see the start of a genuine smile on his face.

“Let’s say that your survival is a fixed point in time, like in Doctor Who.”

“Doctor Whom?”

“You’ve never watched Doctor Who in your entire life?”

“Should I have?”

You feel your brain wanting to go on a tirade about his abhorrent pop culture education, but you don’t have time for that, perhaps tomorrow (if such a thing exists).

“Scratch that. A fixed point in time is when an event must come to pass, let’s say the destruction of Old Valyria. Trying to prevent that will cause a tear in space and time, Old Valyria must fall or a paradox would happen, altering the fabric of reality.”

You kill your smoke and start pacing.

“Your survival is a fixed point in time. The killer, by assaulting you, causes the time loop, because time stops moving the way it should. Are you following me?”

“I shouldn’t die, when I do, I fuck everything up. That’s my life in a nutshell, really.”

You elect to ignore the self deprecating tone, there isn’t time for that.

“Everyone forgets, but you. This means your killer forgets they’re in a time loop as well, and goes for you time and time again.”

“Yeah. But how do I stop them?” 

“Simple. You solve your own murder.”

Aegon stares at you as if you’ve grown another head.

“That’s your solution? Solve my own murder?”

“Do you have another option?”

Silence falls, broken by the muffled TV sounds coming from the apartments around yours. Aegon doesn’t speak, he looks even more defeated than before; he jumps out of his skin when his phone rings. You are startled as well, too lost in his sad puppy expression to remember that there’s a world outside of your cramped room.

Aegon looks at the caller ID and elects to throw the phone on your bed with a huff.

“You’re not answering your mom? I can go in the kitchen if you need a bit of privacy.”

“She’s calling me for my nameday. She’s going to bitch about the fact that I have missed the family lunch with her and my siblings.”

He still sounds sad, with an undercurrent of frustration you’re not sure you can pinpoint.

“It’s still your nameday! You should spend it with your family!”

“I can do without feeling like I am the family failure.” He takes a long drag from his vape and sets it on the windowsill, next to your cigarettes. “How do I solve my own murder?”

You feel that he doesn’t want to open that specific can of worms, besides, the poor guy has a lot already on his plate, if you want to believe his absurd story.

“I think the fact that today is your nameday holds a special meaning to either your killer or the universe. Let’s start from there: who knows about it, and who would want you dead?”

“I never share it but thanks to my brothers at the Fraternity, the whole campus. And I haven’t been exactly a saint.”

To write down a complete list of potential suspects would be a feat: he has fucked and abandoned half of the girls on campus, there’s a couple of nerds in his class who hate him, because he will pass his exams no matter what. And there’s Aemond. 

The two of them have always butted heads, his younger brother being all Aegon was supposed to grow into.

Aegon knows that Aemond feels like Aegon has what was supposed to be his. If he could, Aegon would swap lives with him, let him be the firstborn, the one the whole family expects everything from; Aemond wouldn’t crack under that type of pressure, he would make everyone happy and proud. But, would he be so resentful to try and kill him?

“You need to make a list, Aegon. You need to pin down the people who truly might have a bone to pick with you.”

“I don’t think I can. There’s too many.”

Unexpectedly he lets his head fall against your chest. He isn’t that much taller than you are, yet the contact makes you jump, so do his arms curling around your frame.

“Aegon? Aegon what are you doing?”

You feel his lips seeking yours and you turn your head, avoiding the contact by an inch.

“Aegon, stop!”

You try to free yourself from his hold and he simply doubles the strength he uses to keep your frame against his. Desperate you try to push with your hands against his chest, evading his seeking lips.

“Please.” He begs, pitiful and pathetic. “Please, I need it.”

“No Aegon! I told you to stop!”

The shrill scream seems to awaken him from his reverie. He doesn’t let you go, but he isn’t trying to kiss you anymore.

“I am not going to take advantage of you, Aegon. You’re not in the right state of mind! I didn’t do it yesterday when you were wasted, I am not going to do it now!”

“We didn’t…?”

“No, you big dummy!”

“I… I was naked! In your bed! I never pass up the chance to have sex!”

“I slept on the covers, you idiot! I brought you home because I was afraid you would choke on your own vomit and none of your friends seemed to care! You were hellbent on not laying down in your clothes and were asleep as soon as your head touched the pillow!”

He lets you go, almost pushing you away from his body. He’s wearing a haunted look that scares you, frantic he’s searching for his belongings to leave your room as if the Stranger himself was on his tracks.

“Aegon! Aegon! Calm down, please!” You grab his arm and force him to turn around and look at you. “What’s going on?”

He doesn’t respond, he falls on his knees, hugging your waist as he cries against your tummy. It’s an ugly cry, big, fat tears and desperate, howling sounds leaving his mouth; he is at the end of his tether, drowning without a help in sight.

It takes you long minutes to calm him down, until he lets you lay him on the bed, facing you; there’s still tears flowing from his eyes but his breathing seems to have gone back to normal.

“You shouldn’t have seen that.” He says with a broken voice.

“If it makes you feel better, I have seen nothing.”

Gently you caress his short hair, slow motions that aim at calming him even more.

“I shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s all forgiven. We all fuck up sometimes.”

He stares at you, surprised, as if no one has ever told him that.

“It will not happen again.”

“Trust me. Pull a stunt like that one more time? The masked killer will be the least of your problems!”

He smiles, pained and sad, like a tired clown. At least he’s breathing normally.

“I need to go. I have left Sunfyre alone for too long. And I have a list to write.”

“Are you sure you don’t want my help?”

He sits on the bed, scratching his head.

“It’s fine. You did more than anyone would do for a stranger.”

And I don’t want you hurt by the killer, he thinks.

“Look. I don’t know if you’ll be able to stop the loop and you will wake up to a new day. If you don’t, remember that I am here to help. Tell me this story again, I do not mind. No one should face death alone.”

Where do you come from? He thinks. Why are you being so nice?

He dies, time and time again. On his way to his apartment, hit by a car. 

When he checks on the handful of girls that were truly mad at him for having fucked them and then discarded them like used tissues, there’s something akin to happiness the moment he sees that they are moving on with their lives. Some are in love, others are receiving job offers, one has adopted a cat and her smile lights her room: all those girls who weren’t even a blip on his radar, have moved on, unscathed by his callousness (he dies, five times stabbed, one drowned and one bashed in the head with a baseball bat). Even the two nerds in one of his classes, who were so mad that he had passed it, just because his surname is on half of the buildings of the University, seem to have forgotten about him: they both have bright futures ahead of them (his killer is creative these two times, they electrocute him on one instance, the second they throw him in a woodcutter).

It’s Aemond that surprises him the most.

On purpose Aegon leaves checking on him for last. In between being massacred, he has had time to reflect upon his relationship with him: he has been a shit older brother, there’s no other way to describe himself. He had made fun of Aemond, pushed all his buttons because he could; he had left him alone when he had been attacked by all the cousins and nephews and was barely there when Aemond had to go through so many surgeries to save the left side of his face. Aegon had used him as a scapegoat for his insecurities and failures; if Aemond turned out to be the killer, Aegon would offer him the blade and tell him to go to town until he stayed dead.

Aegon’s hands shake as he makes his way up the fire escape ladders on the side of Aemond’s apartment building; he wishes for a beer, or ten, hates the clarity that the time loop has imposed on his brain. He had never thought he was such a piece of shit and a failure of a human being, whoever the killer was, they’re doing the right thing in getting rid of him, if only permanently! The world doesn’t need him, everything he touches turns into shit!

He stops and takes a huge breath to calm himself down: he needs to be extra quiet or Aemond’s dog, Vhagar, will hear him and alert her owner.

Slowly, careful of each and every step, Aegon reaches Aemond’s floor. Luck seems to be on his side since his brother’s curtains are open and he can peer inside.

The huge flat screen is turned on, bathing the darkened room in a blue hue. Surely he’s going to watch a movie, probably something pretentious, by an unknown director who died at the age of twenty: Aemond is the epitome of the indie fan. 

Imagine Aegon’s surprise when he sees the movie paused on the first scene of Evil Dead and when Aemond’s date opens their arms to welcome him on the couch! 

There had been talks on campus of Aemond secretly dating one of his professors, Alys Rivers. Aegon can’t believe it’s not her the person kissing Aemond until he smiles a real smile, one that shows his dimples! And he isn’t wearing his customary eyepatch!

If the killer hadn’t crashed into him from above, sending him spiraling down the side of the condo, Aegon would have died of surprise.

As he falls down, Aegon has only one thought: at least it’s not him.

He wakes up with a scream to the stupid ringtone of his phone. He can still feel the pain of smashing his body against the pavement ricocheting through his bones, his lungs exploding with the pressure inflicted upon them: for a second he can’t breathe. He flails on your bed, desperate to get to the window and simply breathe the fresh air. 

He stumbles on his feet, deaf to your words and opens the window with a desperate screech, only when the fresh air hits his still working lungs, he starts feeling his body relaxing.

In the distance he hears you calling his name, scared.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” He pants, not feeling well at all.

His whole body trembles, he can feel his legs give out under his weight, his vision turning black as he falls in your arms. He doesn’t hear you screaming for help, for someone to call an ambulance, he is drowning in a peaceful black ocean, where nothing, not even him, exists.

He slowly comes back to himself, his muddled brain slowly realizing he’s not waking up to his own ringtone; for a blessed moment he dares hoping a new day has started for him, until the soft beeping of the monitor sitting next to the hospital bed throws him back into the throes of despair: the day hasn’t finished yet.

He opens his eyes slowly, the light spilling from the windows hurting his poor, overworked brain. What happened? The last thing he remembers is fainting, and not dying.

“Thank the Gods you’re awake!”

His poor eyes focus, with a terrible effort, on your features, now scrunched with worry: why are you by his side?

“You’re here.” He rasps, his voice scratchy and lower than his usual pitch.

“Of course I’m here!”

Again, for precious seconds, he thinks you’re in his hospital room because you remember the loop, and your idea of solving his own murder; his hopes are crushed when he realizes that it had happened some mornings ago, today he didn’t even have the chance to speak with you.

“Why?” He asks.

He doesn’t want to think about all that’s happened, he wants only to hear the melody of your voice.

“You passed out in my bedroom. Did you really expect me to ignore it? Are you feeling any better?”

Aegon tries to feel his body, sore and tired, but capable of breathing and not in the throes of panic.

“A little.”

“You shouldn’t be here. Visiting hours are finished for the morning.”

The two of you jump at the foreign voice of the doctor who, seemingly, appeared out of nowhere.

Aegon thinks he knows the guy, he’s probably met him during one of the charity parties he had to attend with his siblings. The doctor’s stern behavior seems to soften when he shakes Aegon’s hand and tells him his name is Dr. Orwyle.

“We haven’t finished checking on Mr. Targaryen.” He tells you, with a softer voice. “You can come later.”

The scared animal that lives in Aegon’s chest panics: he doesn’t want you gone, he doesn’t want to be alone in this foreign environment, but what he calls his ‘training’ kicks in. He’s Aegon II Targaryen, under no circumstances he is allowed to show anyone how he truly feels, his tears of some loops ago were a mistake he can’t afford to repeat now, away from the sanctuary of your bedroom.

You aren’t too happy to leave as well. As much as you don’t know Aegon from the next frat boy infesting the campus, you feel protective of him, since he fell ill in your bedroom, and you had already rescued him last night, too drunk to even walk properly back to his fraternity building.

But you have no place here: you’re no family of his, and even his blood would probably have to leave, in order for the doctors to work their jobs.

You offer Aegon a tight smile, not liking his ashen color and the dark circles around his eyes.

“I’ll come back in the afternoon, if that’s OK?”

“It’s better if you do so tomorrow. I am afraid we have some more testing to run and Mr. Targaryen will not be here for visiting hours.”

Your answer dies on your lips when Aegon barks a strange laugh, dry and mirthless; What’s so funny about it? You think.

You leave feeling a tight knot of anxiety building in your tummy. You have been having these strange déjà-vu moments as soon as you had woken up and had started fishing for your pill, whose blister had fallen behind your too small bedside table; Aegon’s ridiculous ringtone and his head of platinum hair on your pillow had felt strangely familiar, as if all of this had happened before, which it didn’t, so why you felt so panicked when Aegon opened the window, and even now you feel like there’s something horribly wrong? And why does this day seem to be, strangely, hackneyed?

Time, when you are in a hospital bed, has a strange quality of not passing, whilst running at a crazed speed. To Aegon it felt like you had left an hour ago, instead it was already evening when he was brought back to his room, where Dr. Orwyle was waiting for him, tablet in hand.

“What’s with the long face, Doc?”

Pretend, pretend pretend: that's always been the motto of his family. Even now that he wants to flee, because the killer must be near, he tries to keep up a mask of bravado.

“We have checked your medical history, Mr. Targaryen.” Dr. Orwyle says while handing him the tablet. “Your recent battery of exams shows us…”

Aegon doesn’t let the good doctor finish.

“That I should be dead.”

My body remembers, he thinks, the same way my mind does.

“Were you recently in an accident and, somehow, your records were lost?”

Oh Doc, he thinks, if only there was a way for me to explain everything, without you committing me to a mental institution!

“I think I need a moment.” He lies, with a displeased frown on his face.

His family has pumped a disgusting amount of money into the company that owns this hospital, he knows Dr. Orwyle doesn’t want to make him angry, lest the cash flow stops.

“Of course Mr. Targaryen. One of our nurses is combing the files as we speak. There must have been an unpleasant mistake.”

“Obviously.”

For a moment Aegon thinks the doctor is unto him, knows he’s lying, but the man retires, telling him they will talk tomorrow and that he should sleep: like hell! He needs out!

As fast as his tired body can manage, Aegon removes the monitoring and unplugs the machine from the wall. He has no idea where his clothes are, not that it matters now that he knows his killer is not someone in his life and that, perhaps, the next death will be the last!

On swift feet he runs the length of the dark corridor, until he reaches the nurse’s station, where he sees a woman focused on the computer screen; fleetly he wonders if that’s the person in charge of finding the medical files that should prove he has cheated death. With the corner of his eyes, he notices the policeman sitting in front of a room, but he is too focused on escaping to truly care; when the man enters the room he’s guarding, Aegon couches and crawls, until he is not in sight anymore.

I need out! He thinks.

A part of him knows hiding is impossible, the killer will find him. Perhaps this time he will be able to survive the night, hell! Even kill the asshole! Maybe that’s the key to this paradox, if not, at least it will give him some satisfaction.

The parking lot is huge, and dark. For the first time in his life he understands what Helaena talked bout, when she said how scary it is to go get your car when it’s night: every fucking corner can house his killer, every shadow could be inhabited, and he’ll be none the wiser.

His car is back at the campus and the hospital is far too distant to make it back on foot.

Frantically, he starts checking each and every car, for the one left open by its owner: there’s always troves of people leaving their keys in the ignition, when they are in a hurry.

“Come on! Come on! Come on!” He chants. “Come one you motherfucker!”

He sees Balerion reflected in the car window, its protruding muzzle bent in a sneer and hollow eyes that hide his killer’s. With a shout he ducks and the huge knife falls hollow on the metal of the car.

Aegon rolls and scrambles back to his feet, desperately looking for the elevator: if he can make it up to the ground floor he can ask for help! 

He runs, desperate, feeling his lungs burn as he tries to breathe, the footsteps of his killer so close he can feel them gaining on him. In a last move to kill them, he grabs the fire extinguisher hanging from one of the columns of the parking lot: if only he could buy himself some time!

He doesn’t. He dies, again, stabbed in the chest and abdomen.

He puts up a good fight, even partially incapacitating his assailant with a nasty blow to their heads, but that isn’t enough to save himself and see the dawn of a new day.

As he bleeds to death on the cold pavement, he wonders how many loops he has left, and what will happen once he’s run out of lives.

His stupid ringtone wakes him up and he’s furious, tired with the universe and its dark sense of humor.

“Hi! Do you feel…”

Aegon doesn’t let you speak, he knows the spiel all too well by now.

“I feel like I have been stabbed to death which, surprise! Has happened.”

He marches to your bookshelf, ignoring your surprised stare, to grab the small pouch where you keep your Tylenol: loop or not, he always wakes up with a nasty hangover.

���I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He stares at you with a manic glint in his eyes and you take a step back.

“Of course you don’t. How many loops ago have I told you my story? And you gave me your genius solution: solve my own murder. You might be smarter than most, but it was the stupidest idea you’ve ever had in your entire life!”

You feel beyond out of depth: what the hell is he raving about?

You follow him when he leaves your apartment, slamming the front door.

“Hey! Aegon! What are you talking about?”

You manage to reach him and grab him by the arm. He feels hot and sweaty under your palm; he trudges along, ignoring your added weight.

“Did you take any drugs last night?”

This stops him. He wheels around to look into your eyes, before turning your body to press your back to his front, one arm draped across your chest, the other light on your chin.

“I wish this was all drug induced paranoia. And, as much as I like you, I don’t have the time nor the energy to tell you the whole story again so, either you believe me or not.”

Panicked, you grab at his arm. You don’t know what is going on, why he’s acting the way he is, and you don’t care, he needs to let you go.

“I’m stuck in a time loop that resets itself with my death. No, I don’t know who the killer is and I don’t know how to stop the son of a bitch. I have already told you my story some loops ago and you have forgotten.”

“Look,  Aegon, I know you drank too much last night. Perhaps you’re still confused…”

He doesn’t let you finish again and you’re going to kick him for that.

“Shut up and listen.” He tells you.

The hand previously holding your chin lifts to sign at the people around you two.

“Two girls, they want to eat me alive and I might let them, at this point.”

He forces you to walk a couple of steps, before stopping again to point at the anonymous white van parked on the side of the road.

“Alarm in three, two, one…”

Triggered by an unseen cause, the alarm blares as the lights of the van start blinking madly.

“Sprinklers!”

On your right a group of students is drenched by the irrigation system and they scramble to grab their belongings.

“Aegon…”

“The guy is falling… now!”

Too busy looking at the students, a guy wearing a suit falls all over his feet and plants himself in front of you and Aegon.

You are too surprised to speak: how does he know…?

“I told you. Time loop.”

And thankfully he’s holding you tight, or you would have fallen on your arse.

This time he tells you everything at the local diner, as you scarf down a full vegan breakfast. 

“So.” You say, drinking down your second cup of tea. “You told me all of this before and my suggestion was to solve your murder?”

Aegon looks at you from the rim of his own cup of coffee. He hasn’t eaten anything, still too nauseous from a bar crawl that happened too many loops ago, yesterday night.

“Correct.”

“And why is that a stupid idea? You have infinite lives, the way I see it.”

“I don’t. I come back from every death more tired than the one before. I am not sure how long I have, before this sticks.”

“Bill Murray didn’t have this issue.”

“Who?”

“Have you ever seen Groundhog Day?”

“No, I haven’t. You keep referring to obscure pieces of media! In that loop you quoted a Doctor… Whom?”

“It’s Doctor Who, you dummy. Have you ever watched good TV in your entire life?”

“No, I usually am out having fun.”

“Look how that turned out for you.”

You both stay silent, letting the noises of the diner fill for the non existent conversation.

“What was this Bill Murray guy's goal?”

“He kept repeating the same day until he realized what a piece of shit person he was and changed his ways.”

“Yeah. I can see why.”

Aegon hangs his head to look at his hands. Nervous, he plays with his little finger, where his signet ring should be, as his brain shows him, again, what a piece of shit he’s always been to everyone around him: his mum, letting all her hopes down, his siblings, his friends and all his lovers. They all expected him to do better, to be better and he had always turned his back at them. Sometimes it was the only thing he could do, when faced with too many responsibilities, others, he was being cruel and self-centered. 

He’s been trying now, during the loops, by helping the elderly lady cross the street and being nice to the newer additions to the fraternity. He doesn’t know what to do with his mum and all she expects from him, all of these ideas that scare him and make him want to disappear forever.

“It is daunting.” Your soft voice cuts through his thoughts. “The way a time loop makes you look at yourself. It shifts your perspective in a way none of us can truly understand. It gives you a chance though: you are more aware of your bad behaviors and can put a stop to it.”

“It is too late.” He tells you, not truly looking into your eyes.

“That’s bullshit and you know it. You can always choose to do better for yourself. You can’t change the past, but you can decide not to make the same mistakes again.”

His fidgeting stops, he’s holding his hand with such a tight vise you’re afraid he will hurt himself.

“Not everyone accepts that. Not everyone wants to see you at your best, they only care about the way they want you to be.”

“Those are the people you deserve a non so polite ‘fuck off’ and zero dedication to make the relationship better. The others though, they’re worth the hassle.”

“You’re far too optimistic.” He replies, his voice dry and scratchy.

“I’m being objective. You can’t be what every single person in their lives wants you to be; it’s up to them to accept that you are your own person. Will this hurt them? Yes, but then again, they have to sort out their feelings, you can’t do this work for them. Your job is to be the best version of yourself you can offer the word.”

The chatter around your table drones your voice out of his head: which is the best version of himself? The one who had always preferred to drink and party, instead of facing the disappointment in his mom’s eyes? Or the one that had poured all his frustration on his younger brother and his foolish dream of being perfect, for the two of them? Or the one who has always felt weirded out by Helaena neurodivergence? Does he even have a better part to offer the word? His only quality is that he loves his dog more than anything, and there’s that.

Being struck in this nightmare has only shown him the bad parts of himself, and that there’s nothing more than that; even if he wanted to better himself, he knows he’ll crush under the pressure after a day or two. He is a spineless, worthless waste of air and resources that someone else would use better than he’ll ever do, who will relapse after the first, mild, issue happening in his life.

“I hope it sticks.” He says, looking at the worn out paneling behind you. “I don’t have anything good to offer to the world.”

He hears you put your cutlery aside to take a sip of tea.

“That’s the Stranger whispering in your ear. It’s always easier to follow the same, old path our brains have carved out, instead of doing the hard work to create newer ones, healthier ones.”

“It’s easy for you to say.”

“I elect to ignore that because you are upset.” The coldness in your voice snaps him back within the conversation. “You have no idea what I had to go through to be here, with you. The same way I don’t know why you value yourself so little. You are given a chance to look at your mistakes and fix them. 

I don’t know why the Gods have chosen you, but they did. I could argue for hours why they intrude in our lives the way they do, but this is not a philosophy class. This is you having to make the work: no money, no connection can help you solve this conundrum, but yourself.”

He dares to look at you. He can see that you’re angry at him in the way your lips are set, how stony your eyes are: he’s managed to let you down. A complete stranger who had showered him with kindness, only to be kicked aside.

“The serial killer known as the Heart Stealer has been admitted today into the surgical ward.”

The voice of the journalist makes the two of you jump in your seats: someone has asked the waitress to turn the audio on and the whole diner is now looking at the photos of pretty, blond coed boys, slain by the man.

Something snaps into place in Aegon’s mind: his murderer can’t be anyone he knows because it’s this asshole! He fits his victims: the age, the hair color and lifestyle. All party boys, found without their hearts and this asshole was on his same floor, during the last loop: of course Aegon had been wrong in looking within his circle, his killer was outside of it!

“It’s him!” He shouts in your face. “This time he’s going to be in for a nasty surprise!”

He ignores your voice as he runs out of the diner: he has a plan and little time to fulfill it.

Stupidly enough, the general surgery ward is not crammed with guards, nor is it sealed from the rest of the hospital: there’s only one policeman sitting in front of the Stealer’s single room.

On his way to the hospital, Aegon had listened to the radio, trying to find any form of information on the guy; unfortunately for himself, he has never cared about keeping himself up to date with the news and now his brain is trying to absorb as much information as possible. It all boils down to the bastard being in need of surgical care, perhaps, Aegon thinks, he faked whatever illness and is going to use this chance to escape.

“And he might.” Aegon murmurs against the plastic rim of the cup he’s nursing.

Aegon has zero knowledge of police work, but even he realizes that one guy, already half asleep, might not be enough to stop a serial killer.

Aegon stands up and exits the ward. During the last loop he remembers how easily he had escaped his room and floor, and that the policeman wasn’t there. His last death happened during the blackout, which means that between the cop entering the room and the asshole murdering him, there was a lull of some minutes, five maybe ten, if he wants to be generous. He needs to incapacitate the man before the lights go out, he doesn’t need to kill him, just knock him out and wait for the clock to strike midnight and for his life to go on, as it should.

There’s only one nurse at the station and she’s busy reading a cheap paperback. The corridors are dark, the only source of light is the lamp hanging over the woman, and the ones in the corridor where the cop is.

Light on his feet, Aegon makes his way to where the nurse is, wishing he had a weapon on himself: he’ll have to make do with the pen he’s nicked at the front desk.

Fast he grabs the woman and pushes the pen against her back, as soon as the cop enters the room.

“Go get help! He’s going to escape!” He screams in her ear.

The poor woman doesn’t even look at him, she runs, leaving him alone with his killer.

His stomach turns at the thought of facing the man, his many deaths crowd into his mind: what if he fails? What if this is his last chance?

His heart beats a crazy tattoo in his chest as he stands in front of the fire extinguisher sitting next to the door: a weapon as good as any other.

He breaks the glass using his elbow and grabs the cylinder, a part of his brain wondering at how heavy it is, his frontal lobe focusing on the door in front of himself: it’s now or never!

He opens it carefully, noticing the body of the police officer on the floor, and the empty bed: where is the Stealer?

The shove from behind makes him lose his footing, there’s a hand now in his hair and another grabs his jacket, slamming him repeatedly against the wall, until the extinguisher falls from his hands.

“Now pretty boys land themselves in my hands. You’re making everything too easy.”

Aegon doesn’t know what his body responds to: the breath, stinky, next to his ear, or the cruel laugh, not that it matters.

His body moves in autopilot, hands pushing against the wall to tumble his assailant back and turn around, to face the demented eyes and the scalpel; he dashes when the man tries to stab him and runs out of the room, searching for something, anything to hit the bastard.

With a strength born out of desperation, he grabs the chair left vacant by the nurse, and bashes it against the man, missing his head but hitting his shoulder; the Stealer screams and loses his hold on the scalpel, lounging at him with his hands stretched out to grab the legs to wrestle the chair out of his grasp.

In the melee neither Aegon, nor the Stealer see you coming, your body pushing with all your weight against the older man, forcing him to fall on the floor, you tumbling on him as you scratch and punch at him, screaming with anger and fear.

You’re uncoordinated, fueled by desperation and Aegon sees the Stealer snap your head, your body falling on the floor.

In horror he stands still during the precious seconds of the power outage, he screams and lounges for the scalpel as soon as the lights come back, crushing the man’s hand when he tries to go for it, his feet connecting with his head, his chest and the soft belly in a frenzy. He’s unaware that he’s screaming, that his free hand has grabbed the man’s hair and that he’s ready to stab him, stopped by the thought of breaking the loop, which will leave you to your death.

“No.” He shouts. “No!”

He’s at a crossroad again: himself or the umpteenth victim in his wake?

He lets the body of the Stealer hit the floor, the man’s face a grotesque mask of blood and spit; Aegon’s eyes never leave the man as he lays the scalpel on his jugular.

“See you during the next one.” He says, stabbing himself hoping, against hopes, to have, at least, one life left.

He wakes up with the sickening sensation of gurgling on his own blood. He dashes to the small trash basket next to your cramped desk, and empties his stomach loudly; he doesn’t feel your hand on his forehead keeping his hair out of his face, or the other you put on his back, soothing his retching with circular motions. He falls back into your front when all he can do is push out saliva mixed with bile.

“Are you ok?” You tentatively ask, crushed under his weight.

Faster than what you thought he could move, Aegon turns around and kneels between your splayed legs, his hands on yours to help you sit up.

“Never been better!” He says with a strange glint in his eyes. “Look, I know this will make no sense, but today is my nameday…”

“Happy nameday, then!”

“Yeah, yeah. Will you pop by the fraternity later today? I don’t want to go to stupid parties, I want to celebrate with you!”

“Thank you?” You answer, unsure.

What the hell is going on with this guy? You think.

“We barely know one another, though. Are you sure you’re not still drunk?”

“I know I sound manic. I feel manic! I promise I will tell you everything and the story will blow your mind! Just come after nine tonight? One of my brothers is going to give me my favorite cupcake and all I want to do is share it with you.”

“I’m not going to fuck you, Aegon.”

“What? I never said that! Just spend my nameday with me, please?”

He looks eager, if he had a tail he would be wiggling it furiously. 

“I barely know you, Aegon.”

“You do and you don't!” He raises his hand when you try to talk. “I promise I will explain everything when you come by. And nothing will happen, but us eating, I swear on Sunfyre.”

You ponder the guy in front of you: he's the king of the fratboys. You know he spends his time partying with his brothers, yet, the times you stumbled upon him, like last night, he had always given you the impression of someone desperate to escape his life, rather than your average coed guy trying to have fun. 

Sitting between your splayed legs, he doesn't look haunted, his giddiness real. 

“Ok, I will come and if you try anything…”

“I swear!”

You elected to believe the promise of a fratboy, hoping you will not regret it. 

“I need to go now! I’ll see you later!”

He jumps on his feet surprisingly fast for someone who had been throwing up in your trashcan. The hand he offers you to help you on your feet is warm and dry, the hold strong on yours. 

“Aegon! Wait!”

You manage to catch him at the door. 

“Your ring!”

“I’m sorry I was an asshole all the times you tried to give it back.” He says, lilac eyes not truly meeting yours.

“Aegon…?”

He’s already dashed out of the door, leaving you staring at his back, dumbfounded.

“What you do to guys, I swear.”

The voice of your roommate makes you jump.

“Oh! Shut up, will you?”

Aegon is prepared for tonight, and you will not be in his way to kill his murderer: everything will go according to plan and he will be able to steer his life into a better direction than the one he’s kept all along.

Aegon’s heart squeezes painfully when his mum’s name appears on his phone’s screen for the umpteenth time, along with Daeron’s; he knows his relationship with his family is a can of worms he has to deal with, being what, amongst other things, has turned him into drowning his sorrows into as much alcohol and sex he could get.

If this infernal time loop has taught him something, is that he has to take the reins and face the pain that will surely come barreling into his face, and that it’s inevitable, as his death has been for too many times.

If he thinks about it: what does he have to lose? Both his mother and grandsire consider him a failure, he knows they want him in the family company to use him as a pawn, since he’s shown them he can’t be anything else. Their opinion of him is so low that tanking it will not be any worse than being mauled by the wood chopper, and if it’s what he has to go through to live his life and not trudge through it, then be it. He doesn’t want to be the person he’s seen through the loop any longer, he wants to be different, better, even though the work ahead scares him beyond belief.

As he showers he thinks about his siblings, how he’s let them down throughout the years, made fun of them or, even worse, ignored them when they needed their older brother: what if they don’t give him a chance to heal their broken relationships? Will the universe give him that, after showing him repeatedly how bad he’s been? Is there a silver lining?

Aegon forces himself to accept the way his stomach churns as those thoughts swim through his head while he puts the cupcake in one of the drawers, away from Sunfyre’s curiosity (it feels so strange to repeat these movements loop after loop, like a marionette).

What if no one will want him ever again? Even you, whom he has never hurt?

Aegon crumples on the floor, hugging Sunfyre who tries to lick the tears flowing down his cheeks: he has never let himself feel his emotions so deeply and now they tore at him like hungry wolves. 

The pain is a physical vise that crushes him into a ball on the dirty floor of his room and churns his stomach, it flashes through his body like lashing, leaving him crumpled and shaking, still bawling even when his tears have stopped.

For a moment he lets the darkness in, that seductive voice that has always told him that he should stop fighting and drown his feelings in any way possible. All this pain is not worth it, the voice tells him, let the killer come: if you’ve done your math right, you’re going to run out of lives soon and you won’t have to feel anything, anymore.

It’s a nice idea, just drown and stop existing, then your face flashes in front of his eyes. The worry when he had broken down, too many loops ago, the gentleness of your voice trying to soothe him: would you ever let him in your life? 

He forces himself on his back, he has to physically order all his muscles to relax on the disgusting floor.

You and him belong to the same year, different degrees and friends circles, yet he’s always noticed you. You are not a party person, but you have your fun, you even came to a couple of parties thrown by his fraternity, catching his attention with how comfortable in your skin you were.

He’s seen people of any gender try to hide their insecurities using any means possible: clothing, make up, a fake personality and so on, yet he’s always noticed you more than any other person that’s ever tried to catch his attention.

If he has to be truthful, and why not be at this point? You scare him a lot. Way smarter than he is, and more confident: you don’t have to hide who you are under a fake persona, like he does, you enter the room, and if someone has an issue with it, you don’t care. Is there anything hotter than self confidence?

“We’re doing this, Sunfyre.” He tells the dog laying by his side. “And then we’ll show them we’re worth their time.”

The dog raises his head and licks his face until Aegon laughs.

He has no idea if he’s worth your time or if he has anything truly interesting to offer you, but if he needs a tether against the darkness, it might as well be trying to be the kind of guy you might like.

This time he’s come prepared: he’s nicked the biggest knife the fraternity has in the kitchen drawer, that he can easily conceal under his clothes, and he is now hiding in one of the visitor’s bathrooms. He needs to remind himself the man is armed, some idiot has let him take their scalpel, so he needs to keep him away from himself: he can’t risk dying again.

He waits, more patient than he’s ever been in his entire life, for all the visitors and the afternoon personnel to leave the ward to the night nurse and the half asleep cop. 

When he’s ready, he exits the bathroom and lets the door bang behind him, using the shadows to disguise his body as the nurse leaves her post to investigate. As soon as she’s in front of the room, he knocks her out, mumbling an apology, and lays her body in one of the stalls: one innocent victim out of the way.

His heart is ramming in his chest as he walks to the nurse station, where he crouches to avoid being seen before he needs to.

This loop he’s timed his actions perfectly: he stands the second the cop has his back to the nurse station and he’s about to enter the room: Before the man can do anything, Aegon grabs his collar and puts the knife against his back.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” He says, trying to keep his voice calm. “But he’s going to escape and I need your weapon.”

The man stiffens in his hold, his hand reflexively going to the gun strapped to his hip, before the blade pushes against his back more firmly.

“You don’t know what you’re doing, son.”

Aegon cringes at the condescendent way the man talks to him: he knows more than this man ever will.

“He will escape and kill again, trust me on this one. You only need to put the gun on the floor and then go ask for backup.”

He pushes the knife against the man’s back for good measure, until he removes the gun from the holster and bends cautiously, while murmuring calming words that only fuel’s Aegon’s adrenaline.

As soon as the man is standing again, Aegon knocks him out: there’s no need for backup.

His hands shake when he retrieves the gun, surprised by how heavy it is when he lifts it to the closed door.

In this moment, Aegon is simply instinct, adrenaline pumped into his bloodstream that makes him kick the door open, the man on the bed not even stirring when the wood meets the walls with a bang.

“I know you’re awake, asshole.” Aegon barks. “Stand up, hands where I can see them!”

The Stealer opens his eyes and leers at him, his yellow teeth in full display: the outage should happen soon.

“Now pretty boys land themselves in my hands. You’re making everything too easy.” The man says, sizing him up.

“You wish!”

Aegon pulls the trigger, again and again, but nothing happens. Stupidly he looks at the gun in his hand, ignoring the threat in front of himself for a second too long.

His body slams painfully against the wall, the Stealer’s hand grabbing his wrist and banging it against the wall, trying to make him lose his hold on the firearm. Aegon tries to push back, his breath coming out in desperate pants, his free hand grabbing the man’s unkempt hair, pulling back with all his strength until the Stealer lets go, only to push him through the open door, Aegon’s feet tripping on the cop’s unconscious body.

He hears the clunk of the gun hit the floor, somewhere on his left; on instinct he kicks the Stealer in the attempt to beat him to it.

They scramble on the floor, pushing and scratching at one another, pulling each other back with desperation, rolling on the dirty linoleum, until the lights disappear and Aegon uses the surprise to disentangle himself and grab the gun.

It’s a matter of seconds, when the lights come back on, he’s standing in front of the man, gun pointed at his head.

“See you never, you son of a bitch!”

The bang is louder than he expected, and the blood spraying his hoodie is a surprise, what isn’t is the sense of fulfillment that permeates his being: he’s just killed a man and he’s relieved that he’s not going to end this day gurgling on his own blood, but with you.

You two are sitting by the window in his room with the lights off, the moonlight creates shadows on the walls as you two stare at the chocolate cupcake sitting on the floor, Sunfyre already begging to have a small bite.

“So.” You say, killing your cigarette. “Time loop.”

Aegon evades your stare, his purple eyes staring at the stars shining above you two.

“It sounds crazy, I know.”

“It’s no stranger than any of my quantum physics classes. Look, I’m not going to bother you with the specifics, but some have theorized that time loops might be possible.”

Aegon shivers. You have already said that, so many time loops ago.

“I have managed to solve mine, like the guy you told me about.”

You stare at him quizzically.

“You told me about a movie. Woodchuck Day?”

“Groundhog Day, you mean? I don’t remember us talking about it.”

“We did. During the last time loop.”

“It’s so strange. We lived lives together and I will never know about them.”

Aegon feels warmth rise in his cheeks, it’s for the better that you don’t remember, he was an arse in half of them.

“It was a nightmare. The only good thing was waking up and seeing your face.”

There, he said it. It’s not a love declaration but it feels like one.

“Don’t tell me even frat boys have hearts?”

You joke, but you can’t ignore the way his words make you feel: it’s been a while since a guy flirting makes you smile and not cringe.

“We hide it extremely well.” He’s blushing so hard he’s positive you can see it even in the dimly lit room. “Shall we?”

He offers you the cupcake, you surprise him by putting a small candle on the confectionery and lighting it swiftly.

“Make a wish. It’s your nameday, afterall.”

Aegon closes his eyes and blows on the small flame.

He wakes in your bed, awoken by the pounding in his temples and the terrible ringtone of his phone.

“No!”

He screams with so much desperation you fly yourself to him, grabbing his arms to stop him before he does anything stupid.

“Aegon? What’s going on?”

You picked him up last night, too drunk to function and so pathetic you couldn’t leave him at the pub, alone, to choke on his own vomit.

“I did everything right! I killed him before he could kill me!”

“Aegon?”

His purple eyes focus on you, filled with tears and desperation.

“I don’t want to die again!”

You don’t understand what’s happening, why he’s flying off the handle this way.

“Did you take drugs last night?” You grab his chin, ignoring his morning breath. “Aegon! Answer me!”

“I didn’t!”

“Then why are you panicking like this?”

He opens his mouth, ready to spill, again, when his mind screeches to a stop: in the midst of his own panic a part of his mind is going through the last time loop, what happened and what didn’t happen.

“I wasn’t murdered.” He says, looking at you but not really focusing. “I died in my sleep.”

And there’s only one way for that to have happened, he thinks.

“What are you talking about?”

Now you’re scared: is he having a mental breakdown?

“I don’t have the time to explain!”

He jumps from your bed and dresses himself hastily. Before you can stop him, he grabs your phone and inputs his number to call his own phone.

“Aegon! Aegon please calm down! Why are you talking about murder?”

“I promise I will explain everything!” His hands are on your shoulder, his eyes burning. “I have one little thing to do to break this fucking time loop, and then I will tell you again what I have already told you!”

You’re too dumbfounded to answer, you don’t even push him away when he soundly kisses you on the lips.

“What the hell was that for?”

“Because you're a genius!”

“Aegon, are you sure you’re alright?”

He stops by the door to your room and stares at you more lively than you have ever seen him.

“I am. As you said: I need to solve my own murder to break the loop.”

He runs to the frat house ignoring the burning in his lungs, his brain going through the various time loops, cataloging what never changed: you, the hangover, the power outage. And the cupcake.

In every time loop he was always too nauseated to eat the gift from his frat brother and then he was too focused on outsmarting his killer to even remember the confectionery. The only time he’s eaten them was with you, this last death, of this he’s beyond certain.

But, why? He wonders. What did I do to cause all of this?

His feet screech to a halt in front of the frat house: he can’t escape it, either he faces his killer, or he’ll come for him, perhaps for the last time.

He enters the big house faking a calmness he doesn’t possess. He forces his body to move slowly, to smile and joke with the other guys, until he reaches his room, where his killer will arrive, way too soon.

Sunfyre jumps into his body, putting his big paws on his shoulders and licking his face as if he hasn’t seen him in days; Aegon lets himself be swept by the love his four legged friend has for him, pure and all encompassing.

When he hears the knock on his door he orders Sunfyre to sit by his desk, the dog followsd his orderbut looks at him as if he knows something is off.

“Come in!”

Aegon’s heart is beating a mad tattoo in his chest, he hopes his face betrays nothing of what he’s finally discovered when his friend, the very Martyn Reyne who entered this Frat House with him, is his killer.

“Hey man! Happy nameday!!!”

Aegon has to stop himself from moving his body away from the other guy, he suppresses a shiver when he hugs him and pats his back, as if he hasn’t been killing him time and time again.

“Here’s a little surprise for you!”

Martyn must detect that something is wrong, Aegon realizes, because his brows knit.

“Oh yeah, a surprise it is.” He says, not even trying to hide how sour he feels.

“What’s wrong man? Did your mum call you already?”

Aegon takes the cupcake from Martyn’s hand and focuses his eyes on it, wondering what poison laces it, and why one of his oldest friends would want to cause him harm.

He knows his face has fallen, the tentative smile replaced by a deep frown.

“You know Martyn, I have come to realize I don’t know the people around me at all!”

Aegon says, circling him.

“Was it last night? We were all too wasted! We thought you were with us!”

Aegon feels no pleasure in noticing how Martyn moves to follow his movements, how false his voice is.

“Nah, it was you killing me a thousand times.”

“Aegon, man…”

Martyn raises his hands, as if to defend himself, but Aegon doesn’t let him finish.

“Did you have to get creative because I didn’t eat the cupcake? Or did you watch the news about the Stealer and thought he could be the perfect scapegoat? You intern at the hospital, it was you the idiot who let him nick his scalpel, weren’t you?”

“Aegon, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

For a blessed second, Aegon lets himself believe his friend: his killer was indeed the Stealer, and the cupcake has simply gone off the worst of ways. He’ll not be killed and wake up in your bed, and his friend is not lying to him.

He notices, though, the way Martyn’s posture has changed, he’s not pretending to be relaxed anymore; he’s still turning in a circle following Aegon, but he looks ready to pounce, his muscles straining under the gym clothes he’s wearing.

“Well.” Aegon stops his own pacing. “If you don’t know what I am talking about, you’ll share this cupcake with me.”

He grabs Martyn’s shoulder, pulling the other man closer to his own body, ready to smash the confectionery against his lips.

Before he can act, Martyn manages to disengage and push himself away, his back now facing the window.

“How did you find it out?”

Martyn’s face has lost the friendly smile and is now turned into an ugly snarl.

“I told you: you killed me a thousand times. I still don’t understand why.”

Aegon hears Sunfyre’s low growl and imagines the dog ready to pounce; he immediately puts himself between the dog and the other man, he can’t risk the health of his only friend.

“You’re mad, man. And a cunt. You want to know why I want you dead? Because you have everything and leave nothing to us mortals! Girls fawn over you! Everyone wants to be your friend and you are the shittiest person I have ever met!”

Martyn advances and Aegon is forced to do a half circle to keep his distance.

“I have to sweat for everything! And you spend your life partying! I deserve to have what you have and if I can’t, neither do you!”

Faster than Aegon can expect, Martyn jumps him with a primal scream, one of his hands shooting out to grab the cupcake and force it in Aegon’s mouth. The latter manages to push against his weight and throws the confectionery away from himself and his dog.

The two fall on the floor, fists and kicks flying. Aegon manages to dodge Martyn’s hands around his throat and stands up, heading desperately to the door as he screams to Sunfyre to stay put.

He chokes on his spit when Martyn grabs his hair and pulls him back right before he can grab the doorknob. Grunting Aegon uses his full weight to make Martyn fall on the floor, but pushes too fast and too far, realizing too late that they are free falling from his window, to the unforgiving patch of concrete in front of the fraternity house.

The alarm sounds so far away that Aegon’s ears can barely pick the sound over your moans, and his.

Your hips roll a steady rhythm and he’s desperate not to spill inside of you, not yet.

He can’t still ride you the way he fantasized while he was at the hospital, not when his ribs are still on the mend and Dr. Orwyle hasn’t given him a full bill of health; not that he complains with your breasts in his face and your delectable cunt strangling his cock.

His hands grab your hips in a desperate vise, he’s dangling upon the precipice, begging you for permission with a strangled voice. He only needs your breathy command to lose himself in your depths, you following with a long moan of pleasure.

You grab the headboard to keep yourself upright and not fall on a still healing Aegon: who would have thought that the king of fratboys could be so good in bed? A giver, bruised ribs notwithstanding?

“Have I hurt you?”

You curl against his side, too afraid of harming his ribs to lay on his chest the way you desire.

Aegon needs a second to collect his scattered thoughts, the way you fucked him has scrambled his remaining brain cells.

“Never been better.” He answers, with a dreamy smile.

While falling out of the window, he truly thought he was going to die, again, after having discovered his own killer.

He had been close to death, with broken ribs and a punctured lung, a concussion that had scared the surgeons and kept him in ICU for far too long: he’s lucky he’s made it out of the blasted time loop, alive and with you by his side.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Do you need your vape?”

“No, wait.” Slowly he sits more comfortably against the ridiculous amount of pillows you’ve provided him since he’s moved to your place.

His room at the Frat House is not a crime scene anymore, having been analyzed while he was still in hospital, yet he couldn’t force himself to set foot in there, not while he’s still trying to come to terms with all the violence he’s been through.

“You made a face when you first saw me vape.”

“I didn’t!”

“Not now. During a time loop.”

You pop your head on your hand to look better in his eyes.

“We lived lives together, and I remember none of that!”

“You said something like that…”

“During a time loop. You told me that.”

When you received the call from the paramedic, alerting you that Aegon was hurt and that he was refusing help, if the guy didn’t call you, you felt like something had snapped into place.

It had been a peculiar sensation, as if the hours building up to the phone call were gray and dull, your life more lively and bright after you closed the call and ran to the Frat House.

Initially you had thought it was the adrenaline kick you received at the news that Aegon was badly injured, then, when he told you about the time loop, your mind kept wandering to a Stephen King’s novella, The Langoliers: if you had to use that story as a metaphor, you felt like the characters after they managed to leave the airport in the past: alive. Which makes no sense to your scientific mind, yet, since no one has ever managed to create a time loop in a controlled setting, who are you to say that the days lived in that situation can’t feel dull and hackneyed?

Aegon’s phone rings again and you grab it for him.

“It’s Aemond, again!”

“Is he afraid we will not make the date with him and his girl?”

“Probably. I've always been shit at family functions.”

Aegon cracks a smile: he’s trying to steer his life in a better direction, and nurturing his relationship with his siblings is part of that goal.

You observe him with a smile on your face: despite being in different year groups, you share a philosophy class with his younger brother Aemond; you had actually butted heads with him on more than one occasion and on topics far too inane for two people who are simply minoring in that field. 

You still think the younger Targaryen is a pompous assholes most of the time, but you like his girlfriend and only the Mother knows how much you need support to navigate the mess that’s the Targaryen family!

When Aegon ends the call, you kiss the tip of his nose and he smiles at you as if you hanged the sun and stars in the sky. According to him, you were the reason he managed to stay sane during his onslaught, giving him advice and being supportive, even though your memory resat itself with every loop.

“I need to get ready.” Aegon tells you after a moment. “I need to go see my therapist in an hour. Would you be happy if we met up at the restaurant? I don’t want to be lectured on punctuality again.” He huffs.

You are so proud of him for trying to stick to the plan of self improvement he’s decided for himself. 

He still bitches when you force him to sit down and do some actual studying, instead of relying on his family name to pass his classes, but you’ve noticed how different he is, compared to the fratboy you had always seen on campus. Despite almost dying (or dying too many times), he appears happier, more focused and not just trudging through life, the way you had always seen him.

“No problems.” You stand up, gloriously naked. “Come. I think I need to finish rewarding you for completing your studies for this week.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?”

Gods he’s hard already, the endorphins being thousands of times better than any pain relief he’s been prescribed.

“Follow me under the shower and you shall find out.”

[rhythmic-idealist]

From the AP.

I have preserved the article text below — more photos are through the link.

CAMARILLO, Calif. (AP) — Federal immigration authorities said Friday they arrested about 200 immigrants suspected of being in the country illegally in raids a day earlier on two California cannabis farm sites. Protesters engaged in a tense standoff with authorities during an operation at one of the farms.

The Department of Homeland Security said in a statement that authorities executed criminal search warrants in Carpinteria and Camarillo, California, on Thursday. They arrested immigrants suspected of being in the country illegally, and there were also at least 10 immigrant children on site, the statement said.

Four U.S. citizens were arrested for “assaulting or resisting officers,” the department said. Authorities were offering a $50,000 reward for information leading to the arrest of one person suspected of firing a gun at federal agents. One worker who called family to say he was hiding from authorities was on life support after falling and suffering significant injuries.

During the raid, crowds of people gathered outside Glass House Farms in Camarillo to seek information about their relatives and protest immigration enforcement. Authorities clad in military-style helmets and uniforms faced off with the demonstrators. Acrid green and white billowing smoke then forced community members to retreat.

Glass House, a licensed California cannabis grower, said in a statement that immigration agents had valid warrants. The company said workers were detained, and it is helping provide them with legal representation. The farm also grows tomatoes and cucumbers.

“Glass House has never knowingly violated applicable hiring practices and does not and has never employed minors,” the statement said.

It is legal to grow and sell cannabis in California with proper licensing.

The state’s Department of Cannabis Control said they “observed no minors on the premises” during a site visit to the farm in May 2025. After receiving another complaint, the department opened an active investigation, according to a department spokesperson.

Worker gravely injured

At least 12 people were injured during the raid and protest, said Andrew Dowd, a spokesperson for the Ventura County Fire Department. Eight were taken to St. John’s Regional Medical Center and the Ventura County Medical Center, and four were treated at the scene and released. Dowd said he did not have information on the extent of the injuries of those hospitalized.

On Friday, about two dozen people waited outside the farm to retrieve the cars of loved ones and speak to managers. Relatives of Jaime Alanis, who has picked tomatoes at the farm for 10 years, said he called his wife in Mexico during the raid to tell her immigration agents had arrived and that he was hiding with others inside the farm.

“The next thing we heard was that he was in the hospital with broken hands, ribs and a broken neck,” Juan Duran, Alanis’ brother-in-law, said in Spanish.

It was not immediately clear how Alanis was injured. A doctor at Ventura County Medical Center told the family that those who brought Alanis to the hospital said he had fallen from the roof of a building.

Alanis had a broken neck, fractured skull and a rupture in an artery that pumps blood to the brain, said his niece Yesenia, who didn’t want to share her last name for fear of reprisal. He is on life support, she said.

“They told us he won’t make it and to say goodbye,” Yesenia said, crying.

The hospital did not immediately respond to requests for comment.

Confrontation with authorities

Relatives and advocates headed to the farm about 50 miles (80 kilometers) northwest of downtown Los Angeles to try to find out what was going on, and began protesting outside.

Federal authorities formed a line blocking the road leading through farm fields to the company’s greenhouses. Protesters were seen shouting at agents wearing camouflage gear, helmets and gas masks. The billowing smoke drove protesters to retreat. It wasn’t clear why authorities threw the canisters or if they released chemicals such as tear gas.

Ventura County fire authorities responding to a 911 call of people having trouble breathing said three people were taken to nearby hospitals.

At the farm, agents arrested workers and removed them by bus. Others, including U.S. citizens, were detained at the site for hours while agents investigated.

The incident came as federal immigration agents have ramped up arrests in Southern California at car washes, farms and Home Depot parking lots, stoking widespread fear among immigrant communities.

Federal investigations

The Department of Homeland Security said in a statement Friday that the investigation into immigration and potential child labor violations at the farm is ongoing. No further details of the allegations were provided.

The agency said hundreds of demonstrators attempted to disrupt the operations, leading to the arrest of four Americans.

“We will prosecute to the fullest extent of the law anyone who assaults or doxes federal law enforcement,” Assistant Secretary Tricia McLaughlin said in a statement.

Immigration and Customs Enforcement and Customs and Border Protection were both part of the operation, the statement said.

President Donald Trump said he has ordered DHS Secretary Kristi Noem and White House border czar Tom Homan to direct ICE agents to use “whatever means is necessary” going forward when dealing with violent protesters.

“I am giving Total Authorization for ICE to protect itself, just like they protect the Public,” Trump said in a social media posting Friday evening.

White House spokeswoman Abigail Jackson in a statement blamed “violent leftists” and Democrats for the Camarillo incident and other assaults on ICE agents in recent weeks.

Family members search for answers

The mother of an American worker said her son was held at the worksite for 11 hours and told her agents took workers’ cellphones to prevent them from calling family or filming and forced them to erase cellphone video of agents at the site.

The woman said her son told her agents marked the men’s hands with ink to distinguish their immigration status. She spoke to The Associated Press on condition of anonymity because she feared reprisals from the government.

United Farm Workers said in statement that some U.S. citizens are not yet accounted for.

Maria Servin, 68, said her son has worked at the farm for 18 years and was helping to build a greenhouse. She said she spoke to her son, who is undocumented, after hearing of the raid and offered to pick him up.

“He said not to come because they were surrounded and there was even a helicopter. That was the last time I spoke to him,” Servin, a U.S. citizen, said in Spanish.

She said she went to the farm anyway but federal agents were shooting tear gas and rubber bullets and she decided it was not safe to stay. She and her daughter returned to the farm Friday and were told her son had been arrested Thursday. They still don’t know where he is being held.

“I regret 1,000 times that I didn’t help him get his documents,” Servin said.

_____

By  AMY TAXIN, DAMIAN DOVARGANES and OLGA R. RODRIGUEZ Updated 6:32 PM PDT, July 11, 2025

Taxin reported from Orange County, California, and Rodriguez reported from San Francisco.

Retrieved July 13, 2025, 11:23 PM PDT.

[yukikogazingthestars]

Fukuzawa and Mori with a S/O who is really into skincare.(Separate)

TW: None

Genre: Fluff

Mori

That man is an ex-doctor so he knows what ingredients work with what skin type.

He will take you to the best of the best aesthetic clinics.

If he doesn't know or has no time for skincare shopping, he will ask Kouyou to take you.

He will buy every gift set from every luxury brand for you to find out which brand works better until you've found the best one.

He will stare at you whenever you apply skincare or makeup until you ask " What's wrong with you?"

I doubt he used his own skincare but after seeing you're too stunning and elegant after the usage of skincares, he will want to use them too.

Of course, he will sneak your facial mask and put on his face telling how the facial masks are so relaxing

His favorite will be green tea with calming effect and collagen since he's in his 40

( He's getting older and he doesn't want people age shaming him in his back)🤣

At night, he and his S/O put on facial masks , lie down on the couch and have some quality time.

Fukuzawa

Unlike Mori, this man only knows shower gel, shampoo and deodorant.

He always sees his s/o applying so much liquid and oil on her face but he never knows what those are.

One day, his S/O ran for groceries and he's alone in the house, that's when he let his instructive thoughts win.

He rushed to the bedroom, picking up the pretty bottle one by one, smelling them one by one.

Finally, he decided to apply them on his face. Don't worry, he has seen you doing it every day so at least, he remembered the routine.

You came back and saw your husband sitting on the chair with a book.

( Something's wrong with him ) You thought quietly and stared at him for 2 or 3 minutes.

And then, you giggled.

"You used mine right? "

Fukuzawa didn't answer but his tomato face admitted what he did. You decided you should gife your husband.

Next day,You gifted him with a set of skincare which was released especially for middle aged men.

Now, you're even jealous of him because being 20 years younger than him, his skin is now better than yours , glowing and glowing.

[epickiya722]

That reminds me! For a while, I did think rabbit!Izuku was a fanon thing, but I would say it is one of those more semi-canon/implied things!

Yes, Hori has drawn sheep!Izuku before in sketches, or of the adjacent (like the winter sketch where he is drawn with a ram, I think it is) and you can compare Izuku to a sheep.

He is a little sheepish (ah? Get it? You can throw tomatoes at me for that one) sometimes and he has the curly hair that would make you think of sheep when you look at it.

Sheep, despite one may believe, they are intelligent animals. Tend to be emotional and capable of forming bonds, think of how they are in flocks. Sheep are real chill until you mess with them.

It's the same for Izuku. He is intelligent and through the story, he has formed close bonds. You can say his classmates and teachers have became his flock. He is also emotional. (How I relate.) We have seen Izuku is rather relaxes until it's time to really get into some action and as we know, he will mess someone up.

Here's the thing though. He is also rabbit coded.

He can be both! Characters can have more than one animal, color, and so on that symbolizes them. (EX: JJK - Yuji is represented by both a white wolf and a tiger.)

Now you may be thinking, how is it rabbit!Izuku implied.

Well, look at his suit. Put the hood up and what do you see? A rabbit! Also, with his very first suit, if you really look at his face (mask on, ears up), Izuku resembles Horikoshi's previous protagonist Shiina who is a humanoid, you guessed it, rabbit. (I think it's cool that their main colors, green & black -> Izuku and red & white -> Shiina are opposites.)

I'll link the post here so you can read more into some details as to how Izuku is like a rabbit.

To be honest, I don't think anyone is wrong for thinking Izuku as a rabbit or a sheep. He is both, so to me, you're right either way.

Heck, while we're here, I also see Izuku as a spider.

Just that second I know about five of you probably went "whaaaaat".

Hear me out though!

We know Horikoshi is a Marvel fan and with Izuku having Blackwhip (and Hanta with his tape quirk) we see the reference to the famous hero, Spider-Man.

Therefore, obviously, spiders.

Izuku uses Blackwhip to get around and capture whoever he targets (just as a spider would with web). Visually, we see how is Blackwhip is used, but also if you look at how Izuku "wears" it especially during his Dark Deku days, the tendrils resemble spider legs kind of. Real spooky and I love it.

There's also the number, 8, which is a number that plays significance to the story.

Izuku's name makes reference to the number 9. He is the ninth user of OFA, so that would mean there were 8 OFA users before him. We know there was a 8-year time skip. Midoriya had (stop...) 8 freckles.

How many legs does a spider has? Eight!

Now whether you say all of this is just coincidence or not, I wouldn't say it deters from the fact that Izuku can be seen as more than one animal.

In fact, a rabbit-sheep-spider hybrid Izuku... I'd love that to see that. Probably the most cryptid looking masterpiece...

[riddle-me-ri]

a/n: i just wanted an excuse to write some fun bantering dialogue lol, slight canon divergence but it's basically based on the scene in part 2 where Suzie Q first sees Joseph without his mask for the first time and it's just reader in place of Suzie Q and absolutely nothing horrendous happens afterwards….ifykyk

Content Warning: some slight swearing, I make all my reader’s sailor mouths sorry, and some slight canon divergence, obviously lol

Word Count: 832

Joseph Joestar x Reader - Nice Face

There truly was never a dull moment the day Lisa Lisa took on another student.

You were always fond of Caesar even if his flirting could go a little overboard, and you often had to brush him off before your face became the world's biggest tomato.

But this new student, Joseph Joestar…someone else entirely.

Bombastic, brazen, and bright.

You couldn't deny he did liven up the place just when you thought you got used to everyone and had the closest thing you can manage to a routine serving Lisa Lisa.

However, you couldn't help but wonder what he looked like under that mask- Lisa Lisa had him put it on before they even got back to the island, so you never truly saw his face.

You would never admit it to him out loud, but with his sharp and bright green eyes and stupidly god-like physique… you can't help but assume he's handsome..it's just a matter of how handsome….

And if that helps leviate the headaches he otherwise causes you.

While Joseph did break the monotony of just you and Lisa Lisa, with the occasional Caesar…and even though Joseph had his amusing moments, the Englishman could be aggravating and stubborn.

Often teasing you, it didn't take Joseph long to find your buttons and press them incessantly with no hesitation.

You sighed as you wondered what the hot head was up to-

“Hey!” A familiar voice called your name from behind you.

You turned and immediately froze. “W-Who the hell are you?!”

You quickly stepped backwards to try and keep your distance from the large stranger.

“Huh? Don't play stupid, you're already a natural!”

“Hey-huh?”

You cautiously stepped closer, those eyes, that accent….the insult..

“J-Jojo? Is that you?”

“Oh look, they do have a brain!” He snickered.

“Shut up limey! I've never seen you without that breathing mask on until now! I didn't recognize you, shit for brains!”

“Oh yeah..” Joseph completely ignored your insult as he brought his hand up to his stupidly chiseled jaw.

Also relishing in the fact the lower half of his face was free. “I guess I did arrive here with that damn thing on…”

“Yeah see, so I forgive you for scaring the hell out of me-”

“You should've seen your face though-it was pretty great!”

“Yeah well, I'll ask Lisa Lisa about upgrading you to a muzzle next.”

“Oohh kinky~”

You groaned. You take back every curious thought you had about seeing his face.

It was a stupid thought.

He is so stupid.

“But be honest, whatcha think?”

“Of what?”

“Don't be daft, my face! Everything you dreamed about?”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh please, if you're in my dreams, it's a nightmare.”

Joseph snickered. “So you do dream about me?”

Oh, if only you were a few feet taller and your hands were just a bit bigger so you could wrap them around his gargantuan neck-

“I don't-but if I did…I would like to think my imagination can do a much better job..”

“Ha! Yeah, right! Now that you've seen my face, it'll be all you can think about..”

“Maybe…that and the multiple ways I wanna go about punching it.”

Joseph sighed, somewhat exasperatedly, before crossing his arms. “Ha, that would be the day…”

He cleared his throat and scratched the back of his neck. “I…er…am sorry for giving you a scare, I completely forgot about it.”

You offered a half smile. “It's okay, Jojo…how did you get it off anyway?”

“Oh- I defeated one of the Pillar Men.”

Your eyes widened. “What?”

“That reminds me! I got to tell Lisa Lisa right away! See ya, love!”

You shake your head. This man was going to be the death of you…if him, and Caesar didn't prevent the death of the world via The Pillar Men…

You were going to absolutely regret your next move, but…what the hell..

“Hey Jojo!”

Joseph turned back towards you before heading up the stairs.

“I guess…if I had to be honest…your face isn't half bad. I dare say it's a handsome one…maybe after a drink or two.”

Joseph snickered. “Well, you'll have to get used to it sober, you can't be drunk through our entire marriage…”

“Marriage? Where did that come from? What fantasy land are you living in?”

“A possible one..I know how crazy you are about me…why I bet you can't live without me~”

“No, you drive me crazy…Now go see Lisa Lisa!”

“The feeling's mutual, love!” He shot you a wink before heading up the stairs and out of your sight.

What's really crazy is the fact he said that.

You two have been fighting in a battle of wits for months, and the mention of marriage out of the blue was some random Hell Mary shot to catch you off guard…

For a second, it did work…but thankfully, you were able to bounce back despite your initial shock…

But now you've got that thought mulling over in your head…

Marrying…Joseph Joestar?? Jojo??

Pfft..yeah right.

[maladaptivescorpio]

Mr. and Mrs. Styles Chapter 1 Preview

A/N: thank you for your patience. Chapter releases tomorrow

Which all lead to today: the payroll mishap, the scrutiny of the Board, the stagnation of your real career coupled with the imminent collapse of your fake one, and the continuous mystery of where the fuck your husband was, had all finally coagulated into the shit stew you were boiling inside of. You were so frustrated with everything and everyone, all you were looking forward to was spending the night in with some takeout pizza, an ungodly amount of wine, and some trashy reality tv.

All those plans flew out the window as soon as you pulled up to your house and saw a black BMW already in the driveway.

If you weren't as physically and mentally exhausted as you were, you'd be more upset. Of course, of all days he could show up, your tardy husband would show up on the one day you're desperate to rip your perfect wife mask off and take a break.

You park next to his car before pressing your forehead into the steering wheel, breathing deeply to calm yourself while letting the voice in your head scream herself hoarse. Somehow, you were going to have to meet your husband for the first time and convince him that you were a powerful spy who was to be taken seriously, except you'd had a bad day (week… month, actually) and you could really use a night to recoup. An admission of weakness like that was what you had learned to hide at your job. Sharing vulnerability was exposing how to exploit someone. Your husband may be your partner, but he had been the object of your ire for so long that you had crafted him into the villain.

Stuffing your belongings into your purse, you make yourself presentable enough for a first impression and gather up the last of your wavering strength. The walk up to your front door feels as if you’re walking through tar from how much the day weighs you down.

When you open the door, the last thing you're expecting is to smell the savory tang of basil and tomato cooking on the stove. You follow the scent and the soft wailing guitar of a Fleetwood Mac song into the kitchen. There, with his back to you, was a tall brunette man, shaking his hips to the music as he stirred some sauce on the stovetop. His t-shirt exposes his tan, lean arms that are graffiti-ed with tattoos of all sorts, mermaids and playing cards and names and a mess of other oddities. The curls atop his head shake loosely with each swish of his hips. When the oven timer starts to beep, he's quick to shut off the beeping before reaching into the oven. He pulls out two trays with a homemade pizza crust on each. It's when he turns to rest the bread on the island that he notices you. His mossy green eyes lock onto you like a missile to its target. The smile that overwhelms his face is infectious.

“Honey, you're home!” he greets, lightly chuckling at his adaptation of the usual greeting. “Just in time, too. How was your day, beautiful?” he asks as he rounds the kitchen island, stretching his hands out towards you. Your brain could just put together the concept of a hug when his arms encircled your shoulders, carefully squeezing you into him.

You couldn't remember the last time someone had shown you this level of affection genuinely. You've slept with targets, and had done all the seducing necessary to get there, but a warm embrace? Encased inside someone's arms and they're not attempting to overpower you? It was a foreign thing for you.

He smelled like a cafe, spicy cinnamon and mellow vanilla, with some deeper scent you couldn't quite place. It was all overwhelming, his intriguing smell, his smile that gave you ease, his strong arms that you wanted to collapse into. Wrapped up inside him, it was easier for your tired mind to forget you were supposed to be pretending.

[pinkchampagne]

♡ 365 Soft ♡

Pink Champagne's Personal Development Plan

updated december 6, 2024

this is my version of 75 Hard, modified for a realistic approach to long-term personal development and self-improvement. though i was inspired by the structure of 75 Hard, this isn't a short-term challenge. i've organized this plan as a lifestyle blueprint that can be continued for longer than 75 days.

unlike a crash diet or a challenge intended to be started and stopped over and over again, this set of guidelines can be easily implemented into one's life, and here’s why:

i will not lie and say i don't care about physical appearance, but the focus of this strategy is to feel better and improve overall health. my plan explicitly outlines which foods to gravitate towards and which to cut back on. there are no bad foods; this is just what works for me.

crash diets and workout challenges might produce the superficial results you want, but implementing a health strategy that focuses on the big picture is more beneficial in the long run. i’m easing into it, allowing cheat days, and not setting a 75-day timeline. give yourself grace and celebrate your wins.

i love the basic concept and structure of 75 Hard, however, progress pictures are generally most helpful for those who are trying to improve their physical appearance. since this is a long-term plan prioritizing health over appearance, i replaced this section with one on consistency in general, focusing on routines and habits. i also added a self care section because that’s extremely important to me. i will continue updating this post.

with healthy habits comes a healthy body and mind. take care of yourself and you will reap the benefits, mentally and physically.

🫧 DIET

alcohol:

weekends only

never alone

water between drinks

no shots/shooters/bombs etc.

5 drink limit

be mindful of who you're with; do they encourage good habits/behavior?

cut back on the following significantly:

sugar

dairy

carbs

red meat

processed foods

caffeine

exceptions: feta, parmesan, greek yogurt, kefir, mayo, bacon, honey, matcha, celcius

notes:

begin taking marine collagen and chlorophyll for skin and hygiene

increase fruits and veggies: romaine lettuce, tomatoes, green peppers are my focus right now.

increase protein intake: chickpeas, peanut butter, eggs, black beans.

honorable mentions: oats, blueberries, avocado, sweet potato, carrots, broccoli, spinach, kale, white meat, kombucha

🫧 WATER

100 oz a day. i'm purchasing a brita faucet filter and a new water bottle to encourage this goal.

🫧 WORKOUT ROUTINE

mondays, wednesdays, fridays:

30 donkey kicks, each side

30 fire hydrants, each side

3x

tuesdays & thursdays:

30 second plank

30 second side plank, each side

30 crunches

3x

notes:

sometimes i do my ab workout on saturday or sunday as well to get a third one in.

i plan on working cardio and physical therapy exercises into this routine eventually.

i’m thinking of purchasing a home pilates reformer!

🫧 SELF CARE

skin

wash face twice a day + use zit stickers

rhassoul clay/charcoal/honey face masks

sheet masks

actually use my quartz roller

ice roller, gua sha, steamer

red light therapy!!

body

exfoliating body scrub

first aid beauty kp bump eraser for legs

glycolic acid for legs + under arms

pumice stones for feet

misc.

continue getting hair cut every month and a half

be more consistent with brow waxing

get rid of old clothes + build new wardrobe

🫧 KNOWLEDGE AND GROWTH

daily podcast playlist

personal development podcasts & youtube - listen to at least one ep/vid a day

date yourself instead podcast – lyss boss

hail yes podcast

hailey gamba on youtube

thewizardliz on youtube

tam kaur youtube + self obsessed podcast

books - 30 minutes a day

freedom is a constant struggle - angela davis

a people's history of the united states - howard zinn

i'm taking book and podcast recs!

🫧 CONSISTENCY

follow budget

follow morning, evening, bedtime, and weekend routines

meal prep for weekday lunches: couscous salad with chickpeas, feta, sundried tomatoes and white wine vinegar + lemon juice dressing

create & post content every day ♡

[gazspookiebear]

Ghost hcs mostly him having autism

Has compression socks and gloves bc they help keep him regulated, but he HATES tight clothing anywhere else. He strictly wears loose and baggy clothing, like oversized hoodies

Hates flavored water unless it's tea. Green tea? Sure. Any kind of sparkling water? Nuh uh

Likes mud and rain puddles. Don't ask me why

Can't stand the smell of coffee in the morning, it overwhelms him. He can and will leave the room if someone just made coffee

Doesn't like hugs, or really just being touched in general. (Mostly due to trauma, but the autism isn't helping either)

That being said, when he does get hugged, he prefers it to be firm. Heavy knuckles running up and down his back is the quickest way to make him melt in your arms. Soap is the only one allowed to do this, but Price and Gaz will very occasionally be offered one of those awkward one-armed half hugs if they need one.

He masks most of the time (literally and figuratively) so it's not very obvious that he's autistic from first glance. If he's comfortable with the people around him, or if he's alone, he might stim

He does jazz hands as a stim, and can occasionally be found tiptoe walking

He also knocks his knuckles together and rasps them on desks. He likes the noise.

He prefers rough or smooth textures over soft/fluffy ones. Denim, mesh, leather, linen, and polyester are the only fabric types he'll be comfortable in.

He keeps his hair buzzed, not just because he's in the military, but because he pulls on it and ends up tearing it out of his head when he gets sensory overload from it touching his face (me too bro, me too)

He listens to metal songs on max volume when he's sensory seeking (you can hear that shit through his headphones)

He doesn't like having things in his ears, so he prefers headphones over earbuds. He won't complain if he has to use earbuds though.

Surprisingly enough, he can't stand weighted blankets. Unless that weighted blanket is Soap 😏

He gets aggressive when he's excited, so he'll often go to the gym to blow off some steam. Rookies see him going to town on a punching bag and assume he's pissed, but really he just doesn't know how else to express his feelings.

He hyperfixated on komodo dragons for a while (he now has several random facts in his arsenal)

His special interest is weapons. Any kind, he just thinks they're interesting. Especially crossbows. (He knows just about every weapon under the sun, ask him literally anything)

He steals Soap's phone to play neko atsume (he has become emotionally attached to the cats, but you didn't hear me say that)

He prefers to sleep with blankets under him instead of on top because it makes his skin crawl if they're not the right texture.

He's always cold but radiates heat like a motherfucker, definitely has an electric blanket at his place

He has a favorite pen that he carries everywhere, refuses to use anything else.

He eats the most random food combinations. Tomatoes with sour cream? Delicious. Avocados with cream cheese? Absolutely divine. A normal fucking sandwich? Hell no.

He struggles with hygiene but hates feeling dirty. He'll often force himself to shower even when he knows it'll drain his energy.

He has to buy a specific type of eyeblack because of the texture. He doesn't like any kind that feels too greasy. Not that it'll stop him from wearing it if that's all that's available, but he won't be happy about it.

He used to bite his hands as a kid. Hard. He has a few small scars because of it

He enjoys heavy bass. He likes low rumbling/knocking noises. He may or may not be considering buying a bass drum...

Alternates between sleeping in a hammock and a bed at his place

Loves chairs that spin, though you'd never catch him spinning 😔

Everything he says sounds sarcastic, even when he's being genuine. This has caused many people to get annoyed with him.

He tends to grind his teeth, so he chews on tree bark to keep his mouth busy

He used to climb trees as a kid because he liked the way the wind felt from up high in the leaves

He isn't a fan of the way paper feels. That being said, He loves old books. He spends most of his downtime at the library since it's quiet and peaceful, plus it gives him a way to get out of the house and busy himself.

He still wears a mask off duty for many reasons. For starters, he's never been the best at facial reactions. He thinks it's easier to just hide it altogether than to try and contort his face into the "appropriate" reaction. Secondly, he has stims and occasional tics where his mouth moves, and he doesn't want people to stare. (Snapping his mouth like a shark... so real to me) Also, he just thinks it should be common practice. He's never understood why people don't cover their mouth and nose, or at the very least cover it when they cough/sneeze.

He will actually fan the air in front of him if someone he doesn't like just walked by. He doesn't want to breathe "their air". (Graves was very confused as to why Ghost kept waving the air every time he walked by)

He wears sunglasses in public, regardless of whether or not it's sunny out. He just doesn't want to have to make eye contact with people if he doesn't have to. He can make eye contact, but he much prefers not to.

He punches his legs or the walls when overstimulated.

He has dromophobia (fear of crossing streets) and tends to speedwalk across roads

Has the biggest vocabulary known to man because he used to read dictionaries as a kid. (He can and will abuse this power when someone is annoying him)

Prefers non-fiction. That's it.

He cleans doorknobs daily. He specifically keeps a pack of wipes with him to clean doorknobs- who the fuck knows when they were cleaned last. He can't stand the idea of touching something that dozens, if not hundreds of people (who may or may not have washed their hands) have touched prior.

His favorite color is orange. He always avoids touching anything orange because he's worried he'll ruin it somehow.

He washes his hands before and after everything he does (when he can)

He has a crowbar. He keeps it beside his bed, and he's very fond of it.

He can stay completely still for concerningly long amounts of time. Useful for missions, unnerving the rest of the time. Can and will be seen in the corner of a room staring at people.

@waiting-so-long I'm so glad someone wanted to hear my nonsense lmao

[ladysmutwriter]

RolePlay

Edward Nashton x Reader

⚠️: Smut, grinding, cumming w clothes on, reader doesn't know Edward is the Riddler, p0rn w no plot, mask kink.

Your lips were on Edward's his sweaty hands shakily pressing down on your waist.

You broke the kiss, your chest feeling heavy as you regained your breath. Looking around, you see a familiar looking green mask;

"never knew you were a Riddler fanboy"

you said as you went pick up the mask, Edward going stiff as he saw you look at the mask.

It was as if his vocal chords cut, thankfully you didn't think much of it.

It happened so quick, from fear to being caught, to extreme arousal as he saw you put it on, only your eyes visible, your eyelashes peeking out as you crawled on top of him, your hand going to press down on his neck, softly choking him.

Imitating the Riddler's voice, you spoke to him.

"Please do not lie, what is the price for your blind eye?"

You said as you grinded on him, applying more pressure on his neck, Edward's face going red at the lack of oxygen, but his eyes going up as he felt your hips moving on top of his, his erection oh so deliciously grinding against your clothed groin.

You were about to keep talking, until Edward's face went tomato red, his eyes rolling back so far they almost went white, his mouth opening as he let out a high pitched moan.You felt a wet spot under you, seeing his pants getting wet as he came.

[litle-toon1]

SOMEONE PLEASE READ THIS AND TELL ME IN THE COMMENTS IF IT IS AT LEAST INTERESTING

— Are you going to help me open that door? — I asked, casting an inquisitive glance at the little rat perched atop the lab counter, as if he were the secret guardian of the place.

He responded by scratching behind his ear, clearly more concerned with his own problems than with mine.

— Ah, of course... you’ve got way more important things to deal with, right? — I murmured, half disappointed, half amused.

I barely finished the sentence when a door at the back of the lab creaked open slowly. A man entered, absorbed in the clipboard he was holding, oblivious to everything around him.

Instinctively, I ducked down, gripping my silenced revolver tightly.

He walked toward the counters, his back turned to me. It was my perfect chance: silently, I slipped up behind him and struck his head sharply with the butt of my revolver.

The man dropped like a stone—instantly unconscious.

— Hm... damn — I muttered as I looked down at him on the floor — I needed that face.

Quickly, I lifted his head and compared it to the reference photo showing who could open that door. The confirmation made me sigh in frustration.

— Come on, big guy — I murmured as I hoisted him by the arms and dragged him down the quiet lab corridor.

When we reached the locked door, I positioned his face in front of the facial recognition screen. The system analyzed for a few seconds that felt like forever until finally a green light flashed, granting access to a room filled with digital archive boxes.

— That’s it... — I whispered with a satisfied smile, dropping him to the floor and giving his head a quick kick to make sure he wouldn’t wake up anytime soon.

I stepped inside and pulled a USB drive from my pocket. With nimble fingers, I plugged it into one of the large digital archive boxes and began extracting crucial data.

— Too easy — I thought to myself — the explosives are already set up on this floor. Now all I have to do is get out of here and rush to the airport for my flight to New York...

As soon as I removed the USB drive, I prepared to flee. But before leaving the lab, I paused.

There he was: the little rat on the same counter, still trying to navigate a maze meant for mice.

I ran over and carefully scooped him up in my cold hands, placing him in one of the front pockets of my combat outfit.

— You’re too good to die here like this — I said with an unexpected tenderness in this cold and dangerous place.

I ran out of the laboratory, hurriedly descending the stairs toward the lower floor of Wayne Tower. The building was strangely empty—after all, it was the early hours on Christmas Eve, so that made some sense.

As my heart raced, I got distracted looking down at the floor. In an instant, I bumped into someone.

— H-hey! — a surprised female voice sounded, and we both fell to the ground with a thud.

My body froze.

— That voice... it couldn’t be. No way, universe! Don’t you dare do what I’m imagining you did! —

With panic rising inside me, I slowly lifted my eyes to face the person collapsed on top of me. Her pale skin now marked with green spots, her reddish hair falling messy, and those damn green eyes that seemed to pierce my soul.

Good thing I was wearing a mask—because honestly, I must have been as red as a tomato at that moment.

— ...Damn... — I muttered through clenched teeth, unable to hide the mix of shock and despair overwhelming me.

The heavy silence between us seemed to suffocate the air around, while my mind desperately struggled to find a way out of this unexpected and intense situation. The woman on top of me was a whirlwind of emotions—anger, surprise, despair, but above all, confusion.

We stayed frozen in that position, our eyes locked on each other. It was a strange scene, though nothing there was normal. It had been so long since I’d seen her that she seemed taller than I remembered—or maybe I had shrunk a bit over the years.

Her mouth slightly open in shock made no sound. Until a voice broke the trance.

— Can’t leave you alone for five minutes before you jump on some poor girl, Ivy? — Catwoman’s ironic voice echoed down the corridor.

She stood in front of a door, wearing her traditional outfit and that mischievous smile I would honestly pay never to see again.

In a quick leap, Ivy got up throwing a deadly glare at Catwoman. Which only widened her smile as she rolled her eyes toward me.

— Hmm... blondes have always been your type, haven’t they? — she said teasingly analyzing me with a provocative sparkle in her eyes.

I felt heat rise in my face; even with the mask on, I’m sure my shyness was obvious.

— Damn... I need to get out of here before the explo— — I started thinking aloud but before I could finish, an urgent beep sounded in my earpiece: there was only one minute left before the explosives detonated.

My heart jumped. I got up quickly considering running away without saying a word. But my sentimental side wouldn’t let me—those idiots still mattered to me. Damn it.

— T-there are explosives upstairs. They’ll go off in one minute. You should get out of here now... — I warned hurriedly already running toward the window through which I had entered.

Ivy remained standing still, her eyes fixed in the direction where that strange blonde woman had disappeared.

— That voice... the pale skin... the eyes... it’s her. — Ivy thought feeling a slight flush rise on her face—a mix of recognition and disbelief.

Suddenly, a deafening explosion from upstairs shook the building accompanied by a tremor that snapped her out of her thoughts.

— Shit! We have to get out of here, Ivy! — Catwoman shouted pulling her hard toward the windows they had come from.

Emerging onto the rooftop of a much lower neighboring building, both turned to face Wayne Tower. The floor that had exploded was engulfed in a thick cloud of black smoke billowing out of shattered windows. In the distance, the sound of police sirens and fire trucks echoed through the silent early morning.

— What the hell was that? — Selina asked, her eyes fixed on the burning tower. — Who was that with you? Some kind of terrorist?

Ivy remained silent, lost in her memories as she relived every detail of that blonde woman.

— ... I... think it was Harley... — she finally answered, staring blankly ahead.

Selina turned to Ivy with wide eyes, stepping closer and gently resting her shoulder against hers.

— Hmm... the skin was as pale as hers and the voice sounded familiar... but the hair was too short and she wasn’t dressed like Harley. It’s been seven years, Ivy. I don’t think she’d come back to Gotham — Selina continued with a serious yet understanding tone — And even if she did... why the hell would she do something like this? A terrorist attack in the middle of the night at Wayne Tower? You know Harley’s style has always been more about vandalism, paint bombs, and controlled chaos... not such brutal attacks.

The silence between them carried a heavy weight, each trying to absorb the gravity of what had just happened and the implications of the suspicions beginning to arise.

It was six in the morning when Harley realized her escape from Gotham would be delayed. All exits from the city were blocked—the flights canceled due to an impending snowstorm, and bridges closed because of ice accumulation.

— Damn it... I’m going to be stuck here for a few days... — Harley muttered, collapsing onto the bed in the Airbnb where she was staying.

I looked at the little rat I had rescued from the lab, nestled in a box lined with blankets, sleeping deeply. An involuntary smile appeared on my face seeing the creature so calm and oblivious to the chaos around it.

— Hmm... I wish I had no worries like you, little buddy... — she said, gently stroking the box before giving in to exhaustion. — I’ll sleep a bit and then go buy something for you to eat.

As she settled into her own bed's blankets, a wave of exhaustion enveloped her. She closed her eyes, but a shadow of worry haunted her.

— ... I hope I don’t run into her again... — Harley whispered to herself, letting her thoughts slowly fade away as darkness embraced her sleep.

[plantbasedlady]

Pinned Post

Color Key: (Read first, very important)

most important information

important information

please read

positive information

negative information

#tag

et cetera descriptive or ancillary text

Anons and DMs are always open! If you do want to directly message me, I highly recommend adding me on

my discord: mindgirl

I may occasionally edit this pinned post with new / remembered information to better express myself.

Beginning of bio for short attention span havers:

Names: Amaranth / Amy (please ask before using Amy)

My age, as of my birthday in 2023: 23 years old

My preferred pronouns: she/they/it

My preferred honorifics: Ma'am, Miss - Ask before using any others

Sexuality/Romance/Etc: Demisexual/Asexual, Panromantic, Poly

Likes, in no particular order:

TTRPGs, TCGs, Video Games, Writing, Art, Music, Theatre, Movies, TV Shows, Animation, Cooking / Baking, Computer Science, Psychology, Hypnosis, Learning, All forms of life, Defiance in the face of injustice, Kindness, Empathy, Therapy, Anything that pisses off my mother, Webcomics (yes including that one), Generally pretty much every form of telling stories available to me

TTRPGs that I play / have played or at least read some:

DnD 5e, Pathfinder 2e, Masks, Dungeon World, Thirsty Sword Lesbians

Favorite Foods/Drinks, in no particular order:

Takis, Raspberries, Blackberries, Crispy ginger beef, Broccoli with cheese, shrimp fried rice, Monkey bread, Catfish, Homemade kombucha, Dr. Pepper, Water, Sourdough bread

I will probably immediately like you in some capacity if you meet one of the following criterion:

Goth, Punk, current or former "Scene" girl, Woman (bonus points if your hair is short), Witch/etc, GNC, Using "She/Her, They/Them, She/They, or Fae/Faer" pronouns, Nice to me

Disclaimer:

I hold the stance that to believe every single cishet man to be a chaser or bigoted is bigoted in itself, so don't discount yourself if you are both a cisgender man and only into women, you still have a chance, even if I may be biased against you.

Dislikes, in no particular order:

Purposeful lack of empathy, Executive tasks, Purposeful ghosting, The USA, Law enforcement, Any form of purposeful bigotry, Gatekeeping, Calling anything/anyone "cringy," Myself, "cancelling" someone/something without significant evidence and reason to do so, deciding that something/someone is unequivocally good or bad, rejecting the idea that people change, Logical fallacies, the word "Lazy," Conflict, Rejection, Purposeful lack of honesty (especially in a relationship), excessive vegetables/greens, cucumbers, tomatoes, excessive onions, non-crunchy asparagus.

I'm just here looking for friends that enjoy similar things to what I also like to partake in, be they horny or not.

- - - - - - - -

Frequently used tags and what they mean:

#hypnosis, #cw hypnosis, #hypnok1nk

typically used as a trio when tagging hypnosis themed art, or any mention of hypnosis in an ask response or any post in general

#thoughts on the brain

always used for posts that are just rambles, or off topic

#my voice

will always be attached to posts that feature my voice in an audible format, whether directly attached or on the audio hosting website that I typically use

#my art, #digital art

Art that I have created. Will usually include #digital art, as pretty much all art that I make is in Clip Studio Paint

#ask response

A response to an ask. Exactly what you think it means.

#brainwashing

Explicit mention of some form of conditioning, classical or operant, usually paired with #hypnosis, #cw hypnosis, and #hypnok1nk.

#maestri sub tag

Woag me? A bottom? Surprising right? Wrong. This tag is for all of my posts (after a certain point where I started using the tag, I'm not going to find all my older subby posts and tag them) in which I am being a complete and utter subby little bottom. Please don't make fun of me too much.

- - - - - - - -

If you read all of my pinned post, congratulations! I will probably like you a lot more because you are emotionally invested in me and learning as much as you can about me.

:>

[salty-dracon]

So what other animal designs did you have in mind? I imagined Takumi is a fox and Karua is an arctic fox.

Oh, that's so cool. I love the idea of Takumi and Karua as two different kinds of foxes.

So the ones I've drawn at least partially (while overseas, while we didn't know much about some of these characters' personalities), and I can't wait to finish coloring, are-

Takumi- Border collie with mostly black fur and a white muzzle.

Karua- White goat. Her rose ribbon is tied to one of her horns. I wanted Karua and Takumi to have a farm animal theme, but that was sort of lost with the others.

Hiruko- Horse with black fur and a white stripe down the nose. I think it fits with her being super tall and lowkey dangerous.

Yugamu- Hognose bat. I had a hard time deciding this one, since I wanted an animal that felt a little "occult". I actually think a spider fits him better (with four visible eyes and the eyepatch covering two of them without changing its design), but I'm too scared of spiders to even draw one, let alone look at one.

Eito- Housecat, specifically a white or blondeish cat. The white jacket is still very big on him. I can't really explain my rationale except "look at his CGs". The cookout one? Happy cat. The one where he's waking up on the desk? Sleepy cat.

Kyoshika- White/albino fox. And when I do anthros, I like giving the super serious characters (I didn't know her gag would be the opposite of that!) giant pointy ears, so hers are very tall and pointy.

Muscle Girl- Lioness. Some of her poses reminded me of Wuk Lamat and the Fem Hrothgar from FFXIV, plus when people think "strength" they usually think lions, so I think it fits. (Her sprites would look adorable on a lion face too!)

Darumi- Parrot. Worth stating that I wanted to go with a parrot specifically because I couldn't think of a mammal that fit her, but I still wanted an animal that reflected her colorful design.

As for the remainder-

Frog Boy / Bear Boy / Green Hat - Yorkshire Terrier. This is going to sound weird, but I grew up with this Yorkie plushie that has roughly the same body shape as him, so I just felt like doing it.

Tsubasa - Golden Retriever or Yellow Lab. I guess she's supposed to be the most normal one of the cast, plus golden retrievers and labs famously look adorable in baseball caps.

Ima - Ferret. He would have more stripes and darker coloration than his sister. Plus the wings would look kind of cool in Hemoanima form. His more aggressive sprites would look cool on a ferret face too.

Kako - Ferret. She would have lighter-colored fur, maybe even be albino? I'm not sure if they're meant to look completely different yet. Ferrets are interesting because moreso than dogs or cats, they're animals that can be found living in the wild as well as being kept as pets, which I think works well with the dual nature of the twins.

Gaku - Chihuahua. He just has that vibe of a guy who's used to being pushed around and can be a little dramatic and defensive. I guess he comes from a rougher background, so one detail I'd add is a slice in his ear.

Takemaru - This is going to sound weird, but an alpaca. Alpacas can be aggressive, but I just think it would be hilarious to have a badass biker character who's a buff alpaca.

Kurara - I could answer this more definitively if we knew what she looked like under the tomato mask, but assuming it's a regular human head and she's not secretly an Invader or something, I'd design her to look like a Corgi. They've become synonymous with the British Royal Family fandom (one of my childhood art teachers had one for this reason), plus that one sprite where she points at the viewer somehow screams Corgi to me. (Or, a Shiba Inu, maybe? Would that also be appropriate? IDK.)