#but it feels like people are deliberately making me feel weird for wanting to make stuff for myself and not profit off my hobby

[nikanyon]

Operation: Make Him Jealous —Yuji Itadori

07. Break it before it breaks you -> 08. Just a game to you

It was stupid, maybe. Or maybe it was overdue.

The messages Nobara had sent you sat untouched for a few hours—left on read, just like the ones she sent Yuji. She had tried. She really had. But there was only so much one girl could do when both of her closest friends were hell-bent on pretending they didn’t care.

Eventually, one of you caved.

Or maybe it wasn’t caving—maybe it was just exhaustion. Maybe you were tired of avoiding the same hallway, tired of the awkward silences in the group chat, tired of catching your own reflection and remembering how your voice had shaken last time you saw him.

Either way, when Yuji texted “Can we talk?” You said “Fine.”

You met in the quad after class—public enough that neither of you could start yelling without drawing attention, but quiet enough to pretend it was neutral ground. The sky was overcast, and the wind tugged gently at the sleeves of your hoodie as you walked toward the bench near the steps, heart in your throat.

Yuji was already there. Sitting. Elbows on his knees, head low like he was already bracing himself.

You sat beside him without speaking.

He didn't look at you right away. "Nobara told me to talk to you."

You breathed out a soft, humorless laugh. "She told me the same."

Silence.

You picked at the seam of your sleeve, trying to bite back the unease pooling behind your ribs. "So, what are we doing? Clearing the air?"

Yuji glanced at you then, eyes tired. “I don’t know. Thought we should try.”

You nodded once. It should’ve been easy. Just say what you meant. But you didn’t know what that even was anymore.

It was awkward — that particular kind of awkward that comes from too many unspoken things hanging between two people who used to say everything. You almost left. But he spoke again.

“I didn’t mean to ruin your study date or anything.”

Your eyes snapped to him. “Study what?”

Yuji blinked like it was obvious. “Your date. With Yuta.”

You stared. “That wasn’t a date.”

He furrowed his brow, confused. “Megumi said it was.”

You felt heat rise in your chest. “And you just believed him?”

“I mean,” Yuji scratched the back of his neck, “you didn’t deny it—”

“Because it wasn’t a thing to deny!” you cut in, incredulous.

“So I was just supposed to watch you get all cozy with someone else and not say anything?”

“Cozy?” You laughed, bitter. “You really hear yourself right now? You showed up uninvited, sulked like a child, and now you’re mad about a fantasy you made up!”

He scoffed, taking a step back. “You’re mad I thought it was a date? Really?”

“No, Yuji,” you said, voice sharp, “I’m mad you let that assumption spiral into some weird passive-aggressive tantrum and now you’re standing here acting like I’m the one who’s crazy!”

He was already heated, but now his eyes narrowed, lips pressed in a thin line. “You’ve been picking fights since the second I walked in the café.”

“Only because you’ve been acting like I owe you something!”

“I never said that!”

You felt your voice rise, “every time I talk to someone else, you act like it’s personal. Like I’m deliberately trying to piss you off—”

“Because it feels like you are!”

You stared at him, stunned. “You think everything I do is about you? Yuji, not everything revolves around your ego.”

He laughed bitterly, stepping back. “And not everything I do is meant to hurt you, but you sure act like it.”

“Maybe because it does.”

The words bounced between you, louder than either of you expected. You both stood still, the quiet afterward tense enough to crack glass. It felt like breathing was suddenly harder.

The silence that followed your argument didn’t cool anything down. If anything, it made it worse. Every breath felt like it could tip things over again. And still, neither of you backed down.

Then, at the exact same time, not planned, not rehearsed, just inevitable, you both said it.

“Maybe we should just end this.”

Not because either of you wanted it. But because it was easier to say it than to admit you didn’t mean it.

Your throat went dry. You hadn’t even meant to say it. Or maybe you had. Maybe it had been sitting just behind your teeth this whole time, waiting for the moment it would finally hurt less to say it than to keep holding it back.

But the worst part wasn’t that you said it.

It was that he did too.

Like he’d already thought it. Like he beat you to it.

Like you’d both been bracing for this to fall apart — and now that it had, neither of you wanted to be the last one still hoping it wouldn’t.

Yuji looked away first, jaw tight. “Right. Okay.”

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Okay.”

You stood there for a moment more, like the air might offer you something to say that didn’t feel like the end.

But it didn’t. You turned and walked away first this time, and he didn’t follow.

[fingertipsmp3]

Maybe I did this to myself but it does irk me when people see me knitting and they ask who it’s for and I say it’s for me and the immediate reaction is “you should sell it” yeah… let me spend at least a week’s worth of my free time making an item I like, want, and would wear just to sell it on etsy, making at most a £2 profit on materials and not being compensated for my time whatsoever 👍🏻

[haarute]

it's amazing how almost all of my friendships (and by almost all i mean Every save like three) are ruined by my own self essentially swerving into a wall and crashing on purpose due to my inability to believe my company could ever be even slightly desirable to anyone and i'd rather just burn it all and die than see myself as someone who intrudes and abuses people's kindness out of my own selfish desire to want companionship.

[its-no-biggie]

hey guys who was gonna tell me that bocchi the rock contained the single most autistic scene in anime history

[sabertoothwalrus]

There’s something I love love loveeee about Laios and how badly he wants to be cool.

Let me preface with this: in general, I believe the harder you try to be cool, the less cool you actually are. The less you care what people think about you, if you’re “cringe” or “weird”, the more likely people will perceive you as confident and self-assured.

There are countless pieces of media where characters try to fit in with some group, change every part of themself to look/act like what they’re “supposed” to be, and end up miserable, often realizing the people they’re trying to impress aren’t worth the trouble.

I’ve experienced this in my own life too! Sometimes when I go out I wear a rainbow propeller cap! Cause I think it’s funny and silly and!! I ALWAYS get compliments!! I don’t wear it to be cool, I wear it because it makes me happy. And people overall have a positive reaction to it. it’s a huge contrast to when I was teenager and didn’t really put as much of myself into my appearance/wardrobe, and barely left any kind of impression on people.

So anyway, let’s get into it.

Laios… he’s been hurt so badly by people. He resented humanity for it. And yet, he still yearns for the approval of others. He wants FRIENDS!!!! and was angry and frustrated to learn his perception of his relationship with Shuro was so drastically different than Shuro’s!!!!

He KNEW that people were put-off by his love of monsters. Up until Falin got eaten, he deliberately suppressed how much he talked about it with others. He probably thought by not talking about monsters so much, it was working!! He was doing all the Right Things now! So Shuro confessing he always hated him was a huge blow.

But the reality is, he loves monsters. And most importantly, he loves cool monsters. He fantasizes about what would make the Ultimate Monster.

He feels very strongly about what he considers “cool” as well. He finds all aspects of monsters fascinating, but can still be HORRIBLY underwhelmed when they look too lame for his tastes.

He knows most people don’t feel the same way he does. He knows his “cool” is everyone else’s “weird”. It’s so tragically sweet how he latches onto Kabru the moment he shows interest in monsters, and takes every opportunity to infodump about them to him.

He wants people to find monsters as cool as he does!! But, he also wants people to think he’s as cool as he finds monsters.

Like!!! djkfghadkfjg IT DOESN'T EVEN BOTHER HIM WHEN PEOPLE HAVE A WRONG IMPRESSION OF HIM! He's FLATTERED by it. It's almost like, at this point, it doesn't matter to him if people don't like him. People can not like him and still think he's cool.

And my favorite thing is, it works. Laios IS cool as fuck. You KNOW he thought he looked so badass when he did this and he was RIGHT:

And yet, this is him trying very hard to look cool. But it's Laios's version of cool. It's almost contradictory, in that sense. Cause he knows people still don't get it. Like. He wants to be cool. He doesn't care about the "normal" ways to be cool. He thinks his cringe thing is cool. He does his cringe thing, that people very much do still think is cringe. So you would think that, since he wants people to think he's cool, he would not do the cringe thing. But he wore the pelt because he thought it was cool. And people clapped and cheered for him anyway.

is what he's doing really so different than this? ^

YAYYYYY WOOO GO LAIOS YOURE SO COOL!!!!!!!

[leviruthan]

asking them if you can hold their hands

summary : reader has auditorial and visual hallucinations, when first meeting them reader requests to touch hands to ensure they're real [requested] (hi I accidentally deleted your message 😭)

characters : all overbloat boys + kalim

RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS

riddle would be really taken aback

not only hand holding seems kinda inappropriate, you just met

"excuse me?? why do you wish to touch my hand?" he would ask in a confused and a bit strict tone

after you explain it, he has an uncertain and worried look in his eyes

seeing the genuine need in your expression, he would nod stiffly

"very well" he says, extending his hand with a formal air

his movements precise and a little stiff, but his touch is gentle

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR

"tch. first meeting and you're already asking for weird favors" he grumbles. crossing his arms loosely over his chest, his golden eyes narrowing slightly as he took you in

inside though, he feels a smug kind of amusement

when you tell him the reason why, he first thinks why should he even bother helping

after a moment's pause though, he would reluctantly offer a hand because well why not, it's not that of a big favour. and you better remember him as being real rather than part of your hallucinations

his palm would probably feel warm and calloused

"get it over with" he'd mutter, though his hand would remain still until you withdrew

MALLEUS DRACONIA

extremely surprised at the request

after all not many people are bold enough to ask to hold his hand

should he be offended since you're randomly asking something that is considered intimate out of the blue when you don't know each other that well? but all he feels is curiosity and amusement

when you explain why malleus would be intrigued

"you wish to ensure my tangibility?" he would ask

without hesitation, he would extend a hand. his long, elegant fingers held still and waiting

his touch is be cool, like smooth stone warmed by the sun

"does this reassure you?"

AZUL ASHENGROTTO

"WH- ah, an interesting request" he'd comment, his tone measured (ignore the first incomplete word) "may I ask why?"

when you tell him why his eyes widen behind his glasses. he would extend his hand, slowly and deliberately with a formal air like he's making a business deal

his touch would be cool and smooth

he'd observe your reaction, if you visibly relax or seem comforted by the touch, his eyes would soften

he would ask a few gentle questions afterward, both out of politeness and genuineness

IDIA SHROUD

idia would flinch when he hears your request, his entire body language radiating discomfort

he would take a step back instinctively

"e-eh?! t-touch?! um I mean w-why?" he'd stammer, his gaze darting nervously avoiding eye contact

his visibly stiffened body would start to relax a bit when you explain the reason

but hand holding!? couldn't there be any other way?

seeing the genuine need in your eyes, he stops himself from voicing his thoughts... it's just hand holding....NOOO

sensing your hopeful gaze, he would finally decide to slowly, reluctantly, extend a hand

his skin would feel slightly clammy and cool to the touch and he'd likely pull back as soon as it was done

"o-okay, done. are you... feeling more logged in with reality now?"

please say yes cause he can't do that again! even if he didn't really mind it, he doesn't want to die from sudden physical contact with human beings

KALIM AL ASIM

kalim would beam, his usual boundless enthusiasm undimmed by your unusual request

no hesitation "oh! you want to hold hands? sure thing!" he'd exclaim, his smile wide and welcoming he would immediately reach out

his hand would be warm and his grip firm and friendly

he wouldn't mind holding hands even if you don't tell him why you want to, but you do anyway

"don't worry, I am totally real!" he would say with his eyes sparkling with genuine warmth and a complete lack of hesitation or judgment

he will ask you questions about this out of curiosity and because he wants to know you more and so that he can make sure you're comfortable when you're around him <3

JAMIL VIPER

jamil would initially eyes you with suspicion and a look that clearly says why?

once you explained, a subtle shift would occur in his demeanor, a hint of understanding softening his gaze

he would offer his hand with a calm and steady demeanor "if it provides you with reassurance"

he would observe you carefully, if it helped, he'd simply nod

VIL SCHOENHEIT

alright, he has dealt with fans, and some of them were...not that normal, and tend to make unusual request sometimes

so when you ask if you can hold his hand, he would think you're probably another fan

would let you do it with a fan service smile

if you explain the real reason he will look surprised before his expression returning back to the normal one

"hopefully, that has helped?" he'd watch your reaction with keen interest, his usual theatrical flair replaced by a quiet attentiveness

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 22

˗ˏˋ karaoke night ˎˊ˗

"Vanilla extract has always been his lifeline, and tonight is no different."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 11k

content: friendly drunkness, karaoke, lowkey interest, girl talk, unwanted appearances, trauma responses, isolation, unhealthy coping mechanisms, vulnerability, sneak peeks, soft, lowkey real conversations, subtle references to the past.

✧ author's note ✧

OKAY. Let me just start by screaming into the void real quick: SIX. HUNDRED. NOTES. And TWO HUNDRED VOTES. IN LESS THAN FORTY-EIGHT HOURS?? What the actual hell is wrong with you people??? I'm genuinely flabbergasted. Bamboozled. Reeling. I thought I had time. I thought I could chill. But NO. Y’all are CRACKED and now I’m upping the goal like an absolute psychopath because clearly you’re fiends and I am merely your supplier. I’ll give you your fix, don’t worry. Just know I’m running out of backlogged chapters and my therapist is gonna hear about it.

Anyway.

This chapter. Hoo boy. This chapter feels like the emotional hangover after a wild night—the kind where everything feels a little too raw, a little too exposed, and you’re left trying to piece together what the fuck happened between the yelling and the tequila. There's a reason why I framed it this way, too—because this is the shift. The oh shit, real people have real pasts and they bleed sometimes moment. The façade cracks here, and it does so in ways that are deliberately uncomfortable.

Jungkook is so many things in this chapter, but most importantly, he’s small. And I don’t mean that physically. I mean small like a kid trying to crawl into his own skin. That rooftop scene? I wanted you to feel the stillness after the storm, the weird quiet that happens when someone you thought was bulletproof shows up vulnerable and unguarded for once. And it’s messy. He doesn’t have answers. He doesn’t give you the sob story, not yet. He gives you glimpses. Vanilla extract, deflections, silence. All of it is by design.

(Also yes, the vanilla extract thing is a metaphor. Yes, I know it’s weird. No, I won’t elaborate. Just know it’s real and kind of tragic and also weirdly endearing. Like him.)

And Y/N… god. She’s tiptoeing the line so hard here. Because she wants to help and she wants to understand and she also very much wants to not feel. But she does. And she hates it. And she jokes because otherwise she’ll unravel. And that’s what makes this chapter so bittersweet to me—because they’re both posturing like they’re fine, but their actions betray them. Their quiet kindness, the subtle care. The intimacy isn’t in the sex anymore. It’s in the stillness. In the scent memory. In the way he says “you smell like vanilla” like it’s the only anchor he has left.

And let’s not even talk about Mia because that woman is the human embodiment of a champagne cork to the eye. I will simply say this: trauma is not always loud. Sometimes it’s a whisper that sticks to your ribs. Sometimes it’s someone’s name.

Anyway.

This chapter is long, chaotic, unfiltered, and possibly one of the most emotionally raw things I’ve written for this fic so far. So please take care of yourself while reading. You don’t have to romanticize brokenness. You don’t have to love these characters for their damage. But you can hold space for them. Just like they’re learning to do for each other.

Also Taehyung deserves a nap and a raise for his emotional labor.

As always, I’m deeply grateful you’re here, crying and laughing and spiraling with me. Keep being feral in the comments. Keep voting if it makes your little goblin brain happy. And maybe—just maybe—hug your own Jungkook if you’ve got one.

Or your therapist.

They deserve it.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Tequila makes you do stupid shit, like hugging people you normally avoid touching with a ten-foot pole.

You practically launch yourself from your seat, the room tilting at an alarming angle as you throw your arms around Yeji's neck. 

"Holy shit," she laughs, body stiffening with surprise before awkwardly patting your back. "Okay, this is literally the first hug you've ever given me and I don't know how to feel about it." 

You ignore her, already detaching yourself and stumbling toward Irya, who catches you with more grace, giggling as you nearly topple both of you over.

"Hi to you too," she says, squeezing back gently.

Jimin is next, accepting your clumsy attempt at physical affection with the patient tolerance of someone used to dealing with drunk friends. He pats your back, concern etched in his features.

"How are you doing?" he asks, holding you at arm's length to study your face.

You flash him a thumbs up, swaying slightly on your feet. "Absofuckinglutely amazing."

"Okay, yeah. No." He shakes his head, exchanging a knowing look with Yeji.

"Why are you guys even here?!" The question bursts out louder than you intended, making several heads turn.

Yeji shrugs, all casual nonchalance. "This is a famous ramen place. Irya's been wanting to come for a long time."

"Guilty!" Irya raises her hand with a sheepish smile.

"And Jimin was like a lost puppy, so we just kind of adopted him," Yeji adds, nodding toward him.

Irya shoves Yeji's shoulder. "No, actually, I was studying with Jimin, and Yeji just came in and was like 'yo, let's have spicy ramen!' And we kinda rolled with it."

You snort, turning around to find the entire table watching this interaction with varying degrees of amusement. 

Jungkook has his hand pressed against his mouth, shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter.

You mouth 'die' at him, and he throws his palms up in mock surrender, the bastard.

"Well..." You gesture vaguely, suddenly realizing you need to perform introductions. "These are my friends." 

The words feel strange on your tongue—not because they're untrue, but because saying them out loud makes them real in a way you weren't prepared for. 

"Yeji, Irya, and Jimin," you continue, pointing at each one. "And this is... um..."

Your alcohol-soaked brain struggles to remember the names of all the people around this table. There's Yoongi, obviously, and Taehyung, and Hobi, and... the others. The gaming nerds. And Tessa. And that other girl who judged your ramen choice.

You wave your hand in a circle, encompassing the whole table. "Jungkook's birthday squad."

Awkwardness settles over you as you realize the predicament. Your friends are here, but it's not like you can just abandon Jungkook's party to join them. That would be rude. And weird. And probably not what a good roommate would do. 

Not that you care about being a good roommate. But still. Principle of the thing or whatever. 

Before the silence can stretch too long, Yeji speaks up. "We were heading to the karaoke place that's like five minutes from here, if y'all want to come?"

All eyes shift to Jungkook, the birthday boy, the decision-maker. 

But instead of looking at his friends, he looks at you first.

You look back at him, a silent question passing between you.

Then he smiles—not his usual smirk, but something softer, more genuine—and turns to Yeji. 

“Sure, absolutely. Count us in."

“Hell yes!” Hobi exclaims, clapping his hands together. “I’ve been waiting for an excuse to show off my pipes!”

“God help us all,” Taehyung mutters, but he’s already standing, clearly on board with the plan.

“What about the bill?” Diana asks, glancing around at the mess of empty glasses and half-finished food.

“Already covered,” Yoongi says, holding up his phone to show a payment confirmation. “Birthday gift.”

“You paid for all of this?” You blink at him, genuinely surprised. “That’s… actually really nice, Yoongi.”

He shrugs, looking vaguely uncomfortable with the acknowledgment. “Whatever. It’s not a big deal.”

“It kind of is,” you insist, the alcohol making you more earnest than usual. “You’re a good friend.”

He gives you a look that clearly says ‘please stop talking now,’ so you do, but not before patting his shoulder in what you hope is a comradely fashion.

The group begins gathering their things, a chaotic shuffle of jackets and phones and forgotten scarves. You stand in the middle of it all, suddenly aware of how drunk you actually are as the room tilts alarmingly when you try to take a step.

“Whoa there,” a voice says near your ear, and then there’s a hand at your elbow, steadying you. 

Jungkook. 

“You good?”

“Fine,” you say automatically, then reconsider. “Okay, maybe not fine. But I’m upright, so that’s something.”

“A low bar, but I respect it.” His tone is light, teasing, but there’s something else there too—concern, maybe. It’s hard to tell through the tequila fog.

“I can walk,” you insist, taking a deliberate step forward to prove your point. 

Your legs cooperate, mostly, though the floor seems to be at a slight angle that wasn’t there before.

“Never said you couldn’t.” He’s still close, though, ready to catch you if you stumble. “Just making sure you don’t face-plant in front of everyone. Would hate for you to embarrass yourself.”

“Too late for that,” you mutter, remembering your enthusiastic greeting to your friends.

A laugh escapes him, quiet enough that only you can hear it. “Nah, you’re fine. You’re just… friendlier when you’re drunk. It’s kind of cute.”

“I am not cute,” you say with as much dignity as you can muster while swaying slightly. “I am intimidating and cool.”

“Absolutely,” he agrees solemnly. “The most intimidating and cool person in the room. Everyone’s terrified.”

You glare at him, but it’s hard to maintain when he’s looking at you like that—amused but not mocking, a softness around his eyes that makes your stomach do a weird flip that has nothing to do with the alcohol.

“Shut up,” you say, lacking a more clever comeback. “It’s your fault anyway. Your stupid friends kept giving me shots.”

“My stupid friends, huh?” He raises an eyebrow. “And what does that make me?”

“The king of the stupid friends,” you declare, poking him in the chest. “The stupidest of them all.”

He catches your finger before you can poke him again, his hand warm around yours. 

“Your Majesty, then.”

“Oh my god, you’re so—” You break off, distracted by the way he’s still holding your hand, casual as anything. 

You pull away, flustered for no good reason. 

“Let’s go. Karaoke awaits.”

“After you, Phoenix.” He gestures toward the door where your friends are gathering with the others.

You make your way over, focusing intently on putting one foot in front of the other without tripping. It’s harder than it should be, but you manage, only weaving slightly.

Yeji appears at your side, linking her arm through yours. 

“How much have you had to drink?” she asks, voice low.

“A moderate amount,” you hedge. “An appropriate amount. A birthday celebration amount.”

“So, too much.”

“Maybe.”

She sighs, tightening her grip on your arm. “Babes, I’ve never seen you drunk. You sure you’re okay?

“Yuuusss,” you decide, nodding solemnly. “I stand by my choices.”

“Of course you do.” She glances over at Jungkook, who’s now engaged in an animated conversation with Taehyung and Hobi. “So, what’s going on there?”

“Where?” you ask, playing dumb even though you know exactly what she means.

“With your roommate. The one whose birthday party we just crashed.”

“Nothing’s going on,” you insist, too quickly. “We’re just… I don’t know. Trying to be friends. Or something. I guess.”

Friends. You and Jungkook. 

Friends.

It’s starting to sound less terrifying.

“I see.” She grins, positioning her head on your shoulder. “Just don’t replace me, huh? I’m your new college bestie. I claim that title.”

Before you can respond, Irya bounces over, linking her arm through Yeji’s free one. 

“Are we ready? The karaoke place gets busy on Saturdays.”

“We’re ready,” you confirm, smiling stupidly at the blonde. “Lead the way.”

As your strange, merged group spills out onto the sidewalk, you can’t help but wonder how the hell you ended up here—drunk, surrounded by people who barely know each other, heading to a karaoke bar on a Saturday night.

It’s bizarre. Surreal. Absolutely not how you expected your evening to go when you agreed to take Jungkook to the MoMA this morning.

But as you watch him laugh at something Irya says, his face open and relaxed in a way you rarely see at home, you can’t quite bring yourself to regret it. 

Even if your head is spinning and your stomach is dangerously close to rejecting every questionable decision you’ve made tonight.

You catch his eye across the group, and he grins at you—that stupid, lopsided grin that always makes you want to either slap him or—

Well. Other things.

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too, unable to help yourself. And when he falls into step beside you as the group starts moving, close enough that your shoulders occasionally brush, you don’t move away.

It’s his birthday, after all. You can give him that much.

Somehow, the sidewalk is significantly more difficult to navigate than it was four hours ago.

"Careful," Jimin murmurs as you stumble over absolutely nothing for the third time in two blocks. He steadies you with a gentle grip, adjusting to link his arm more securely with yours.

"The ground is uneven," you insist, though it's clearly not. "Poorly maintained city infrastructure. Someone should write a strongly worded letter."

"Definitely the sidewalk's fault," he agrees, humor warming his soft voice.

You've ended up at the back of your odd parade, watching as your two separate friend groups merge into a loud, laughing mass of bodies moving through the Manhattan night. Yeji has somehow ended up walking beside Taehyung, both of them gesturing wildly as they argue about something. Irya is chatting with Tessa—a combination you wouldn't have predicted—while Hobi tells an animated story to Ryan and Seth that has them howling with laughter.

And then there's Jungkook, right in the middle of it all, moving between conversations simply like someone accustomed to being the center of attention. Even from behind, you can tell he's having a good time—shoulders relaxed, head thrown back in laughter at something Hobi says.

You can’t help but think it’s… a bit strange, seeing him like this. In the apartment, he's always a bit wound up—ready with a sarcastic comment or provocation. But here, surrounded by friends, celebrating, he seems... looser. 

Happier.

It's a good look on him. 

Not that you care.

"Here we are!" Hobi announces as your group reaches a neon-lit storefront, the sign advertising ‘SING YOUR HEART OUT’ in aggressively colorful lettering. "Best karaoke in the East Village."

The place is crowded—not surprising for a Saturday night—but Hobi apparently knows someone who works here because you're whisked past the line of waiting people and into the lobby with minimal fuss.

Inside, it reeks of cheap beer and cheaper air freshener, and the walls are plastered with faded posters of pop stars past and present; along with some occasional muffled screech of someone butchering a high note from one of the private rooms.

Everyone begins shedding layers at the coat check, a flurry of jackets and scarves being handed over to a bored-looking attendant who barely glances up from her phone. 

You hang back with Jimin, suddenly aware of how sweaty your shirt is under your own jacket. 

Great. 

Nothing like marinating in your own alcohol-infused sweat to round out the evening.

"I kind of can't believe we're doing this," you mutter to Jimin, still leaning on him more heavily than you'd like to admit. "Karaoke? With these people? Is this real life?"

"It's definitely happening," he confirms, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Though I'm not sure how much you'll remember tomorrow."

"I'm not that drunk," you protest automatically. "I'm just... celebrating."

"Uh-huh." He doesn't sound convinced.

Across the lobby, Yeji and Jungkook are locked in what appears to be an intense negotiation over room selection, both of them pointing at different options on the laminated menu the hostess is holding. Taehyung stands nearby, pinching the bridge of his nose like he's developing a migraine.

"I'm telling you, the premium room has better song selection," Yeji insists, her voice carrying across the space.

"But the deluxe has the light-up dance floor," Jungkook counters, gesturing emphatically. "It's my birthday, I want the dance floor!"

"The dance floor is tacky!"

"It's not tacky, it's fun!"

"It's the definition of tacky."

"Your face is the definition of tacky."

"Wow, super mature comeback there, birthday boy."

Your eyes drift from their bickering to the quieter presence leaning against the far wall. Yoongi stands slightly apart from the group, scrolling through his phone with the detached air of someone who's physically present but mentally elsewhere. 

You notice Jimin's gaze has followed yours. He's studying Yoongi with an intensity that feels almost... private. Like you're witnessing something you shouldn't.

"That's your other roommate, right?" he asks, voice soft.

"Yeah," you nod, head still resting on his shoulder. "Yoongi."

Jimin just smiles, a small, soft thing that doesn't quite reach his eyes. There's something there—a question, maybe, or a thought he's not voicing—but before you can figure it out, Yeji's sharp voice cuts through the moment.

"Y/N! Get over here and settle this!"

You straighten, blinking rapidly as the room spins slightly with the sudden movement. 

“What?"

"Premium or deluxe?" she demands, beckoning you impatiently. "Tell this idiot that premium is clearly superior."

Jungkook turns to you, actually pouting like a kid who's been told he can't have a second ice cream cone. 

"The deluxe has a light-up floor," he says, as if this is the most compelling argument in the world. "And disco balls."

You look between them, trying to focus through the tequila fog. It shouldn't be this hard to form an opinion about karaoke rooms, and yet. 

You can't help the laugh that bubbles up at the absurdity of the situation—Yeji and Jungkook, two of the most stubborn people you know, locked in a standoff over something so utterly trivial.

"Come on, Yeji," you say, rolling your eyes even as you fight back another laugh. "He's the birthday boy. Let him make a choice that matters in his life for once."

Jungkook's indignant "yooo!" is drowned out by Yeji's dramatic sigh.

"Fine," she concedes, throwing up her hands. "But when we get stuck with a shitty song selection, don't come crying to me."

"I'll make it up to you," Jungkook promises, already bouncing with excitement. "You can choose the first song."

"Damn right I will." She huffs, no anger behind it.

Jungkook turns to you, triumph written all over his stupid handsome face. "See? I can be reasona—" He cuts himself off with a yelp as you swat at him playfully.

"Don't push it," you warn, but you're smiling despite yourself.

The hostess, who's been watching this entire exchange with the weary resignation of someone who's seen far too many drunk people argue over karaoke rooms, clears her throat pointedly. 

“So... deluxe room? For how many hours?"

"Two," Hobi calls from where he's now organizing a drink order with the rest of the group. "At least!"

"Follow me," she says, gathering menus and leading the way down a dimly lit hallway plastered with even more music posters.

Your odd group trails after her like ducklings, Jungkook practically skipping in excitement. You hang back slightly, still unsteady on your feet, and find yourself walking beside Yoongi, who's finally pocketed his phone.

"You sure about this?" he asks quietly, eyeing you with what might be concern. "You look like you're about ten minutes from passing out."

"I'm fine," you insist, though the hallway is doing that weird tunnel-vision thing that definitely isn't normal. "Just pacing myself."

He snorts, clearly not buying it. "Sure."

"I am," you argue, even as you reach out to steady yourself against the wall. "Totally in control."

"Right." His tone is dry as dust. "That's why you're currently leaning on a poster of Justin Bieber."

You glance over and, sure enough, your hand is planted firmly on young Bieber's face. 

You snatch it away with a grimace. 

"Ew."

"Exactly." He doesn't say anything else, but he stays close as you make your way down the hall, oddly comforting in its steadiness.

Just like the day at the gynecologist.

The deluxe room, when you finally reach it, lives up to Jungkook's hype—it's large enough to fit your entire group comfortably, with plush seating along the walls, a central space that is indeed illuminated by color-changing floor panels, and not one but two disco balls hanging from the ceiling. The most impressive feature, though, is the giant screen taking up one entire wall, currently displaying the karaoke company's logo bouncing around like an old DVD screensaver.

"This is amazing," Jungkook declares, immediately bouncing onto the dance floor, which lights up green and blue under his feet. "Worth every penny."

"We haven't paid yet," Taehyung reminds him, but he's smiling as he says it.

"Details," Jungkook waves dismissively, spinning in a circle that makes the floor shift colors again. "Come on, everyone pick a song! I want to hear Hobi destroy 'Uptown Funk' again!"

"Bold of you to assume I'd repeat myself," Hobi says, already flipping through the song catalog. "I'm thinking Beyoncé tonight."

"God help us all," Taehyung mutters, but he's already grabbing a microphone.

You sink onto one of the couches, grateful for the chance to sit before your legs give out. 

The room is spinning slightly, but in a pleasant way now—like you're on a very slow merry-go-round. From this vantage point, you can watch as everyone settles in, claiming seats and drinks and song choices with the chaotic energy of people determined to have a good time.

Jungkook is still in the center of it all, now trying to convince Yeji to duet with him on some song you can't quite make out over the general noise. She's protesting, but you can tell she'll give in eventually—there's a gleam in her eye that says she's enjoying this more than she's letting on.

The first note of "Don't Stop Believin'" hasn't even finished before Hobi's on his feet, microphone clutched in his hand like it's the Olympic torch and he's the last runner.

What follows can only be described as a religious experience.

The man doesn't just sing—he performs. 

Every note, every gesture, every hip thrust (and there are many) executed with the determination of someone who's spent significant time studying the art of karaoke domination.

By the time he hits the chorus, the entire room is on their feet, singing along whether they want to or not. 

You find yourself belting out words you didn't even know you remembered, arm slung around Yeji's shoulders as you sway dramatically.

And that's just the beginning.

Taehyung and Jungkook follow with some K-pop song you've never heard but somehow everyone else seems to know the choreography to. Irya delivers a surprisingly powerful Adele ballad that has Yeji staring at her with undisguised adoration. Seth and Ryan butcher ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ with the confidence of men who have never been told they can't sing.

Somewhere between your third vodka cranberry and Yeji's unexpectedly heartfelt rendition of ‘Dancing Queen,’ you lose all remaining inhibitions.

Which is how you end up center stage, microphone in hand, challenging Taehyung to an Eminem rap battle that neither of you are remotely qualified for.

"I've got this," you hiss, yanking the mic toward you as the opening beats of ‘Lose Yourself’ start playing. "I've been preparing my whole life. Get ready to get your ass beaten, jerkinci.”

"You've been preparing to embarrass yourself," Taehyung retorts, tugging the microphone back. "I actually know all the words."

"Bullshit. Nobody knows all the words."

The first verse hits and you're both fumbling, words slurring together as you try to keep pace with the rapid-fire lyrics. 

You've got maybe every third word right, but what you lack in accuracy you make up for in enthusiasm, half-shouting into the microphone while Taehyung tries to pry it from your grasp.

"His palms are sweaty—"

"—mom's spaghetti—"

"—nervous, but on the surface he looks—"

"—SPAGHETTI!"

You dissolve into laughter at the same time Taehyung does, both of you bent double as the backing track continues without you. 

"Draw," Jungkook declares from somewhere to your left. "You both lose. Spectacularly."

"I clearly won," you argue, straightening up with as much dignity as you can muster, which isn't much. "I hit at least four words correctly."

"Wow, four whole words," Taehyung deadpans. "Eminem is shaking."

"He should be," you agree solemnly. "I'm coming for his whole career."

The music shifts to something slower, and you realize you're suddenly very, very thirsty. And maybe a little dizzy. 

You hand the microphone to Jimin, who's been quietly watching the disaster unfold with a bemused smile.

"Your turn," you tell him, patting his arm. "Show them how it's done."

He starts to protest, but Irya's already pulling him toward the screen, insisting they do a duet. 

You make your way back to the couches, flopping down with more force than intended. The room tilts briefly before righting itself.

"Need a break?" Jungkook asks, appearing beside you with a glass of water. 

When did he get water? More importantly, when did he get so considerate?

"Maybe," you admit, accepting the glass. "Thanks."

He studies your face for a moment, and you resist the urge to check if you've got something on it. 

"I'm gonna hit the bathroom. Don't pass out while I'm gone."

"No promises."

He laughs, the sound warm even over the pulsing music, and then he's gone, weaving through your friends toward the exit.

You take a long sip of water, letting the cool liquid soothe your throat, raw from shouting lyrics and laughing too hard. 

Your eyes dance around, noticing Hobi teaching Ryan some dance move on the light-up floor, Yeji and Irya huddled together on one of the couches, heads bent close as they flip through the song catalog, Taehyung now trying to convince Yoongi to join him for something that has Yoongi shaking his head emphatically.

It's... nice. In a chaotic, messy, not-at-all-what-you-planned kind of way.

The couch dips as someone sits beside you. You turn, expecting Yeji or Jimin, and find yourself face to face with Tessa instead.

"Hi!" she says brightly, tucking a strand of perfect auburn hair behind her ear. "Mind if I join you for a minute?"

"Free country," you shrug, shifting slightly to make room even though there's plenty of space.

She smiles, and you can't help noticing how ridiculously pretty she is even in the garish lighting of the karaoke room. No smudged mascara, no frizzy hair, no signs of being several drinks in like the rest of you heathens. 

It's annoying. 

Pretty people should have the decency to look at least a little disheveled when everyone else does.

“That was quite a performance,” she says, smiling warmly. “I didn’t know you were into rap.”

“I’m not, really,” you admit, taking another sip of water. “I just couldn’t let Taehyung think he’s better than me at something.”

She laughs, the sound light and genuinely amused. “You guys have known each other long?”

“Not really. Just through Jungkook, honestly.”

“Oh!” Her face brightens at the mention of his name. “That’s actually… I was hoping to talk to you about him, if you don’t mind?”

The way her voice lifts hopefully at the end, combined with the slight flush on her cheeks that has nothing to do with alcohol, tells you exactly where this conversation is headed. 

Great. 

Girl talk about your hookup buddy. Exactly what you signed up for tonight.

But there’s something so genuinely nice about her expression that you can’t bring yourself to brush her off. 

It’s not her fault Jungkook’s… well, Jungkook.

“What about him?” you ask, though you already know.

“I just… I really like him? And I was wondering if you had any insights, you know, being his roommate and all.”

You should have seen this coming. 

Of course the pretty film student would be into Jungkook. Of course she’d want insider information.

Wait.

How the actual fuck does Jungkook pull these types of women? 

Like, seriously. This girl looks like she should be dating a 6’4” investment banker with good hair, not your annoying roommate who sometimes forgets to wash his coffee mug for so long it develops its own ecosystem.

The universe is truly unfair.

“I’ve only lived with him for about a month,” you say, because it’s true and also gives you time to process.

“I know, I know,” she says quickly. “But you must have some impression of him by now, right? Like, what’s he really like? Outside of class and everything?”

You take another long drink of water, considering. 

The truth is, you do know things about Jungkook that probably no one in this room knows—like how he bakes sourdough when he can’t sleep, or how he gets oddly protective of Griffin’s food schedule, or the precise sound he makes when he comes.

Which is actually a thought that gives you pause. 

If Tessa and Jungkook start dating, that means your arrangement would end. 

No more convenient stress relief. 

No more really good sex after bad days.

That would kind of suck, honestly. Because whatever else he is, Jungkook is fantastic in bed. The idea of giving that up isn’t particularly appealing.

But on the other hand… aren’t you kind of friends now? Or at least trying to be? 

And friends help each other out. 

Even if that means letting go of a mutually beneficial sex arrangement.

Besides, look at her. She’s gorgeous, clearly intelligent, and seems genuinely sweet. Jungkook would be a complete idiot to pass that up for occasional hookups with his sarcastic roommate.

She’s still looking at you expectantly, those wide hazel eyes so earnest it’s almost painful.

“He’s…” you start, then sigh. “Look, I don’t really know him that well outside of basic roommate stuff.”

“Oh.” Her face falls slightly.

Dammit. 

Why does she have to look like a disappointed puppy?

“But,” you continue, “I can tell you he’s very passionate about film. Like, genuinely passionate, not just doing it because it seems cool.”

Her expression brightens immediately. “I know, right? The way he talks about cinematography is so… I don’t know, refreshing? Like he actually cares about the art of it.”

“And he’s good with his hands,” you add before you can stop yourself, then immediately want to die. “I mean, like, fixing things! He fixed our bathroom sink when it was leaking.”

Nice save, idiot.

“That’s so sweet,” she says, apparently not picking up on your momentary panic. “He seems really thoughtful, you know? Like, in class he’s always offering to help people with their equipment.”

You nod, because that actually tracks with what you’ve seen of him. For all his annoying qualities, Jungkook does seem to genuinely care about helping people sometimes. It’s one of his more redeeming features.

“You really like him, huh?” you ask, though it’s obvious.

She blushes, looking down at her hands. “Is it that obvious?”

“A little,” you admit, smiling despite yourself. “But it’s cute.”

And it is cute, actually. 

She seems genuinely into him, not just physically attracted or playing some kind of game. 

It’s surprising that a girl like her would be interested in your dumbass roommate, but weirder things have happened.

“Do you think I have a chance?” she asks, her voice dropping to a near whisper, as if she’s sharing a secret. “I mean, I’ve been trying to drop hints, but I can’t tell if he’s picking up on them or just being nice.”

You glance toward the door where Jungkook disappeared, considering. Because in all honesty, you have no idea what his type is beyond ‘willing and available.’ Your arrangement has never included discussions about who else either of you might be seeing or interested in. For all you know, he could be totally into Tessa.

And really, why wouldn’t he be? She’s gorgeous, smart from what you can tell, and seems genuinely kind. 

She’s basically way too good for him, but if she can’t see that, it’s not your job to point it out.

“I think…” you start slowly, turning back to her. “I think you should go for it.”

“Really?” Her whole face lights up, and you find yourself smiling back reflexively.

“Yeah, really.” 

You straighten up, suddenly feeling like you’re on more solid ground. This is just basic girl code, after all. Helping a fellow woman navigate the treacherous waters of modern dating, even if the guy in question is your occasional fuck buddy.

Plus, you can be the bigger person here. 

Yes, the sex with Jungkook is great, but there will be other guys. Other hot idiots to hook up with. It’s not like he’s the only option in New York City.

“Look, Jungkook’s… an okay guy, I guess? But if you like him, you should definitely let him know. Life’s too short for subtle hints.”

“That’s what Irya said too!” She laughs, reaching out to squeeze your arm gratefully. “Oh my god, thank you. I was so nervous to ask you, because I didn’t know if you two were… you know.”

“Me and Jungkook?” You almost choke on your water. “God, no. Absolutely not. We’re just roommates. Barely even friends, honestly.”

It’s not entirely a lie. Yes, you’ve been sleeping together, but it’s just physical. There are no feelings involved. It’s just convenient, uncomplicated sex—exactly how you like it.

“Oh, good,” she says, relief clear in her voice. “I wasn’t sure, and I’d never want to step on any toes.”

“No toes here,” you assure her, wiggling your feet for emphasis. “Completely toe-free zone.”

She giggles, and you find yourself smiling back. She really is nice, which makes it hard to keep disliking her just for being pretty and put-together.

“So,” you continue, feeling oddly invested now. “What’s your plan? How are you going to let him know you’re interested?”

“I don’t know,” she admits, biting her lip. “I was thinking maybe I could ask him to coffee? To discuss a project or something? But that might be too subtle.”

“Definitely too subtle. Guys are dense as bricks. Trust me.”

“What would you suggest then?”

You tap your chin, thinking. “You should just ask him out directly. No pretense, no ‘let’s discuss this project.’ Just ‘hey, I like you, let’s go on a date.’”

“Oh god,” she groans, covering her face with her hands. “I don’t know if I’m brave enough for that.”

“Sure you are,” you encourage, surprising yourself with your sudden enthusiasm for this matchmaking endeavor. “Look at you! You’re gorgeous, smart, and frankly, way out of his league. If anything, he should be intimidated by you.”

She peeks through her fingers, looking both flattered and skeptical. “You really think so?”

“Absolutely. In fact…” You pull out your phone, opening your contacts. “Give me your number. I’ll help you figure out the perfect approach.”

“Seriously?” She beams, reciting her number as you type it in. “That would be amazing. I’m so glad we got to talk tonight.”

“Me too,” you say, and find that you actually mean it. “And hey, even if things with Jungkook don’t work out, we should hang out sometime. You seem cool.”

“I’d love that!” She looks genuinely delighted, which makes you feel a small pang of guilt for your initial judgment of her based solely on her perfect hair and flawless makeup.

As you finish entering her contact info, you glance around and realize Jungkook still hasn’t returned from the bathroom. 

It’s been what, ten minutes? Fifteen? Way too long, even accounting for lines or hand-washing (which, knowing him, is probably not a factor anyway).

“Hey, I’ll be right back,” you tell Tessa, pocketing your phone. “I just want to check that your future boyfriend hasn’t fallen in or something.”

She chuckles at the term but nods, still smiling. “Sure. I’ll save your seat.”

You navigate through the chaos of the room, dodging Hobi’s enthusiastic dance moves and stepping over Taehyung, who’s now sprawled dramatically across the floor reciting what sounds like Shakespeare to a bemused Yeji. The hallway outside is quieter, though the bass from neighboring rooms thrums through the walls.

Where the hell did Jungkook go? The bathrooms are just down the hall, and there’s no way he’d ditch his own birthday celebration. 

Maybe he’s answering a call? Or got waylaid by some random person?

Or maybe the idiot got lost on the way back. You wouldn’t put it past him.

With a sigh, you head toward the bathrooms, determined to drag his ass back to the party. 

After all, you’ve got a stunning redhead waiting to shoot her shot with him, and you’ll be damned if your sacrifice of great casual sex goes to waste because he can’t find his way back from taking a piss.

You turn the corner, ready to pound on the men's room door and yell at Jungkook for taking forever, when—oh.

He's not alone.

There's a girl. Of course there's a girl. Because when isn't there a girl around Jungkook?

This one's got shiny black hair down to her waist and is wearing what looks like an actual fucking Chanel dress to a karaoke bar. 

Who does that? 

The kind of person who also wears Louboutins to a place where the floor is permanently sticky with spilled beer, apparently.

But it's not her rich bitch outfit that makes you stop.

It's Jungkook.

He looks... wrong. 

He's staring at the floor like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen, shoulders hunched forward in a way that makes him seem smaller somehow. His usual swagger is completely gone. He keeps opening and closing his mouth like a fish gasping for air, not actually saying anything.

It's weird. 

Really fucking weird.

Before you can think better of it, you're walking toward them. 

Stupid protective instinct. Stupid tequila. Stupid feet moving without permission.

Jungkook notices you first, his eyes widening in what looks like panic. The girl turns around, giving you a slow once-over that makes you feel like you've been scanned and found wanting. 

She's beautiful. Like, unfairly beautiful. The kind of beautiful that probably makes other girls hate her on sight. Perfect skin, dark eyes, delicate features that look more doll-like than human. Her smile is almost too perfect, like it was professionally installed rather than something that grew naturally on her face.

"Oh my gosh, hi!" Her voice is high and sweet, like artificial honey. "I'm so sorry, am I keeping him too long? You must be looking for Kooky."

Kooky? Is she fucking serious right now?

"Can you believe we ran into each other? What are the chances?" She grabs your arm like you're old friends, squeezing with perfectly manicured nails that dig in slightly. "I was just telling him it must be fate. Some connections are just meant to be, right?"

She's acting like you're all at some cute reunion instead of standing in a gross hallway outside a karaoke bathroom. Her perfume is expensive and overwhelming—the kind that probably has a French name and costs more than your rent.

Jungkook clears his throat, still not looking at her. "It's just a coincidence, Mia."

Mia. 

The name hits like a slap. 

This is her? The ex that sent those texts that made him look like he'd seen a ghost? 

Bitch looks like she belongs on a billboard, not stalking her ex in a karaoke bar.

"Oh, you're so skeptical," she laughs, the sound like tiny bells. "Always was. That's what I loved about you though, always keeping me grounded." She turns to you with a conspiratorial smile. "He's the practical one. I'm the dreamer. We balanced each other so well."

She's talking about him like he's not standing right there. 

Like he's a character in a story she's telling.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name? I'm Mia."

"Y/N," you say flatly. "Jungkook's roommate."

"Roommate! Oh how wonderful," she claps her hands together like you've just announced you've won the lottery. "It's so nice to see Kooky making new friends. He was always so reserved with people he doesn't know well." 

She leans in close enough that you can smell her breath—minty with an undercurrent of expensive champagne. 

“Trust issues. We worked on it a lot during our time together."

She says it like they were in some kind of therapy program, not… dating. 

What the actual fuck?

"I've found him pretty straightforward," you say, stepping closer to Jungkook because something is clearly wrong here. 

He's still staring at the floor, still silent, still looking nothing like the annoying, confident asshole you live with.

"Oh, then he must really trust you," Mia says, eyes wide like you've shared some profound revelation. "That's so special. After everything he went through with his father, it's hard for him to let people in."

His father? Since when does Jungkook talk about his family? He's never mentioned a word about his father to you.

Jungkook's head snaps up at this, face gone pale. "Mia, don't—"

"Oh, I'm sorry!" She covers her mouth with one hand, looking embarrassed. "Was that not something...? I just assumed since you're roommates..." She turns to you and shrugs apologetically. "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have mentioned it. Please forget I said anything."

Right. 

Like you're going to forget she just dropped that little bomb. 

But now's not the time to dig into whatever daddy issues Jungkook's apparently hiding.

"It's fine," you say, because what else can you say?

"Anyway," she continues, her voice shifting back to that syrupy sweetness, "I was just telling Kooky we should get together sometime. Catch up properly." 

She squeezes Jungkook's arm. 

“I've missed our little movie nights. Nobody appreciates Park Chan-wook like you do."

Jungkook's still doing his best statue impression, eyes fixed somewhere near the exit sign like he's calculating how fast he can make a break for it.

"We were just getting ready to leave, actually," she says, gesturing down the hall. "I'm here with some friends from Parsons—we have a private room upstairs. You two should join us! We have so much champagne, it's ridiculous. My father just closed another deal in Singapore, so we're celebrating."

Of course her dad makes international business deals. Of course she has a private room upstairs. Of course she's casually drinking champagne while the rest of you slurp tequila from plastic cups.

"I don't think—" Jungkook starts, voice sounding rusty like he's forgotten how to use it.

"It would be so fun!" Mia insists, looking at you now with wide, earnest eyes. "Honestly, any friend of Kooky's is a friend of mine. I've been dying to get to know the people in his life now."

She's laying it on thick, like she's auditioning for the role of Supportive Ex-Girlfriend in some bad rom-com. It's almost impressive how sincere she sounds while being so obviously full of shit.

"We're actually here with a group," you say, firmer this time. "It's Jungkook's birthday."

"Your birthday!" she gasps, turning to Jungkook with exaggerated surprise. "Oh, I can't believe I forgot! I used to be so good with dates."

She steps closer to him, practically pressing against his chest. 

"I should have gotten you something. Although I think my presence is gift enough, don't you? Just like old times." She laughs, light and tinkling. "Remember that birthday I planned for you last year? The surprise party at The Standard? Everyone said it was the best night of their lives."

You can practically see her subtext in neon letters above her head: ‘Whatever you losers planned tonight is nothing compared to what I did for him.’

"I don't think he wants to reminisce," you say, surprised by the edge in your own voice. "We should get back."

The bitch’s smile falters for just a second before snapping back into place. 

“Oh, I totally get it. You guys have plans. I would never want to intrude on your... celebration."

The way she says ‘celebration’ makes it sound like she's referring to a kindergarten birthday party with paper hats and apple juice.

"We should get your number though, Kooky," she continues, already pulling out her phone. "I changed mine recently. We really should catch up soon. I have so much to tell you."

Jungkook looks like he'd rather eat glass than take her number. His hands are actually shaking slightly—what the hell happened between these two?

"I don't think that's necessary," you say, and without really thinking about it, you link your arm through his. 

His skin is cold through his shirt sleeve.

This is the first time his skin’s ever been cold.

He’s usually always a walking furnace—a warm backdrop to your perpetually freezing body. 

“Why not? Can’t hurt.” She tilts her head, eyes crinkling in a tight smile.

“Might hurt.”

Mia's eyes flash to where you're touching him, her smile tightening just a fraction. 

"Oh, I see," she says, her voice still sweet but with something sharper underneath. "You two are..."

"Friends," you finish firmly. "Good friends."

"How sweet," she says. 

She reaches out and straightens Jungkook's collar in a way that feels weirdly intimate. 

“You always did need someone to look after you, didn't you, baby?"

She sighs, the sound somehow both theatrical and condescending. You feel Jungkook tense next to you. 

What the hell is she talking about?

"Save my number," she says, pressing a small business card—who even carries those anymore?—into his hand. "For when you realize what you're missing. You know where to find me when you want a real connection again."

She leans in and kisses his cheek, holding it a beat too long. 

“Happy birthday, Kooky. Try not to have too much fun without me."

She gives you a final look, equal parts pity and dismissal, before sauntering away down the hall, her heels clicking a perfect rhythm against the floor.

Jesus Christ. Is this real life? Did you just witness an actual soap opera villain in action? 

The whole thing feels surreal, like you accidentally walked onto a TV set during filming.

"You okay?" you ask Jungkook when she's gone, because what else can you say?

He's still staring after her, jaw tight. 

"Fine."

"Bullshit."

He glances at you, momentarily surprised by your bluntness. Then he sighs, running a hand through his hair. 

"I... I think I need some air."

"Yeah, of course." 

Not that you really have any other response ready. What are you supposed to say? ‘Sorry your ex is a walking red flag’? ‘Want to talk about whatever the fuck just happened?’ ‘By the way, what was that father line?’

"I'll be back in five," he says, already moving toward the exit sign at the end of the hall. "I just need a minute."

"Okay."

He pauses, glancing back. 

“Thanks."

Then he's gone, pushing through the exit door, leaving you standing in the hallway with the lingering scent of expensive perfume and a head full of questions.

What the hell was all that about? And why does he look like he's seen a ghost? And what did she mean about his father? 

You shake your head, trying to clear it. 

Not your business. Not your problem. You have your own shit to deal with without adding Jungkook's ex drama to the list.

But as you turn to head back to the karaoke room, you can't help glancing toward the exit where he disappeared. 

He really did look... small. Scared, almost. 

Nothing like the cocky asshole who drives you crazy on a daily basis.

It's disconcerting, seeing him like that. Like peeking behind a curtain you didn't know existed.

You're going to need another drink for this.

It's pathetic, really. 

Jungkook knows it. He acknowledges it fully, standing here on the rooftop of some overpriced karaoke joint in the heart of Manhattan, staring down at the tiny flask in his hand. 

Not whiskey, not vodka—no, nothing even remotely respectable. Just pure vanilla extract.

Fucking vanilla extract.

He twists off the cap, lifts it to his lips, and takes a small sip. It burns just enough going down to remind him he's alive, but it tastes good. 

Always good. 

Sweet enough to mask the bitterness that's permanently lodged at the back of his throat these days. 

It's not the watered-down shit they sell at grocery stores either—he learned that lesson quickly after one particularly desperate night ended with him gagging over his sink. 

No, this is the real deal, the expensive kind he has to order online from some bougie shop in France that probably laughs every time they ship another bottle to New York City.

His therapist side-eyed him when he first confessed this little habit—because who wouldn't? Who the fuck drinks baking ingredients to cope? 

But after a few awkward seconds of silence and scribbling notes on her pad (he hates when she does that), she'd shrugged and said it was better than alcohol or pills or whatever else he could be doing instead. 

So Jungkook took what he could get.

If vanilla extract keeps him from self-destructing completely, then that's what he'll stick to.

He leans against the rooftop railing, cold metal pressing into his forearms through his thin shirt. Below him, lights blur together into a neon haze—yellow taxis weaving through traffic like fireflies darting between trees. The city beneath him looks both indifferent and alive, while Jungkook feels like he's barely holding it together.

Happy fucking birthday to him.

Birthdays are supposed to mean something. Another year older, wiser, closer to figuring shit out—but Jungkook just feels stuck. 

Twenty-something years old and still sneaking away from his own birthday party because seeing Mia had knocked the air out of his lungs in a way that made him feel like a fucking teenager again.

Weak. 

Pathetic. 

Unable to even form a coherent sentence when she'd looked at him with those eyes—the ones that used to make him feel special until he realized they were just another weapon in her arsenal.

He takes another sip of vanilla extract, savoring the burn this time as it slides down his throat. It's stupidly comforting in a way he can't quite explain—not even to himself. 

Maybe it's nostalgia or some childhood memory he's buried deep down beneath layers of emotional baggage and trauma from Mia and everything else he's fucked up along the way. 

Or maybe it's just because it's something sweet and simple in a life that's become anything but.

He chuckles bitterly under his breath, shaking his head at himself.

"You're fucking ridiculous," he mutters into the night air.

But ridiculous or not—pathetic or not—it helps. 

And right now, that's all that matters.

Twenty minutes. That's how long he's been up here, hiding like a child. Twenty minutes of staring at the skyline and trying to get his shit together. Twenty minutes of letting Mia's voice echo in his head like a bad song he can't turn off.

He closes his eyes briefly, inhaling deeply as cool September air fills his lungs. 

He can hear muffled laughter drifting up from downstairs—the karaoke room packed with film school friends who've probably noticed his absence by now—and for once tonight, Jungkook doesn't mind being forgotten for a little while longer.

He'll go back eventually; plaster on another easy smile like nothing happened because that's what he does best these days: pretend everything is fine until everyone else believes it.

And then—the icing on the cake. 

He mentally claps for himself at that one. Solid joke. A little on the nose, sure, but he'll take it. 

You're there.

He doesn't even need to look to know it's you. That faint trace of vanilla that isn't his flask. Not the sharp, concentrated kind that burns his throat and keeps him grounded. 

No, you smell like vanilla, but softer. Warmer. Like someone took the edge off and folded it into something human. 

There's something else underneath it too—milky, maybe? Creamy? He doesn't know how to describe it without sounding like a complete idiot, so he doesn't try.

It's funny, though. 

Hilarious, actually. 

Because in the four weeks he's known you, he knows you're anything but soft. 

You're mouthy as hell. 

Reckless in a way that makes him think you've got some kind of death wish or maybe just a really bad sense of self-preservation. 

You talk back every time he opens his mouth, like it's your personal mission to make sure he never gets the last word. 

He should find you annoying. 

Irritating enough to make him want to jump off this rooftop just to get away from you. 

And yeah, sometimes he does—like when you leave your tea bags in the sink instead of throwing them out like a normal person, or when you steal his hoodies and pretend they just ‘ended up’ in your laundry by accident (as if he doesn't know you're lying). 

But mostly? 

Mostly, you're just...there. 

A sudden disruption in his life when he was finally starting to feel okay again. Starting to enjoy the quiet. Heal, or whatever the fuck people call it when they're trying to piece themselves back together after everything's gone to shit.

And then you came along.

All talk back and adrenaline and thrill and sex.

Really good sex.

He shouldn't be thinking about that right now—not here, not with you standing behind him like some kind of ghost haunting his already-fucked-up night—but it's hard not to when everything about you feels like a challenge he can't help but rise to. 

The way you smell, the way you look at him like you're daring him to say something stupid just so you can tear him apart for it...it's infuriating. 

Addictive too.

He takes another sip from his flask because what else is he supposed to do? 

He can feel your eyes on him—sharp and curious, probably trying to figure out why he's up here alone with nothing but a tiny bottle of vanilla extract for company—and suddenly the burn in his throat isn't enough to distract him anymore.

"Didn't know karaoke had a rooftop package," you say eventually.

Jungkook snorts before he can stop himself, shaking his head as he screws the cap back onto his flask. 

"Yeah, well," he says, turning around just enough to glance at you over his shoulder. "Figured I'd splurge for my birthday."

Your eyebrows lift at that—just a little—but you don't say anything right away. 

"You know they've noticed you're not around, right?" you say after a moment, your tone careful. "People are asking."

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. 

Of course they are. Because that's what happens when you disappear for twenty minutes in the middle of your own birthday party.

"You good?" you add, and there's something in your voice that makes him look at you directly. "Because we need you back there."

God, you're annoying. Always so direct, always cutting through his bullshit like it's tissue paper.

He should hate this—hate you—but somehow, Jungkook can't really bring himself to fully mean it.

"How'd you find me?" he asks instead of answering your question.

You shrug. "Just a hunch. Figured if I wanted to escape, I'd go up, not down."

He stares at the city below, the skyline stretching out like a postcard someone forgot to mail. The cars are specks from up here, tiny dots crawling along the veins of Manhattan. It's almost peaceful if he squints hard enough to ignore the noise humming faintly in the background—the kind that never really stops, even at this height.

For a moment, it's quiet. Just him, the skyline, and the faint burn of vanilla still lingering on his tongue.

Then he hears it: your footsteps. Soft, slow, like you're trying not to startle him but also don't care enough to stop yourself from intruding. 

Of course you're here.

You stop just short of the railing at first, hovering like you're testing the waters. 

Then, after what feels like an eternity but is probably only a few seconds, you step closer and lean against it. Right next to him. Close enough that he can catch another whiff of that vanilla-milky-whatever-the-fuck scent that's been messing with his head all night.

He doesn't look at you. Doesn't have to. He knows exactly what you're doing—trying to see whatever it is he's staring at like it's some big mystery that needs solving.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth despite himself because yeah, this is so you. 

Meddling without actually meddling. Curious without outright saying it.

And he doesn't know how he knows that about you, but he does.

So when you finally break the silence with a casual, "What was that?"—your chin jutting toward his jacket pocket—he's not surprised. 

"Huh?" He plays dumb, glancing down at his pocket like he has no idea what you're talking about. "Nothing."

Your eyes narrow slightly, and he can feel your gaze boring into him even though he still refuses to meet it. 

“Nothing," you repeat flatly, like you don't believe him for a second. "Right."

"Yup." He pops the 'p' for emphasis and turns his attention back to the city below, hoping you'll drop it.

You don't.

"What kind of nothing are we talking about here?" Your tone is light, teasing—but there's an edge of curiosity there too. The kind that tells him you're not going to let this go anytime soon.

"It's just...nothing," he says again, more firmly this time but still avoiding your gaze.

"Uh-huh." You lean in slightly, tilting your head as if that'll give you a better angle on whatever he's hiding. "So nothing just happens to fit perfectly in your jacket pocket?"

He sighs, shaking his head slightly as a low chuckle escapes him despite himself. 

“You're relentless, you know that?"

"Yep," you say easily, popping the 'p' right back at him. "So? What is it?"

He hesitates for a moment, debating whether or not to tell you the truth. 

It's stupid—embarrassing even—but something about the way you're looking at him makes it hard to keep deflecting.

Finally, with a resigned sigh and a slight smirk tugging at his lips, he pulls the flask out of his pocket and holds it up for you to see.

"It's vanilla extract," he says simply.

You blink at him, clearly not expecting that answer. 

“Vanilla extract," you repeat slowly, like you're waiting for him to say he's joking.

"Yup." 

He unscrews the cap and takes another small sip just to prove his point before screwing it back on and slipping it into his pocket again.

For once, you're speechless—and Jungkook can't help but feel a small sense of victory as he leans back against the railing with a smug grin on his face.

"Happy now?"

The silence stretches a beat too long after his admission. He licks vanilla residue off his bottom lip, the sweetness turning cloying under your stare.

"It's pathetic, I know."  

"I mean—it's weird," you say, shrugging. "But not pathetic-weird. Just… niche."  

He huffs, drumming his fingers against the railing. "Yeah, who the fuck drinks vanilla extract, huh? Couldn't stick to whiskey like a normal fuckup. Had to be quirky.”

The word drips with self-mockery.  

You lean back, arms crossed. "We all have our vices. At least you don't smell like an ashtray."  

"You'd kick my ass if I smoked in the apartment."  

"Damn right."  

The corner of his mouth twitches. Below, a siren wails—distant, unimportant. He watches you watch the city, the neon glow catching on your eyes.

"It's… comforting. Don't know why. Ethanol or whatever—therapist says it's placebo with benefits."  

"Placebo with benefits," you repeat, deadpan. "That your band name?"  

He snorts. "Nah. Ethanol Enthusiasts."  

"Catchy."  

Another pause. 

The wind tugs at his sleeves, carrying your scent again. 

Fuck.  

"What started it?" you ask, casual as someone asking about the weather.  

His thumb rubs the flask's engraving—a nervous tic he didn't know he had. 

“Didn't wanna become my old man. Found this… seemed safer." The admission tastes bitter. He backtracks with a shrug. "Therapist greenlit it. Win-win."  

You hum, noncommittal. 

“Explains why you're obsessed with vanilla lattes."  

"Am not—"  

"You are. You side-eye my tea like it's piss."  

"Because it is piss. Chamomile's for grandmas."  

"Says the guy sipping baking supplies."  

He barks a laugh, sharp and surprised. When he turns, you're smirking—that infuriating, I-win smirk that usually makes him want to rile you up. 

Now it just feels… warm.  

"You smell like vanilla," he says softly.  

Your smirk falters. "You've mentioned. Usually when you're—"  

"Not then." He cuts you off, voice lower. "All the time. Even when you're not… y'know."  

"Y'know?" You raise a brow.  

"Fuckin'—wearing shit. Perfume. Whatever." He gestures vaguely at you. "It's just… you."  

The words hang, raw and clumsy. 

You blink, that sharp mask slipping for a half-second. He watches your throat move as you swallow.  

"Huh," you say finally.  

"Huh," he mimics, too quick. Deflect. Always deflect. "Maybe you're part cookie. Secretly."  

You freeze. Just for a heartbeat. 

Then you smirk, but it doesn't reach your eyes. 

“Maybe I'm marinating."

"Maybe," he murmurs. 

Another siren. Another beep. Another car being way too loud in this fucking city.

"Or maybe you were made just for me."

It slips out. Too raw. Too honest.

Shit.  

Jungkook's throat tightens—what the fuck was that? 

He licks his lips, grip tightening on the railing as he scrambles to claw the moment back from the edge of whatever that just was.  

"I mean—" He forces a scoff, rolling his eyes like he's mocking himself. "—or you're just some undercover therapist plant. Be honest." 

He side-eyes you, smirk plastered on. 

“You know Dr. Liao, don't you? This is an intervention. 'Let's gaslight Jungkook into emotional vulnerability via mediocre sex and vanilla-scented body wash—'"  

You snort, cutting him off. "Mediocre?"  

"Painfully average."  

"Excuse you?" You open your mouth exaggeratedly, and he can't help but grin at the sheer offense in your expression. "Okay wow, we are never having sex again."

"Cap."

"Are you seriously using online slang in real life?"

"Yeah, because you're capping."

"I am not capping and stop doing that, it's so cringe."

"But you just said capping too?"

"I—that's because you said it first you moron!"

"And you said it second so who's the real moron here?"

"That's it, I'm never wearing vanilla perfume ever again."

He stops abruptly at that. Looks you in the eyes.

"Like you are right now?"

You open your mouth. Close it real fast. Press your lips together. 

"Maybe."

"No maybes. I can literally smell it from here."

He tilts his head slowly, letting you move back if that's what you want. 

But you don't.

And he takes that as an invitation, his nose hovering over the soft spot under your ear, where you always apply your cologne on.

"Right here." He mutters, voice velvety and rough. "Really makes me wanna fuck you."

You don't move your head, but your hands come to rest on his chest, and he likes that. 

Likes that, despite whatever semblance of control you're trying to channel, you're slipping out of balance. 

Like you need to hold on to something—on to him. 

"I could fuck you here, you know." He continues, pressing his lips against your skin as he angles your bodies just right—your back against the railing, both his arms caging you in. "Right against the railing. Give the locals a nice view."

"You're insane." You say, but it lacks conviction. He knows it does. "Nobody down there could see us from below, this is a skyscraper and we're on the rooftop."

He clicks his tongue, but can't quite hide his amusement. 

"Always ruining the fun. Is this your way of saying no?"

You lick your lips. Feel the goosebumps erupt as his lips trail down your neck.

"No."

"Hmm?" He plants another kiss. "So is it your way of saying yes?"

"No." 

You repeat; and this time he actually leans back a bit, trying to figure out what you're aiming for. 

"It's a ‘maybe when we get home’. We are not fucking in public, Ro, during your birthday, when all your friends are gonna be wondering where we both are."

His eyes don't stray away from yours. Then, he chuckles. 

He doesn't know why he chuckles. Doesn't understand what about your commentary he found funny. Perhaps it's your way of being sensitive even when he's goofing around but totally ready to fuck you for real if you so much as ask. 

But it feels familiar. 

Safe.  

No feelings, no depth—just the usual bullshit.

He likes it. Likes how your smirk looks softer now, under the moonlight, eyes crinkling at the corners, and fuck, he needs another sip of vanilla.  

But the flask stays buried in his pocket.  

And then you say, "c'mon, Rogue. Your fanclub's singing off-key Mariah Carey downstairs."  

And he can't help but reply with a "fuck, really?"  

"Taehyung's hitting whistle tones. It's apocalyptic."  

He groans, pushing off the railing. "Fine. But you're explaining why I'm not drunk."  

"Tell them you're a pastry chef now."  

"Fuck you."  

"When we get home—"

The rooftop door slams open with enough force to make both of you jump apart like startled cats. 

Taehyung stands in the doorway, chest heaving, eyes wild as they scan the space before landing on Jungkook.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he breathes, voice tight with something that sounds suspiciously like genuine panic. "You're up here? On a rooftop?"

Jungkook stiffens beside you, his casual posture vanishing in an instant. 

“Tae—"

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" 

Taehyung cuts him off, storming across the rooftop with the intensity of a small hurricane. 

His eyes flick briefly to you, then back to Jungkook, who suddenly looks like he wants to melt into the concrete. 

"A rooftop? Really?"

You glance between them, completely lost.

 There's clearly something happening here that you're not privy to—some subtext that makes this more than just Taehyung being dramatic about Jungkook ditching his own party.

"It's fine," Jungkook says, his voice careful in a way you've never heard before. "I just needed some air."

"Air," Taehyung repeats, like the word tastes bitter. "Sure. Great. Because there's definitely not air anywhere else in this building." 

His hands are shaking, you notice. Actually trembling. 

"What the fuck, Kook."

"Tae," Jungkook steps forward, reaching for his friend's shoulder, "it's not like that. I swear. I'm okay."

Taehyung's eyes close briefly, his jaw working like he's grinding his teeth. When he opens them again, there's a vulnerability there that makes you feel like you're intruding on something intensely private.

"You can't just—" he starts, then stops, inhaling sharply. "You can't disappear and then be on a fucking rooftop, man. Not after—"

He cuts himself off again, shooting another glance your way.

"I'm sorry," Jungkook says quietly, and there's so much weight in those two words that your own chest tightens in response. "I didn't think about it like that. I just needed to get away for a minute, and this was the first place I found."

"Because you needed to get away," Taehyung says flatly, and there's a question buried in there somewhere.

Jungkook hesitates, his eyes darting to you for just a fraction of a second. 

"Mia's downstairs. Or was. We ran into her in the hallway."

The change in Taehyung is immediate and alarming. His face drains of color, then flushes with anger so quickly it's like watching a stoplight change.

"Mia's here?" His voice drops to something dangerous and low. "That fucking—where is she? Did she say something to you? What did she do?"

"Nothing. She's gone," Jungkook says quickly, reaching out to grip Taehyung's arm like he's physically restraining him. "She was with some friends in another room. Just bumped into her on the way to the bathroom."

"And said what, exactly?" Taehyung demands, not even trying to hide his hostility now.

"Nothing important," Jungkook insists, though his tight expression suggests otherwise. "Just Mia being Mia. It's fine."

"It's clearly not fine if you're hiding on a rooftop," Taehyung snaps, then immediately looks like he regrets it. His shoulders slump slightly. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—I was just worried."

"I know," Jungkook says, and there's something so gentle in his tone that you feel like you're witnessing a side of him you've never seen before. "It's okay. I'm okay. Promise."

You shift awkwardly, suddenly very aware that you're intruding on something deeply personal. 

“I should, uh, maybe head back downstairs," you offer, already taking a step toward the door.

Two pairs of eyes snap to you, like they'd forgotten you were there. 

Jungkook looks caught between relief and something else—regret, maybe?—while Taehyung's expression is blank now.

"No, stay," Jungkook says quickly. 

Too quickly. 

Then, more casually: "I mean, we were about to head back anyway, right?"

"Right," you agree, though it feels like you're reading from a script you haven't seen before. "Mariah Carey and all that."

"God, they're still on that." Taehyung rolls his eyes, making a visible effort to shake off whatever just happened. "Hobi's been trying to hit the high note in 'Emotions' for like twenty minutes. It's a massacre."

"Can't be worse than your Eminem," you say, hoping to lighten the mood.

It works, sort of. Taehyung's mouth quirks up at one corner. 

"Excuse you, I killed that performance."

"Yeah, killed it dead," you agree. "Like, murder. Homicide. Call the rap police."

Jungkook snorts, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Rap police?"

"You know what I mean," you say, waving a hand dismissively. "Let's go save Mariah from Hobi before someone calls actual law enforcement."

As you all move toward the door, you notice Taehyung hanging back just enough to place a hand on Jungkook's shoulder, squeezing once—firm, grounding.

Jungkook nods, a tiny movement you almost miss, and something passes between them again—silent but significant.

But it's not your story to know. Not yet, anyway.

So you lead the way back inside, pretending you didn't notice the way Taehyung's hand shook as it fell back to his side, or the way Jungkook's smile didn't quite reach his eyes as he followed you through the door.

Some things are better left unasked. At least for now.

goal: 600 notes (this chapter was posted after both goals were reached. unfortunately the previous chapter suffered mass unvoting on wattpad after i published the next chapter. please go vote on chapter 21 in WP to restore the original numbers and not mislead any new reader 🫶🏻.)

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[hcneymooners]

౨ৎ when i feel you (from within), i exist.

wnba!paige x wnba!azzi. men & minors dni.

cw: that weird blurring of lines in your friendship when you're both in love with each other, non-sexual intimacy, mentions of drugs, weed (p!smoking), being desperately affectionate but refusing to call it what it is, ambiguous but hopeful ending.

notes: not necessarily my best, but it's what i needed. giving credit to where credit is due. this was written because i reread everything @loeysoi has written because every single one of her works is a comfort to me, and then i was inspired to write this. i love you.

anyway, i hope you enjoy. coucou.

no matter how late the phone rings, azzi always picks up. paige knows she’s good for it. 

an unspoken rule of their friendship is the constant space they leave for one of them to hopelessly, helplessly need the other. it's one of the few constants between them. the quiet latitude they give each other—the open-ended kind. 

i’ll be there. no explanation needed.

so when the wings lose on national television, and paige’s face does that thing—just a little twist, like a split second of everything cracking before she smooths it back over—azzi doesn’t wait. she already knows. even when the phone doesn’t ring. 

especially then.

one a.m. passes. the silence stays. she books the flight.

she doesn’t deliberate. doesn’t change. just grabs her black weekender and slides in a travel charger, the deep red pajamas she always brings to paige’s, and the toiletries still packed from last time. she doesn’t bother changing out of her black skims maxi dress, the matching kitten heels, or the oversized uconn alumni sweatshirt she’s been meaning to return to her mom. 

her skin’s still warm from the day; sweat slick at the back of her neck, humidity sitting heavy on her shoulders. she loops her curls into a high bun, gets irritated when she can’t catch the shorter strands at the base of her neck, and then lets it go, recognizing the impulse to fixate. the way she always does when she’s nervous, but doesn’t want to call it that.

outside, her driver’s waiting, the a/c humming. the partition stays down, and they stare out of their respective windows—he to the front, she to the side. the city slides past in streaks of grey, red, and a dusky yellow. she doesn’t check her phone until they’re a few blocks out.

fifteen minutes in, she texts arike.

think her phone’s dead. need the address.

she keeps it simple. doesn’t say what she means: i’m worried.

arike sends it back without extra words. some story about a party. some attempt from paige to “let loose”. azzi knows better. she knows paige, knows that this is her trying to “be better” about losing because she can’t help but beat herself down about anything she can think of. 

when the plane lands, dallas is quiet. the city hums quietly, and even the passing cars seem only to purr. azzi calls an uber, sitting on top of her bag instead of the stained sidewalk. she prays no one asks for a photo if they recognize her. she’s not up for it.

upon arrival, the place is exactly what she expects. upscale, impersonal. gleaming glass and brushed metal. it’s someone’s penthouse, a luxe space that was built to photograph well but feels immeasurably cold when you’re actually in it. security lets her up without question. maybe she appears more desperate than she feels.

when she arrives, the elevator opens with a sad unlatching, and the party seems to be going the same way, settling and thinning like blood after a pill.

somebody’s aux’d up a frank ocean song, and now everything feels a little easier, like the night’s keen to finally sleep. she walks in, stepping carefully around bodies busy with meaningless action. she sees someone do a line and she starts feeling stress, her chest tightening at the dry sniff and the easy disappearance of the powder. 

she continues despite the anxiety making her ears ring. by now, her heels are pinching, and she’s had enough of people pressing into her space with their sugar-rushed energy and red cup breath. she weaves her way through the house, whispering paige’s name a couple of times, softly. it’s muscle memory. 

no answer. 

her feet are starting to ache. she exhales, tugs her heels off at the base of the stairs, and toes the rest of the way barefoot. 

azzi finds her near the back,  a cracked door casting a warm, flickering glow across the hallway. paige is lying on the bed, one leg bent, the other dangling off the edge. she’s so beautiful, almost relentlessly so: hoodie stretched loose over her thighs, silver chain peeking from the collar and catching what little light there is.

there’s a half-finished joint in the dark green ashtray on the windowsill, the porcelain pressed with a pop art image of kendrick lamar’s grinning face; the soft scent of weed mingles with leftover body heat and laundry detergent.

“yo,” paige says, barely lifting her head. her voice is low, rough with smoke and sleep. she sounds annoyed that someone is in a space that’s only temporarily hers.

azzi sighs and leans against the door. “hey. been looking for you.”

paige sits up on her elbows then, her brow scrunching as her low eyes lock onto the phantom of her best friend in the doorway. a myriad of emotions scrape over her face, running her ragged, until something like relief decides to be the one that stays. 

“hey, az. you found me,” paige murmurs, gaze drifting down her body and back up again. “lucky you.”

azzi doesn’t answer. just rolls her eyes and steps forward, dropping her heels off to the side as she crawls onto the bed, slow and unbothered, one knee then the other sinking into the mattress. her dress hikes up higher with each movement, second-skin, clinging to her waist and hips like it was sewn on. paige watches her, eyes half-lidded, pulse skipping for no good reason.

azzi moves like she’s done this before—because she has. the bed dips under her weight. she sinks beside her, trying to settle.

“don’t sit there,” paige says suddenly, tugging on azzi’s arm.

azzi pauses, brows pulling together. “why not?”

paige shrugs, eyes glinting. “zone of sin.”

azzi resists the urge to scoff, a bright pop of jealousy fireworking in her hindbrain. she tells herself to ignore it and smooths her voice like static. 

“jesus, paige.” she makes a face instead. “you’re disgusting.”

“mhm,” paige hums. “but you love me, mama.”

before azzi can roll away or say something smart, paige’s hands are on her waist, strong and warm, and she bodily lifts her, pulling her up and over so azzi ends up on top of her, straddling her lap. 

azzi’s breath catches, but she lets it happen. she always does. with paige, she can afford to be less active within her own life.

her dress stretches just a bit more over her thighs. paige’s hands linger on her lower back, her thumbs tracing slow, lazy circles like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. azzi settles, carefully, her hands braced on either side of paige’s shoulders.

“you’re high,” she says.

paige grins, the kind of easy smile that makes azzi want to hit her and kiss her all at once. “only a little.”

they fall quiet. paige shifts beneath her just enough to make azzi feel the heat creeping up her neck. her eyes are steady, though, hooded and dark and weirdly honest under all the bravado. azzi can’t take the attention, so she slides down until she’s lying on the other woman’s chest. her head is cushioned tenderly by paige’s body. she can smell her cologne: bourbon, vanilla, and jasmine. 

“did your phone die?” azzi murmurs after a moment, voice careful.

paige’s torso shifts beneath her. “yeah. sorry. didn’t mean to stress you.”

azzi sighs. “i know, p. don’t worry about it. i think stress is a permanent part of me anyway.”

there’s a beat. paige reaches up, smooths a loose curl behind azzi’s ear like it’s instinct. then she leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead—warm, firm, and much too long to be casual.

“you been stressed?” she asks, right against azzi’s skin. “what’s going on, mama?”

azzi’s fingers twitch against the fabric of the comforter. her heartbeat’s loud enough that she’s sure paige can feel it. paige smells like weed and a late night, and that stupid fabric softener azzi’s always secretly liked.

something is shifting.

“nothing, just game shit. don’t distract me. it’s about you right now.”

“you’re annoying,” paige says back, but azzi can tell she doesn’t mean it.

“i know,” azzi says. “still here though.”

paige sits up at that, her hands gentle on azzi’s shoulder as she brings them to a sitting position. azzi is still somewhat on her lap, and she can feel paige’s knee between her thighs. the pressure makes her shiver and slide off. 

the music from the party is still playing low from someone’s half-dead speaker downstairs. now, it’s some rap song chopped up by bluetooth lag. paige doesn’t touch her, but sits across from her, close enough that she can reach out and hold on to her if she needs to.

“i’m fine,” paige says, voice flat.

azzi doesn’t answer right away. she curls a leg under herself, watching paige from beneath her lashes.

“i know, p,” she answers finally. “you always are.”

that’s all they say for a while. azzi can better smell the memory of this room, of what it had been like before she intruded. it’s a heady mixture of sweat and an unidentifiable sweetness, probably spilled liquor. paige leans back and exhales through her nose like she’s trying to hold it all together with silence. azzi only gives her time, bending her neck to look down at her hands as she plays with a stack of favored rings—all gifted by paige.

she looks back up—lets herself really look at paige—at the curve of her jaw in the dim light, the tension sitting just behind her mouth, like a pressed-in secret. there’s something about being here, in this strange city apartment with its ambient lighting and perfect sadness, that makes the night feel too long. 

paige meets her gaze, and azzi slides her hand across the sheets, flips it over so that the palm is up. paige’s lips part, and she makes an odd noise, but slides her hand into her best friend’s empty one. she makes sure to interlace their fingers so it’s more of an effort to break apart.

“can i take you home?” azzi asks.

paige hums, then leans forward and pulls azzi into a hug that settles the brunette’s face deep into her neck. she kisses the tip of azzi’s ear, then pulls back.

“‘course, ma.”

they leave.

✈︎

azzi drives paige’s car. she tries not to think too hard about the fact that paige drove here; maybe even planned to drive back drunk. her anger simmers and snakes around her heart, ready for when she’s better able to firm it.

paige’s place is only thirty minutes away, and when azzi pulls into the parking deck, it feels all too soon. the door clicks shut behind them as they clear the landing, and it’s dark except for the muted glow of the kitchen light left on. paige drops her duffel bag by the door, the bag as wilted and sad as it had looked in the backseat, and kicks off her sneakers without untying them. 

her hoodie is pulled over her face. she’d yanked it low the second she buckled in, and it hasn’t moved since. in her own domain, she looks worse. azzi can tell she’s been trying not to fall apart for hours. 

she steps in behind her, quiet, giving her space, but not too much. she watches as paige looks down the dark hallway that leads to her bedroom with a drawn expression, her jaw working as she tries to articulate her desires.

“can you—fuck,” paige starts, voice scratchy, almost shy. she stops. still, azzi is silent. “can you—will you shower with me?”

azzi blinks. “you want me to shower with you?”

“not like—not like that,” paige says quickly, shaking her head. azzi feels her stomach twist at the swift correction.“i just don’t want to be alone right now. i don’t want to think.”

azzi softens immediately. “yeah, i get it.” she tilts her head, puts her weekender on the counter. “of course, p.”

paige relaxes and reaches out a hand, relinking their hands as she guides azzi to her bedroom. paige dips into her closet to grab something to wear for the night, and azzi moves into the suite’s bathroom, tipping the handle until water begins to run steadily and warm. 

they undress in the soft silence, steam already beginning to curl against the mirror. paige’s movements are slow, almost clumsy, with exhaustion and her inebriation. azzi steps in first, holding the door open until paige follows.

when she does, she doesn’t say anything. she only slides in and rests her forehead on azzi’s shoulder, the water cascading over both of them.

azzi runs her hands gently over paige’s back, slow and soothing, like it’s instinct. she holds her under the warm stream, teaches her to breathe. paige’s arms come up around azzi’s waist, not tight, but close. close enough. as the minutes pass, she feels paige getting more comfortable. she can tell she’s starting to come down from her high, her body lax and pressing in.

azzi lets her have free rein because there’s not any part of her that doesn’t belong wholly to paige already. sometimes, she wishes she could slip inside paige’s skin if only to have her blood, bone, and flesh. she trembles as her best friend’s fingers climb up the ridges of her spine, callouses pressing against the spheres of bone. 

paige’s exploration comes forward, fingers gliding across azzi’s ribs and then lowering to her tummy. she pokes a finger into azzi’s belly button and listens to her laugh. then her hands rise again, traveling upward as paige leans back to allow for a modicum of space in between them.

azzi watches with a tight throat as paige’s hands cup the soft fat of her chest, her fingers pressing into the tissue. she focuses on breathing through her nose as paige thumbs at her wet nipples, adjusting her grip to better hold the weight of azzi’s breasts. it’s not sexual—not really, but there is something about being touched.

azzi sees her mouth twitch, watches her lips come apart like she’s debating placing one in between them. after a minute, paige speaks.

“you’re so fucking pretty, azzi.”

the use of her full name is like a final, blissful blow.  soft and staggering. azzi’s voice gets stuck in her throat, so she leans up and presses a kiss to paige’s temple. the blonde of her hair has gone dark gold with an oversaturation of water. 

“thank you,” she finally manages, and paige squeezes her side in response. 

from there, paige brings her hands down to azzi’s lower back, then her hips, and then the back of her thighs. she lifts azzi carefully, turning to sit on the bench with the other woman in her lap. the shower’s head is perfectly angled to still soak them, the spray sending soapy rivulets off their limbs and onto the floor.

“i just needed to feel someone,” paige murmurs, water dripping off her lashes.

“i know, p,” azzi tells her, sounding like a broken record. “i know you.”

paige sighs and braces her head on azzi’s shoulder. azzi feels a hot stream that she knows can only be paired with the salt of tears.

i’m here,” azzi whispers, pressing her cheek to the crown of paige’s head. “i got you.”

they stay like that until the water starts to cool, and even then paige lingers, always so reluctant to let go.

✈︎

after, azzi pulls on one of paige’s oversized tees and a pair of shorts, barefoot on the tile. she doesn’t know why she always packs pajamas she rarely ends up wearing.

she’s moving around the kitchen like she’s done it a thousand times. because she has. she makes pasta with garlic and oil, simple and warm. comfort food.

paige doesn’t say much. she leans against the counter, hair wet and dragged into a messy bun at the base of her neck. she looks young in her boxers and her vintage, navy yale sweatshirt. her face is soft but unreadable. azzi is unsure of what she needs, but she trusts paige will find a way to tell her.

true to form, when azzi tries to hand her a plate to go eat on the couch, paige just shakes her head and says, “c’mere.”

azzi looks at her. “why?”

“why you always gotta ask a question? just sit with me, ma,” paige says, already moving to the floor with her plate, back against the lower cabinets. “here.”

azzi hesitates for a second, then she follows, curling into paige’s lap as requested, letting herself be cradled. paige wraps one arm around her waist, chin on her shoulder, and they eat like that: quiet, warm, close.

“don’t think i’ve ever eaten like this,” azzi mumbles with a small laugh, mouth full of pasta.

paige hums. “don’t think i’ve ever needed someone like this,” she says back, quieter. 

azzi isn’t sure if she was meant to hear it, but she does. 

they both leave it alone.

when they finish, azzi tidies the kitchen, rinses their dishes, and checks that the stove’s off. she locks the door with the care of someone who’s made herself at home here before, who’s always had a key. paige watches her do it until azzi tells her she’s acting like a fucking creep. paige leaves her alone with a wry smile, and azzi calls after her to remind her to brush her teeth.

when she pads back to the bedroom, paige is already curled up on her side, sweatshirt swapped for a loose tee, blankets pulled to her chin. her eyes are blue and open, like the ocean when it mirrors the sky, watching azzi quietly.

“you staying?”

azzi smiles gently. “nope, i only brought my weekender for decoration. of course, i’m staying.”

paige doesn’t answer immediately, just lifts the blanket in a silent invitation. azzi climbs in, tucks paige in tighter, and strokes her hair back. the sheets are muslin and broken in, smelling thickly of the organic guava room spray paige buys straight from puerto rico. the pillows on her side are extra fluffed, with three instead of paige’s normal two. azzi’s chest warms as she thinks of paige making the bed while knowing exactly what she likes. 

“thank you for coming, az. you ain’t have to do all that.”

“you would do it all if it were me,” azzi mumbles back. her exhaustion is tickling the back of her throat, coaxing her into its arms like a mother to a child. 

paige rolls onto her side, tucking a loose curl back into azzi’s bonnet. 

“i know, but still,” she says. “i want you to know i appreciate you.”

“never doubted it,” azzi murmurs. “now, go to sleep. i’ll be here in the morning.”

and paige finally allows herself a kindness and falls straight under.

azzi stays awake a little longer, hand resting on paige’s waist, the rhythm of their breathing slowly syncing. as the world begins to fade out, she thinks about the ache in her chest. about how the lines keep getting blurred every time she and paige see one another. about how there’s no word to describe what it feels like when they’re together.

well, there is. but neither of them is ready to say it yet.

✈︎

the apartment is still wrapped in the velvet hush of pre-dawn when azzi wakes. paige’s alarm is going off, but it’s the one that paige has specifically tailored to her. 

azzi had once read an article that said changing your alarm to something soothing, rather than the jarring iphone default, helps better start the day. she’d sent it to paige, who had responded with “if i do that, then i won’t wake up, az.” but then the night after, when azzi stayed over yet again, she’d woken up to the mellow strings of an acoustic guitar.

it was a section of one of her favorite songs: “air forces” by mustafa. she’d lain there in the rising morning, the melodic sudanese tribal chant carrying her from the moon’s pull into the sun’s capable hands. 

 now, she listens to it all over again as she blinks into that grey-blue silence where time feels like it’s holding its breath. the only sound apart from the alarm is the slow hum of the shower and the low murmur of paige’s voice as she talks to someone on the phone. 

eventually, azzi rises. she has a plane to catch. 

the same thing plays out again: paige and azzi’s bodies moving in sync, together under water and soap with their feet bare on the shower’s tiled floor. they keep brushing against each other like they forgot how to be apart.

at one point, azzi stands behind paige in the tub, fingers gently massaging her coconut milk shampoo into her hair. the water is hot, almost scalding, fogging up the glass. paige tilts her head back slightly, eyes closed, pink lips parted, breathing easily for the first time in what feels like days.

azzi is careful, reverent. her thumbs trace little circles near paige’s temples, her nails gently scraping her scalp.

“you tryna put me to sleep again,” paige mumbles, smiling lazily.

“maybe,” azzi says softly, “but you never sleep enough anyway.”

paige shrugs, and azzi pinches her side at her constant lack of care toward herself. the water pelts down paige’s back as if to punish her, too. she leans into azzi without thinking; her body already knows who it belongs to when it’s soft like this. 

when azzi rinses the suds from her hair, she lets her hands linger for a moment, sliding over paige’s shoulders and down her arms. they don’t speak again until they’re toweling off, wrapped in clean cotton, and slipping back into the half-light of the bedroom.

the sky outside is still dark as azzi dresses. her hair is damp, and her bag is slung over her shoulder.  paige wanted to skip practice to drive her, but azzi knows she’ll be irritated with herself later if she does. 

she’s got a flight to make, but she moves with a stark lack of urgency. she watches paige stand in the kitchen, one sock tucked halfway on, eyes still bleary. there are two travel mugs in her hands.

“which one’s mine?” azzi asks, her hands flexing by her sides.

“the one with almond milk,” paige says, offering it over. “obviously.”

azzi smiles. “thank you.”

paige reaches out before azzi can turn away, tucks her hoodie sleeve into place, and presses a kiss to the plush skin of her cheeks. she feels azzi’s smile rise. she feels her own come alive.

“have a good flight, mama,” paige says, still close. “let me know when you get home, okay?”

azzi nods. her breath catches, just for a second. she can feel the tears coming, the salt beginning to pack against her nose and throat. she blinks fervently.

“‘kay,” she says, trying to keep her voice light, teasing. it doesn’t work.

“hey, c'mon. don’t cry, az,” paige tells her, her voice deceptively teasing. “imma see you soon, promise. gotta get you back.”

“you don’t have to get me back for anything, paige. this wasn't a big deal in the slightest. i’m your best friend. it’s what i’m supposed to do.”

paige shifts backward and looks at her. long and heavy-lidded, with something thick and syrupy swirling underneath.

“mmm,” she hums, low in her throat. like she’s accepting it. like she’s not.

azzi tucks a curl behind her ear and glances at the door, needing to move before something slips.

“you have a good day too,” she says quietly, opening it. “don’t go too hard at practice.”

they watch each other, the distance between them crippling. azzi is haloed by the sunlight as she stands in the mouth of the open door, her brown skin glowing like a spill of sugar. paige only gives herself two seconds to think it through before she closes the gap.

paige’s fingers are sure as they slide from azzi’s chin to her jaw. she pauses, giving azzi space. but azzi refuses to run. and so, just barely, paige kisses her. soft, questioning, scared.

it lasts all of three seconds.

paige pulls back like she’s touched fire.

“i’m sorry,” she breathes.

azzi shakes her head. “no. please. please, don’t be.”

paige looks at her, watches every line they’d ever drawn in the sand get drowned by the tide. “i didn’t—i didn’t plan that. swear. i just couldn’t not.”

azzi’s voice is a whisper. “i know.”

paige’s lips quirk up at that, and azzi thumbs across the curve. she leans in, gathering all the bravery she has left, and kisses paige again. this time it’s harder, and her tongue slips into paige’s mouth. she licks the coffee off of her teeth, mewls as paige guides her by the back of her neck. 

paige, again, is the one to pull away. she presses their foreheads together, fixes azzi’s necklace with the golden scale pendant at the end. it’s paige’s star sign—libra.

“you gotta go, mama. you’re gonna miss your flight.”

azzi nods, her heart held just behind her teeth.

“okay,” she whispers.

paige practically has to rip her hands off of the other woman. she’s always struggling to loosen her grip. she tells herself she has to trust that the things she loves will always return. 

with one last wide-eyed glance, azzi is gone. the door clicks shut behind her, and it sounds like a gun.

paige leans against it, closes her eyes, and starts to pray.

they won’t talk about this tomorrow. 

that’s another rule.

© hcneymooners.

[p0orbaby]

Alexia putellas “Jealousy looks good on you” and “why are you looking at me like you want to kill me?”

-

You’re not normally the jealous type.

You’re confident. Grounded. You have a handle on things—especially when “things” are a six-time Player of the Year with impossibly good cheekbones and a weird obsession with organising the fridge by yoghurt flavour.

You trust Alexia.

You do.

Which is why the sight of her leaning a little too close to some sports journalist—blonde, giggly, armed with an aggressively plunging neckline—shouldn’t make your jaw clench the way it does.

But it does.

It’s the tail-end of a press event, one you weren’t technically invited to but Alexia told you to “just come” with that smug glint in her eye that usually means you’ll end up in her lap by the end of the night.

You’re across the room when it happens. Sipping your drink. Watching her tilt her head and laugh at something the blonde says, that familiar dimple flashing.

Your blood fizzes.

Aitana clocks it immediately. She sidles up next to you, grinning into her glass.

“You’re doing that thing with your eyes.”

“What thing.”

“The ‘I’m pretending I don’t care but I’m seconds away from flipping a table’ thing.”

You glance back toward Alexia. “She’s still talking to her?”

Aitana shrugs. “They’re just talking.”

“She touched her arm.”

“She also touched the complimentary hummus.”

You shoot her a look.

“I’m just saying,” Aitana says, amused. “If you’re going to throw hands, aim high. That dress doesn’t have a lot of structural integrity.”

You snort. Then straighten up as Alexia starts walking toward you, all soft hair and smug expression and maddeningly slow steps.

“Hi,” she says, like she didn’t just flirt in 1080p across a crowded room.

You shoot her a look. Flat. Blinking. Dry.

She slows, just a little, gaze scanning your face like she’s trying to decide if you’re genuinely pissed or just playing.

“You alright?” she asks, voice laced with something too innocent.

You don’t answer immediately. You cross your arms instead, eyes trailing to where the journalist is still lingering by the canapé table, looking around like she’s lost something. Maybe a sense of boundaries.

Alexia follows your gaze. She smiles.

Smiles.

You raise a brow. “She funny, was she?”

Alexia exhales a soft laugh through her nose, head tilting like she’s enjoying this a little too much. “I was being polite.”

“She touched your arm.”

“She also asked if hummus was dairy-free. I’m not sure she’s all there.”

You give her a long, measured look.

And she just looks back at you. Steady. A little smug. That calm arrogance that always drives you mad—in both the best and worst ways.

Then finally, softly, she says:

“Why are you looking at me like you want to kill me?”

You don’t blink. “Who says I don’t?”

She pauses. Watches your jaw work. The slight tension in your shoulders. The way you haven’t let her touch you yet, even though she’s right there.

Then, slowly—deliberately—she steps closer, toe bumping gently against the front of your boot.

Her smirk creeps in, slow and crooked.

“Jealousy looks good on you.”

“I wasn’t jealous,” you lie.

“Oh no?”

“I just don’t like people touching what’s mine.”

That earns you a look. One of those slow, dangerous smiles that makes your spine feel like jelly.

“Yours, huh?”

You nod once.

Alexia leans in, mouth by your ear, voice low enough to make you swallow.

“Say that again later when you’ve got your hands on my hips and your mouth on my neck.”

You blink.

Aitana, still nearby, mutters, “Jesus Christ,” before walking off with a grimace.

Alexia kisses your cheek once, soft, then lets her hand slip around your waist as she murmurs, “Let’s go home. I want to hear more about what’s yours.”

And suddenly, you don’t mind the jealousy at all.

[liwinly]

HOLD ME !

───── soft touches, unspoken feelings, a space too small for two

MORE ( 500 ) . fluff , friends to lovers. ✶ skinship

rbs & feedback please !

Ni-ki has always been touchy.

You never really thought much about it. He’s the type to throw an arm around your shoulder without thinking, to pull you against his side while watching a movie, to casually fix your hoodie strings when they’re uneven. It’s just… him. And it’s never felt weird.

Until now.

He’s lying next to you on your bed, scrolling through his phone while the soft glow from your laptop screen flickers against the walls. Some movie you both stopped paying attention to is still playing in the background. Nothing about the moment is out of the ordinary—except for the fact that his arm is draped over your waist, and you suddenly can’t stop noticing it.

You shift slightly. Not even to pull away, just to do something.

His grip tightens. Not in a forceful way—just… natural. Like he didn’t even realize he was doing it until you moved.

“You’re thinking really hard about something,” he mutters, voice thick with drowsiness.

You blink. “No, I’m not.”

Ni-ki huffs a quiet laugh, eyes still half-lidded as he turns his head toward you. “You totally are.”

Your stomach does this stupid little flip at the way his voice sounds—low and familiar. You hate that it catches you off guard. You hate even more that you can’t seem to focus on anything except the warmth of his arm resting against your side.

“…You’re holding me,” you say before you can stop yourself.

His lips twitch. “Yeah.”

“You don’t usually do that.”

“I do,” he says easily. “You just don’t notice.”

Your breath catches. There’s something teasing in his tone, but the way his thumb brushes against the hem of your hoodie feels too deliberate, too soft for it to be nothing.

You wet your lips, heart knocking against your ribs. “Do you always hold onto people like this?”

He finally looks at you fully, and it’s so stupid how warm your face feels under his gaze. He blinks once, slow. Then—like it’s the most obvious thing in the world—he says, “No. Just you.”

It shouldn’t feel like such a big deal. It really shouldn’t. But something about the way he says it—so matter-of-fact, like you should’ve known all along—makes it impossible to pretend like your heart isn’t racing.

You don’t move away. You don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

Instead, he shifts closer, barely closing the space between you. Just enough that you can feel his breath against your skin, warm and steady.

“I don’t mind, you know,” he murmurs, voice quiet but firm. “If you want to hold me back.”

And God, that’s the problem. Because you do.

You always have.

── .✦ @sugarikiz @slayyuna @amoressb @woniefication @irasvr

[thebibliosphere]

With hindsight, I probably should have realized I was polyamorous/ambiamorous sooner than I did. (And to be clear, I realized it pretty young. I just didn't have the terminology for it.)

Ignoring the fact that five-year-old me used to watch Signing In The Rain! on a loop and was already making up stories about Don, Cosmo, and Kathy all living together in Don's big house and *gasp* holding hands (maybe kissing), I was never any good at shipwars.

Like someone would ask me, "What's your OTP?" and I'd be like, "Well, I guess I like X/Y, but also Y/Z is good too..."

And they'd be like, "No. I mean your one TRUE pairing," and I'd just blink at them like, I'm sorry, I don't understand the question.

I'm sure they thought I was trying to stir shit or being deliberately annoying, but I just... couldn't wrap my head around it. Why did I need to pick one thing? There were multiple options with different things that made them appealing. That's like going to an all-you-can-eat buffet and just drinking water. Which is fine! If water is all you want, great. But you don't get to go to an all-you-can-eat buffet and judge people for eating different foods...

And when I eventually found out multi-shipping was a thing, I was like, "oh neat, that's what I do!" and while there was a definite feeling of having found my people, it was weird having the moral judgment from other people who seemed to think multi-shipping was a symptom of a greater moral character flaw. Like my inability to settle on just one thing meant I was more likely to cheat irl.

This wasn't helped by the fact that I... kinda already didn't care about monogamy? Not the way my friends did. I didn't mind that my then-boyfriend liked Sarah, too. What I minded was that he went behind my back and kissed her when he'd told me I couldn't kiss anyone else.

It was the betrayal of the agreement that hurt. Because we'd agreed. He'd asked me to be exclusive with him, and I did. And then he... didn't. And my friends couldn't grasp that.

It was all, "How could he kiss someone else?!" and my chief complaint was, "Why didn't he tell me first?!"

Anyway, if I could go back in time, I'd tell teenage me, you're not weird and amoral, you're just queer, polyamorous, and have ADHD, lmao.

[sam-keeper]

Hey Look At This Comic: Calvin and Hobbes

I liked the idea of putting some more daily strip comics into my rss reader, and gocomics DOES post old strips in sequence every day (keeping archival materials in lively circulation 👍), and there IS a site that generates an rss feed for gocomics (they don't provide rss feeds themselves because they want you to subscribe 👎) so, I added the current Nancy run to my feed, alongside Peanuts and Calvin and Hobbes. a few days later it paid off big time with this strip:

I love this strip, but it's a bit weird, isn't it? I'm sure some people read the way you're "supposed to" move panel to panel in a typical comic: left to right across the top strip, then the middle, then the bottom. Easy. I didn't, though. My eyes darted across the page, circled around the upper left hand panels, before zipping to the big point of interest on the page: that big panel of Calvin's teacher as a great pink alien monster! the second panel in strip two, the view through the spaceship porthole of the alien landscape, got orphaned, turned into something I glanced at after the fact as I pieced the sequence back together.

which might just be how comics reading actually goes, in practice. more recent theories of comics, particularly ones coming out of the Franco-Belgian tradition, suggest we take in the page as a whole first before diving in panel by panel. that bottom left corner is also kind of a privileged position on the page, with a beautifully lumpy and toothy monster filling up almost the whole frame. no wonder my eye was drawn there "ahead of sequence"!

is that a mistake? one of my friends, when I posed the question, thought so, that the strip means to build up to that point but the page composition encourages you to read ahead. She also, intriguingly, suggested to me that even though we enter the strip seeing the whole page, we induce a kind of forgetfulness in ourselves so that we don't get spoiled. when we see the monster, do we already know it's there while experiencing it for the first time? (hypnosis, she suggested to me, is "merely a set of circumstances to help the mind do a set of things that it already does every day".)

others corroborated the weird reading orders but suggested it was deliberate. for Sarah, the whole left side of the page draws your eye down compositionally, from Spaceman Spiff's (Calvin's alter ego) gloved hands on the wheel, down to the Z shaped mesa, to the monster. this cuts out almost two thirds of the comic! but for her and a few other friends, that made sense: Calvin is daydreaming in class, and the point where his teacher pops up in front of him to demand his attention is a moment of concrete interest in a hazy sea of nonlinear sensation. another friend drew a diagram of an even weirder reading pattern:

actually, I think this makes some sense. theorist Thierry Groensteen's notion of "braiding" in comics suggests that we're constantly recomposing comics in our brains, not just panel by panel, but over the whole corpus of panels, looking for rhymes and resonances and ways the story relates to itself. it feels a little like panels 2 and 3 rhyme, to me. the frames are long and thin more than any of the others, they both have this prominent horizon line, and they both sit on top of panels 4 and 5. they relate to each other, to the point where I see how you could jump from one to the other, then back up the page and over! if I understand Groensteen right, he's not suggesting we necessarily jump around the page this way, I don't want to put words in his mouth, but I do think one of the implications of braiding and of taking in the whole page is that we might get off track and start wandering through time and space... which is exactly what Calvin is doing, after all.

I love that the actual joke of the strip hinges on these two little panels buried at the bottom of the page: the only shot not from Calvin's point of view, of him looking frazzled after Mrs Wormwood's dressing down, and then a little panel of him holding the book. that's braiding too: we understand the previous and future panels because we draw an analogy between all the perspectives we've seen elsewhere of hands (or claws) and get that Calvin is drifting into a daydream again, taking on a new role. the scenario shifts, and the color scheme changes to a complimentary one (red to green), but both daydreams are much more powerful, on the page, than the interruption by reality.

how do you read the page?

you can read more reviews in the Hey Look At This Comic tag and support me on Patreon.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Leaving VII

Alexia Putellas x Teen!Reader

Summary: Olympic chaos with your sister

Y/NPutellas.S has started a live video. Click to join!

"-Got two backpacks," You're saying as Alexia clicks on your video," I think one of them might become my racket bag because the one I'm using right now is falling apart."

You shove the bags away, glancing around the space as you drag more towards you.

"There's a toiletry bag as well which is full of stuff I probably won't even use."

You pause as you scroll through the comments.

"What sport am I competing in? Oh, I'm doing tennis...Who will be the hardest to play against? Iga, always. I train with her most of the time and I think I've only beaten her a few matches this year. She's scary. Coco always gives me a good competition too. I think she text me a few hours ago but I haven't answered just yet."

You go back to showing off your haul.

You're very complimentary of all of the shoes but you seem confused as to why you've been given so many socks.

Alexia takes a screenshot of a weird face you make while trying on the bucket hat and hastily makes it her profile picture.

"I'm not a fan of the opening skirt," You tell your followers," It's not really my style. I'll wear it because I have to but...What's that? My sister's here?"

You crowd a bit closer to your phone, brows furrowed as you scroll up looking for Alexia's comments.

She feels triumphant at the look of horror on your face when you see her profile picture.

"Alexia!" You shriek," Change it back! My eyes aren't even open! Ale, please!"

Alexia does not change it back and you swear under your breath at her.

"I'm telling Mama!"

Alexia Putellas: Go ahead, you little snitch

"I'm not a snitch!"

Alexia Putellas: Yes, you are

"Don't listen to her guys! She's such a liar!"

You've always been more active on social media than Alexia and fans eat up any content you post on your TikTok. Most of your fans are just people that watch tennis but you've gone viral overnight when you posted a video of you and Iga reuniting at the Olympic Village.

Suddenly, everyone wants content from you and you're posting more than you ever have before.

A lot of it still centres around your tennis, out on the practice courts with the rest of team Spain but there's more domestic things like you retaping your racket grip and showing off everything in the Olympic Village.

Something in Alexia snaps when you make a video complaining about how uncomfortable your cardboard bed is. Suddenly, she's stitching your video.

Her camera pans across her normal hotel bed and ends with her giving a thumbs up to the camera with a smug grin on her face.

Her own fans go crazy over her posting something outside of sponsorships and it's strange to see that some people don't even know who you are.

woso.alexia.engen: Who was the first person in the video???? -> captainklittle: Alexia's little sister! She's representing Spain for tennis!

A second stitch appears hours later, piggybacking off a video of you complaining about your lack of AC. There's no sound apart from the very deliberate flick of Alexia's own AC switch.

It seems every complaint you post, Alexia finds a way to show off how much better she has it in a hotel outside of Paris.

You decide, perhaps a little pettily, to show off what she's missing.

"Hi, guys!" You say," I know a lot of people were wondering about pin trading so I thought I would bring you along for the ride! I've already got a Poland one from Iga and a US one from Coco but I've been wanting a Team GB one and I'm also meeting up with Paolini so she can give me an Italy one."

It's another live video and thank god there's a break in training, so Alexia can jump onto it again.

Jenni and Misa crowd around her at the same time, curious as to what's going on with you.

"I was talking to Carlos at breakfast and he was telling me that the coaches have ordered us all mattress toppers because the beds have started to affect how we're performing."

Alexia Putellas: Sucks to be you, doesn't it?

"Alexia, I swear to god if you keep bullying me then I'm telling Mama and she'll fly out to whoop your ass!"

Alexia Putellas: 🤪

"And Jenni I knew that it's you that just sent that because Alexia doesn't understand emojis."

"Fuck," Jenni mutters.

"Wait, give me the phone. I'll fix it," Misa says.

Alexia Putellas: Who's Jenni?

"Misa, I know that's you as well. Stop trying to cover for each other and I'll tell Mama and she'll whoop all of you."

Alexia doesn't get her phone back for the rest of your live but she does get a strongly worded text from Eli after it's over to grow up and not let her friends bully you.

Alexia calls you a snitch.

You remind her that she should stop bullying you.

"Look who it is!" Jenni cajoles as you come running out of the village to crash into Alexia," Baby Putellas!"

But you're not really listening to her as Alexia presses her forehead against yours, whispering fast Catalan to you as you giggle.

"Aw..." Misa continues where Jenni left off," Look at them! Two sisters! Reunited!"

You and Alexia push each other away, turning your back and pretending that you weren't hugging just a few moments ago.

You turn back to her quickly, hand out. "Can I have your pins?"

"What? No! They're mine!"

"You're not even in the Village! You can't use them!"

"Yes I can!" Alexia splutters out," I've been trading them!"

"Yeah? With who?"

"Jenni!"

"Liar! You've got the same pins! Come on, Ale. Give them over!"

"I will...for a price."

As Alexia lays out her terms, you bring everyone up to your room.

Jenni and Misa split off briefly to check out the dining hall but Alexia comes straight up with you.

"It's actually cardboard," She says, poking at your bed frame.

"Yeah? Do you think we were all lying about that? It's proper cardboard. You can draw on it if you want."

A smile splits your sister's face open.

"Never mind. I don't want you drawing on my bed."

Alexia pokes it. "Do you think it's true? That two people can't get on it at the same time?"

You shrug, rummaging through your bedside table. "I don't know. Why?"

You never get your answer though.

Arms are around your waist suddenly and you're being hauled backwards as Alexia slams herself onto your bed, dragging you back with her.

You may not get an answer but Alexia certainly does because the moment the two of you land, there's an almighty ripping noise and your bed goes to ground very quickly.

"Oops," You sister says.

"Alexia!"

"Sorry?"

"You don't sound very sorry at all."

"Yeah...You're right. I'm not sorry in the slightest. Hey! Stop hitting me!"

"You're lucky I'm not beating you with my rackets!"

"Hey. Hey! It's fine! You can get a new bed."

"Jenni and Misa are going to take the piss out of me! How could you do this, Ale?"

As annoying as your sister is, she at least has the decency to push the blame off onto her friends as you both hastily raise your bed up again and wait for Jenni and Misa to arrive.

They seem to have the same idea as Alexia, jumping onto your bed without so much of a greeting.

But, as planned, the bed collapses under them and the shock of their faces is enough for Alexia breaking your bed to be worth it. Their faces are even funnier as they head downstairs to ask for a new one for you.

Behind your back, Alexia passes you a handful of pins.

JenniHermoso10 has started a live video. Click to join!

"Forward! Forward!"

"I am going forward!"

"More forward! When I say forward, it doesn't mean shuffle! It means walk forward! You're a person not a pigeon!"

"And here we have Olympic football player Alexia Putellas and Olympic tennis player y/n Putellas, attempting to climb onto the rings," Jenni narrates from behind the camera.

"It's not going well," Misa says, as Alexia nearly throws you from your spot on her shoulders," Alexia is clearly struggling."

"I'm not struggling!" Alexia insists, yelping as you twist her hair in your hands.

"Forward!

"This is as forward as I can get!"

"That's such bullshit! Move closer!"

"I can't!"

"You can!"

"I don't think they're ever going to make it," Jenni says," It's like they can't-"

"Stop! Ale, stop! Left a bit. No! Too left. Right again. Left! Right! Left!"

"Left, right, forward, back," Alexia mutters," Make up your mind."

"Left and...got it...Wait! Don't let go!"

You haul yourself from your sister's shoulders onto the centre ring, positioning yourself perched on the sliver of the yellow ring that enters the black one.

"Alright," Alexia says," Give me a hand."

"What? No! You'll pull me off!"

"Give me your hand!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

"No!"

She braces herself on the lower rings and grabs your hand, pulling herself into the centre ring before you can even shove her off.

"Oh," She says," That was pretty easy." Alexia grins at you but the smile drops from her face when she notices the pensive look you're wearing. "What is it?"

"I've just realised," You laugh in disbelief," When Mama said she wanted a picture of us and the rings. I think she meant in front of them. Not in them."

"Oh."

[timmie-p]

april fools post translation 👍 * indicates i have notes on the translation if you want to read below

Hyun Woo —> He stopped acting in his childhood but is currently working on ALNST as a lighting crew member. Worries about his dull, slow sister

Hyuna —> The last and youngest of the ALNST cast to debut! Her real personality is gentle and innocent

Mizi —> Fan favourite among the actors. Shy personality and very nervous about her first leading role

Sua —> The feisty actress is popular among her co-stars, thanks to her nonchalant friendliness

Sua: Great job on the shoot today. I’m sure Director Kim was only speaking so harshly because he was worried about your safety, so don’t take it personally.

Mizi: Yeah.. ((It’s sunbae!!! What should I do! What should I do!!))

Sfx: Thump thump thump [heartbeat sound]

Ivan and Luka are actors from a different agency. They’re also in an idol group together (for the record, Luka hates it)

Ivan —> Ivan loves kids and voluntarily takes care of them

Luka —> Luka is Ivan’s best friend, so he’s forced to babysit with him

Baby Till —> Baby Till for flashback scenes

Baby Mizi —> Baby Mizi for flashback scenes when the kids are older

Till —> Till, the youngest in the series, is actually the oldest in the cast and debuted with CF before he could even speak in a diaper commercial. Till has a strong “my pace”* persona. He just wants to quickly wrap up the shoot and go home. His dark circles are from overwork, not make-up.

Others —> Three people who want to approach their mysterious** senior but can’t

Ivan: ((Lamenting over delays..?))

Mizi: Want me to talk to him?

Luka: Yeah

Till: ((I want to go home))

Sfx: Spacing out~

*according to namu wiki, either someone who’s strongly independent and doesn’t care what others think or someone who’s always chill

**according to namu wiki, the adjective translates to a famous person who deliberately keeps their private life secret. i just went with mysterious bc it directly translates to “mystic”

i didn’t choose to translate sunbae in Mizi’s thoughts because it sounds weird and most of you probably know what it means anyway

lol it looks like everyone’s personalities were flipped. does that mean ivan actually hates kids? and till as the cool mysterious senior everyone is scared to talk to vs hyuna as no thoughts head empty is kinda funny. i have a feeling ivan and luka are shipped together a lot by fans in this au.. the woes of being besties. also mizisua is always canon 🙏 theyre so yuri

[internetdaddy98]

The Ties That Bind Us - Chapter 9

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[Series Masterlist]

Content Warning: mentions of death ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a Tuesday—one of those drizzly, grey-skied mornings that turned the windows foggy and made the ER feel even more gloomy than usual.

Robby hadn’t seen her come in, but he heard her laugh before he saw her. Low, breathy, a little hoarse from the dry air. It carried from the nursing station, tucked between a shout from Triage and the hum of a monitor alarm. He looked up instinctively.

There she was. 

Her hair was loose down her shoulders. A pen tucked behind her ear, which made something in his chest ache with a dull, stupid fondness.

She was leaning over the counter, talking to one of the residents—Mohan, and whatever she said had made the younger doctor laugh so hard she had to brace herself.

Robby didn’t hear the words. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to. But what he noticed—what he couldn’t stop noticing—was the way you glanced back over your shoulder, like you were checking to see if Robby was looking.

Their eyes met.

Not long. A flicker. Barely half a second. But something in it—soft, cautious, lingering.

He looked away first.

Robby had spent years mastering the art of detachment in the ER. You had to. People came in bleeding, screaming, dying—and if you didn’t learn to compartmentalize, it ate you alive. He’d thought he was good at it. Thought he was detached, professional, unshakable.

But Y/N Williams had snuck past every one of his defenses. And maybe, if he was being honest, he’d let her.

It was never just one thing. It was a hundred tiny ones. How she always brought two coffees on their early shifts. How she never backed down from a trauma, even when it scared the hell out of her. The way she’d call him out with a smirk and then blush when he gave it right back.

He'd known, somewhere deep down, that he was in trouble for months.

But lately... he was starting to wonder if she might be, too.

It was in the way she’d linger after shifts—not long, just enough to make it feel deliberate. Or how she always sat next to him in the nurse's station, even when other seats were open. How her hand had hovered just a little too long on his shoulder the night they lost that teenager, her eyes watery, voice shaking.

And that look—today.

That look had cracked something wide open.

Later that afternoon, they were finishing notes at the same desk. The quiet after mayhem. Rain tapping against the sliding doors. You were typing chart notes, a crease between your brows, and Robby couldn’t help watching you again.

“Why are you staring at me?” she asked, not looking up.

He blinked. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

A beat passed. He didn’t deny it.

She finally glanced at him, her expression unreadable.

“You’ve been weird today,” she said. “Weirder than usual.”

“I didn’t know there was a baseline.”

“There definitely is.”

He smirked. But it didn’t reach all the way.

She didn’t answer for a long time.

And then, softly, “I guess I was just wondering if you were watching me.”

“I always watch you,” he said, before he could stop himself.

Her eyes widened a fraction. Not scared. Not offended. Just—surprised.

Then she smiled, small and real.

And that was the moment.

That was when Robby knew—knew in the marrow of his bones—that she felt it too. The pull. The ache. The unspoken thing that had been growing between them in between trauma rooms and stolen moments on the rooftop.

[chainmail-butch]

i was talking to a friend who's a trans woman about this. she used to be really weird about butch trans women, but ended up being butch herself. she told me she was adverse to it because "it was like watching someone leave their house completely naked. you feel maybe a little embarrassed for them but you're mostly scared for how other people are going to treat them too. [she] thought "well, [she'd] be embarrassed doing the same and maybe they were having a hard time passing. but then finding out they're doing it on purpose, [she] thought that they were making a joke of being trans, like they were enforcing the stereotype of just saying you were a woman despite not making any effort to look like one. [she] was confused as to why anyone would do that, especially when she'd been having a hard time being treated well even though she did everything to make herself like a cis girl." she hated having to put in so much effort into looking feminine but did it because she was sure that's just what you had to do. obviously, probably regardless of how she looked, she was going to be treated like shit on the principal of being trans and after actually talking to butches and thinking about it more, she decided to just dress how she felt comfortable and still be proud of being a woman.

That's very interesting to hear. That is the consistent impression I've gotten from well meaning trans women.

I had to wrestle with the whole, "declaring myself a woman without making the effort," thing. When I first transitioned I put on dresses, tried on makeup, and got cute jackets. None of it felt right. I knew, entirely, that I was a woman. But doing all of the things women were supposed to be doing made me feel even worse than when I had lived as a man, which is saying something.

I eventually figured out that there is plenty of effort to being a butch woman. There are still styles, there are still pieces of gendered clothing, there are still gendered actions, they're just hidden in plain sight. They're all the things I wanted to do and all the ways that I wanted to be perceived that I couldn't understand until someone (Leslie Feinberg) held a mirror to my face (SBB) and said Butch. Then it all clicked.

I've been doing HRT for three full years now. I've been socially transitioned for three full years now. It is work. It is a challenge. It is walking out of the house with nothing but your soul and what you choose to armor it with. For some women the armor is a dress and a full face of makeup. For me its leather and boots.

I love my sisters deeply. I love women deeply. I love womanhood deeply. But my womanhood is also deliberately not womanhood. My selfish desire is a world where I can be exactly who I am without having to justify it to every woman, trans or cis, that crosses my path. But that's not gonna happen any time soon.

As so many butches, cis and trans, have said, It is a difficult road to walk and I have no choice but to walk it.