#have y'all noticed i just dissociate like a boss

[bloodiedrogue]

IN ANOTHER UNIVERSE, MAYBE (2)

SUMMARY: It's always been hard being the sibling of a superhero. Lately though, it feels next to impossible.

PAIRING: Miguel O'Hara & Female Reader

WORD COUNT: 5,136

WARNINGS: Angst, enemies-to-lovers adjacent, descriptions of a panic attack/dissociate behaviours, inappropriate use of medication/alcohol consumption.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Okay, first of all, the amount of love I've received from this fic has been insane??? Like, y'all really knocked it out of the park, both here and on AO3 and I'm absolutely astounded? Thank you so much! You guys have literally motivated me so much so hopefully this chapter lives up to the hype of the first? :)

CHAPTER LIST / LAST CHAPTER / MASTERLIST

-

“God, I am never drinking again.” 

You stumble into the living room with your hands against your eyes, palming the sockets roughly. It’s morning, maybe even early afternoon, and already the sun is pushing through the blinds, coating the apartment in enough light that it makes you squint. On the couch Miguel grumbles under the covers as you walk by, pulling the fabric over his head as he readjusts his position, directing himself away. 

You’re surprised to see him there but say nothing, opting to wander into the kitchen to pour yourself a glass of water, noticing a fresh sticky note on the fridge: Call me when you’re up —Pete!

Hm, he must’ve gone over to MJ’s for the night.

Peeling the note away, you continue your trek for hydration, grabbing a glass that you fill and chug down twice before feeling satisfied enough to continue. Or at least, enough to survive considering just how sore you are. From your knees down you can feel the leftover aches from walking home; the many miles you’d managed to travel in your drunken state now heavy on your mind. There are at least one or two blisters on each foot thanks to your poor choice of footwear while the muscles surrounding your shins feel like they might actually be burning through your flesh.  

As you walk back through the living room you try not to groan at the pain, turning your attention to Miguel who’s now reluctantly awake. 

“Morning, grandpa.” 

You walk over and press the sticky note to his forehead, ignoring the way he swears under his breath and looks at you with narrowed eyes. 

“It’s not nice to assault people with sticky notes before they’ve had coffee.”

Shrugging in response, you walk back to your bedroom to grab your phone, listening to the creak of your couch as Miguel shifts out of place. 

It’s weird that he’s still here. After everything that happened last month, you were certain you’d never have to see him again. Being Peter’s boss and not much else, he’d become nothing more than a disdainful memory as time went on. A poor impression from the past that Peter never talked about. If you were honest, you weren’t expecting to hear about him so soon, much less see him, especially without his mask. 

So seeing him here, sitting so nonchalantly on your couch is a bit strange. Off-putting in a way that leaves you emotionally winded as you sit on the edge of your bed, staring at your notifications. 

There’s about half a dozen apologies from Peter alone, each variation more extreme than the last. Mixed between there’s a few memes and a picture of him pretending to cry on MJ’s floor with the caption sorry for being the worst brother, which you immediately save for future use. There’s also one from Harry asking you to send him a work email that you ignore and another from Gwen once again asking you to come for brunch. 

You glance at the time, noticing that it’s nearing eleven. She and Harry are probably already at their usual spot, munching away on overpriced, organic eggs and inhaling mimosas. (Something you'd normally enjoy but can’t quite fathom doing thanks to the pain currently rippling through your body.) 

Groaning, you curl further into the bed, feeling your head shift like an ocean wave that sends you flying across the room. In response, you shut your eyes as tight as possible, hoping that if you roll with the movements you’ll get used to them faster. 

Immunity through the power of will and all that. 

“I see you’re still alive.” 

You refuse to open your eyes. You need to focus on getting better —on pushing through the swirling motions that attack your brain because if you don’t you’ll be stuck here all day, helpless and in pain and way too dizzy. No longer will you be a person, but instead a shell. A fragile casing of sensitive flesh stretched over bruising bone that will slowly but surely deteriorate over time. 

“Are you always this dramatic?” 

The urge to argue persists, flowing through you just quick enough that you find yourself opening one eye, noticing his stance. 

He’s standing nonchalantly in the centre of your room; hands placed neatly on his hips. On his face, the tiniest of smirks pokes out of the corner of his mouth, prompting you to lift your head, blinking at what feels like a rare sight.

“Are you always this hostile?”

“Only in the morning.”

“Even towards complete strangers?”

“Especially to strangers.”

“Makes sense why you don’t have many friends.” 

“And how would you know that, stranger?”

He’s got that teasing tone that Harry always has. The one that sounds so condescending that it borders flirtation. Immediately it makes you roll your eyes and direct your attention back to your phone, realizing just how little you want to continue this conversation. You’re too hungover. Too sick and tired to do this whole back-and-forth thing, so instead you call Peter, putting the call on speakerphone with a sigh.

It rings twice before the other end clicks to life, a very joyful and awake Peter greeting the both of you. “Good morning friends, how are we doing on this beautiful morning?”

Almost in unison both of you grumble out a quiet fine that makes Peter laugh, prompting you to look at each other with shared disgust. 

“Are you hungover?”

“What do you think?”

“Gwen called me this morning,” he says, changing the subject. “She wants to go for brunch.”

“That’s nice, but I will not be attending on the account of the fact that I’d rather die.” 

“So dramatic,” Miguel chimes in.

Ignoring him, you place your phone onto the pillow next to you and tighten the covers around your throat.

Your head is still spinning but less so, the waves feeling more like lakeside tides than oceanic swells, leaving you thankful. There’s nothing worse than the spins after a night out. You can handle the stomach aches and even the vomiting but the second you can feel that mental drift you’re a goner. 

“Okay well, MJ and I are going to go if you change your mind. Miguel, you're welcome to come too.”

“No thanks,” he says, unsurprisingly. 

There’s a pause after that. One that lasts a solid five seconds but feels like a lifetime longer thanks to the way Miguel continues to stand there, staring at your pathetic frame tucked haphazardly beneath the covers. 

“You know staring is rude, right?”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, and weird too considering I barely know you.”

“You saying it’s weird for strangers to stare at strangers?” 

“A little, yeah, so knock it off.” 

He gives in, his eyes diverting towards the window before they move to the door, motivating his body to leave the room without another word. Once he’s gone you let out a sigh of relief and listen to his footsteps, hearing the way they move through the living room and into the kitchen. 

It makes you wonder why he’s even still here, taking up space in a home he isn’t really welcome in. You figured it was obvious from the beginning that he was nothing more than an overnight guest. A protective stand-in meant to slip away in the dead of night with no word or note. He was never meant to linger the way he is now and a part of you wonders if he already knows. If instead of picking up and applying said social cues, he’s opting to ignore them for some higher purpose. 

It wouldn’t make much sense but then again, you don’t really know Miguel so maybe he’s just a lingerer. Maybe he’s socially awkward and doesn’t understand that when you’re being mean to him it means you want him to leave your house so you can vomit in peace. 

“I see you guys are getting along.”

“Swimmingly.”

“Did you two have a good night?”

“Yes, oh my god it was amazing!”

“Really?”

You offer a fake laugh that Miguel walks in on, raising his brow in confusion. “No, we had a terrible time. Your boss is mean, Peter.” 

Offended, Miguel opens his mouth to speak but quickly closes it, watching the way you smirk beneath the covers, watching his brows knit together.

“How am I mean? I walked you home didn’t I?”

“Sure, begrudgingly.” 

He scoffs, his palms moving to encompass his hips again. “I didn’t realize I was supposed to enjoy walking you home. I’ll remember that next time.”

Next time?

You narrow your eyes and stare directly at him, noticing the way he mirrors your expression. It’s subtle at first, the way the crinkles of his eyes sort of deepen to match the lines across his forehead. His skin is rough —aged looking most likely due to the fact he probably slept terribly— and the bags beneath his eyes are the heaviest you’ve ever seen, even rivalling Peter’s on some of his rougher days. Like you, he looks more like a corpse than a person, his face devoid of anything other than the sickened frustration of having to deal with your attitude.

“I’m gonna be honest if you’re ever running late again, please call someone else.”

It’s obvious you’re talking to Peter but as you speak you continue staring at the man in front of you, glaring at the way his weight shifts beneath your gaze.

You hope he’s uncomfortable. You hope he’s embarrassed or at least feeling a little self-conscious for acting like such a child in a space that he hopefully never feels welcome in. If you were him you’d certainly be.

“Yeah, so, anyway, is that still a no to breakfast or…?”

-

You’re beginning to regret ever wanting to get involved in Peter’s double life. Or at least, its most recent developments. Up until last month, everything was fine. Simple and controlled and not at all hectic like it is now. Back then, everything was smooth sailing when it came to helping. Your only responsibilities being lie to May and make sure the window was always unlocked before you went to bed. Two very mundane tasks you could practically do in your sleep. 

Nowadays, it feels like an endless loop of stress. Kind of like when you were eighteen and just finding out that your brother was a superhero for the first time. Everything is complicated again. The stakes feel higher than ever before knowing the truth that there’s a world out there just like yours, endlessly repeating. That instead of just one Spider-Man there’s probably a million variations doing the same thing Peter’s doing. 

You’d be lying if you said it didn’t make you look at everything differently —intensively. With each new person you pass you wonder what their version is like somewhere else. Are they still male or female? Are they younger? Older?

As you walk into brunch alongside Peter and MJ, it’s all you can think about as you stare at Gwen, remembering her counterpart. How she looked so familiar but you couldn’t quite place it. 

You realize now that it’s because she’s your Gwen, but not. A direct copy but a good decade younger. They have the same hair colour and eyes and that little gap between their front teeth and upon seeing her it makes you wearily shift into your seat, putting on your fakest smile. 

She’s already a bit tipsy when you arrive, you can tell. Her eyes are half closed and the grin plastered across her face is hazardously wide. 

“Oh, my god, hi! I’m so glad you came!”

If it weren’t for the table between you she’d be pulling you in for a hug, tightening her grip around your shoulders until the air inside you was gone. You inhale nervously at the thought, wondering if other Gwen would do the same. 

It’s hard to tell what traits transfer over. Considering she’s a spider person in her universe it’s more than likely she’s completely different, right? Perhaps relating more to Peter. It’d make sense that all spider people kind of have the same vibe. Perhaps like your brother, they’re nerdy and into photography and have partners with nicknames that double as their initials. Like him they'd live double lives, trying their best to find the balance between being crime-fighting arachnids and regular civilians with the help of their sisters. 

Or brothers. You figure in other universes you’re probably a guy too. Hell, maybe even in some you're the spider person having to navigate through life with the help of your brother. 

“Sorry we’re late,” Pete grins, pulling out the chair beside you so that MJ can sit down. “Somebody had a bit too much to drink.”

You shoot him a look as he sits at the head of the table, sticking out his tongue for good measure. 

You hope in the universe where you have superpowers you give him a hard time. 

“It’s fine, we overdid it too,” Gwen says, looking at Harry who rolls his eyes and looks at Peter, the two of them sharing a knowing glance. 

“Hope you wore a condom,” you say, at which MJ and Gwen gasp, both of their mouths curling into cheeky grins that you can’t help but share. 

Its always been obvious that the two of them are together, even though neither of them would ever admit it. It’s weird but Gwen says it’s a part of the intrigue, having this unlabeled relationship that she can just ride without the responsibility of making it a bit deal. 

Both you and MJ think it’s because she secretly likes the drama of it all, but knowing how she’d react to such a claim, neither of you says that out loud. 

“Did you make it home okay?” Gwen changes the subject before anyone can even join in, making you sort of sad because you love to tease. 

“Relatively. Threw up on the walk home but that’s New York, baby.” 

“Walk home?” Harry questions.

You freeze, remembering Miguel. He doesn’t exist in this world. At least, not to anyone other than you and Pete and maybe MJ. You’re not entirely sure what he’s told her but you figure she knows in some capacity because he wouldn’t have called you otherwise. 

“I mean drive, sorry, drive home. I’m still hungover.” You try to laugh it off but Harry and Gwen share that look. The familiar one where they think you’re lying but know better than to actually bring it up. It’s the same look they give you sometimes when you’re covering for Peter and you hate it, feeling your chest tighten every time it’s shared right in front of your face. 

It reminds you of how you felt having Miguel around. Something about the way he looks at you every time you talk fills you with that familiar twang of insignificance. Like whatever you say isn’t good enough. 

With your friends you know it’s because you’re insecure about your lying capabilities. With Miguel though, it’s different. Yes, it feels the same physically but emotionally it’s an entirely new set of feelings. Ones that have you second-guessing their origins, remembering the way your stomach would twist each time he’d insult you. Each time he’d look at you with those dark eyes and pouting mouth. 

Thinking about it now, he reminds you very little of Peter. Aside from the moniker of Spider-Man the only similarities (so far) you can confidently say that they share is the art of sarcasm and deflection. The way their voices can become so monotonous at the drop of a hat is unparalleled, even with all the tension, and it’s frustrating. 

It makes you wish you didn’t wear your emotions on your sleeve. Like Peter and Miguel, you wish you could box it all up in the form of calm words so that nobody even got the chance to look at you the way Harry and Gwen still are. 

Secretly, you wish you were the spider person of this universe. Not because you want to save lives, selfishly. No, you mostly just wish you were stronger like them. Less like yourself and more like your brother who sits at the head of the table holding MJ’s hand with the biggest smile you’ve ever seen. 

And not so secretly, you want what he has. You want to be confident and to have people look at you in a way that’s filled with adoration. To have them survey you and conclude that you’re decent rather than picking out your flaws. You want May to look at you with fondness. You want her to be proud of you in the same way she’s proud of Peter and to affirm your belief that you’re doing alright for yourself even without filling her desires for grandkids. 

You want Harry to look at you with respect. To stop looking through you just because you’re Parker’s sister who just so happens to be smart too. You want him to take him as seriously as he takes Gwen without the sex. Without the implication that to be valued, you need to provide him with something worthwhile. 

You want Gwen to appreciate everything you do for her. To stop taking advantage of you at work and in life —to provide you with the comfort of an actual friend. 

You want value, you decide. Whether that’s through the gain of superpowers or not. All you want is a little bit more than you’re given and you wish you could express that as you sit at the table, watching everyone talk and laugh as if you’re not really there.

Beside you, MJ leans into Peter as he talks, resting her chin on her hand in longing silence while the two across the table sit, completely engrossed. You try your best to listen in too, picking up that the story involves his boss over at the Bugle. Something about how his last few pictures of Spider-Man were so good he nearly fell off his chair. 

You fight the urge to roll your eyes and pull out your phone, scanning the screen mindlessly, clicking on apps and profiles over and over again until the waitress shows up and asks for your order. You get a mimosa regardless of your hangover and a bagel breakfast sandwich with all the extra fixings, knowing you need it. Then you wait. Wordlessly exhausted, wishing that instead of deciding to tag along you’d stayed at home under the comfort of your covers.

-

Once you step over the threshold of your apartment you let out a sigh of relief and sink into the couch alongside Peter who rubs his face. By now your social battery is running at a negative ten, making your mind fill with nervous thoughts that have you frowning as you curl into yourself, clutching your knees to your chest.

You shouldn’t have gone, you decide then. Regardless of the extended invitation, it was obvious you were only invited because Gwen was drunk and felt bad. That’s usually how it went nowadays. 

“They’re a lot, aren’t they?”

Peter’s always known how much you struggle with people —how you overthink every interaction after it’s happened. It’s how it’s always been and he’s used to it. 

As you nod, you feel his hand against your shoulder, tightening. It’s a gesture of understanding but at the moment it feels like pity so you brush him off, frowning even harder. 

“You okay?”

You aren’t. You’re overstimulated from the amount of interacting you’ve done in the last twenty-four hours. From Harry and Gwen to Miguel and back you haven’t had a break all day and you can feel your mask slipping. Physically, your chest is aching for a breath you can’t quite get, the realization of your interactions pushing you over the edge and all you want to do is scream.

You were such an asshole today. Sure, you’re always kind of mean but this morning specifically felt like a step above the rest with the way you argued with Miguel as if you knew him. As if last night was just another night between you, adding to countless others. You were brash and unwelcoming and rude, and despite how you feel about him sometimes, you still feel pretty shit about it.

“Do you need anything?”

“No.” 

Your tone is stubborn, dripping with an arrogance that has Pete sighing because he knows he can’t do much. When you’re in these moods all he can really do is let you live through your anger —to explore the hate you feel inside in private. It’s how you’ve always done things. So when Peter looks at you with sympathy you can know that’s it. He won’t press the matter further. He’ll just get up and leave and go to MJ’s for the night. Check-in in the morning like he usually does.

As he stands you’re met with feelings of both relief and regret, watching the way he carefully pats your head and steps over your legs. Inside, your stomach drops as he wanders to the doorway, slipping on his shoes and coat without saying a word, knowing that it never solves anything —just makes it all messy. 

Again, like always, you wish you were like him in these instances. Because maybe then you could have a normal relationship that doesn’t rely on boundaries you wish didn’t exist. Instead of pushing everyone away you could sit with them —talk to them. Express instead of repress. Prove to them that the love you want is the love you deserve. 

If you were in any other universe you’re certain you could do it. In this one though? 

You’re too scared. 

-

When you’re alone, it happens, the calm before the storm. 

As the hours move and you lay exhausted on the couch staring at your phone, you find yourself scrolling. Distracting yourself from the inevitable breaking point by watching YouTube video after YouTube video. First, you start with your usual poison, simple documentaries about things like haunted houses or murder cases that remained unsolved. Lazily, you click thumbnail and thumbnail, half absorbing all the names and dates and details as you lie prone, trying not to think about it. 

It takes hours for you to fully accept your emotions and when you do it’s a mess. Now lying in bed, it’s nearing eight and your deep dive on unsolved mysteries has turned into videos discussing the topics of the multiverse. You’re not sure why you decided to delve into all that but regardless, as you do you’re in your head again, clutching a pillow tightly against your cheek as you try to steady your thoughts. 

You bet Miguel’s world has a version of you that’s nicer. One that treats him with respect. They’re probably a spider person too which is why he looks at you with such disdain every time you argue. You’re a lesser version of them —no comparison. They’re better and it drives you insane, thinking that the approval of a man you hardly know is important. 

Aside from Peter, there’s absolutely nothing connecting you. You’re from different worlds both literally and figuratively, so it doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.

Except that it does, doesn’t it? Deep down, regardless of how well you know one another, this man has managed to find his way inside your skin. You’re not sure when or how or why but somehow he’s always there, lingering at the back of your mind like a memory. Like he’s absent until he’s not —until something reminds you that he exists and that he thinks you’re too inexperienced to understand that he doesn’t like you. 

You figure he doesn’t like you because you’re stubborn. You’re sure there are other reasons but that’s the only one that really jumps out. The way he speaks to you is a direct example of that. Changing subjects often, he doesn’t like when you push his pull. Doesn’t like when you defy his authority or pry. He wants complete and total control and when you’re around he knows he doesn’t have that. You don’t trust him enough to give it.

His version of you probably gives him whatever he wants. Probably spoils him by following him around like some lost fucking puppy. They’re probably older than you —experienced— and have the backbone of an earthworm. 

He probably loves it. 

Shoving your face into your pillow you let out a loud groan, letting the tears well and overflow against the fabric of your pillowcase.

It’s sudden, the storm. Erupting out of nowhere over something that shouldn’t matter. Quickly, there’s a rage that fills inside you, quietly creeping from the depths of your soul in the form of breathless gasps and shaky hands. 

You turn upwards to face the ceiling, the tears coating your eyes in a layer of disarray. You can’t see anything but the blurred beige above you. Everything moves like brushstrokes across the canvas, thick and liquidy and not quite good-looking. It makes you blink in annoyance and throw your forearms over your head, trying to stop the world from letting you see or shake or feel anything other than regret. 

It’s painful, the storm. It feels like a deep wound being opened back up again. All the build-up of scar tissue is there, shoved amongst the perfectly good parts. Usually, they linger there together but as the wound is peeled open by your own hand, you can feel the worst of it start to push. 

As it surfaces, you can feel the catalyst begin to wake. The rate at which the chemicals in your brain begin to increase, pushing you over the edge.

It fucking hurts. 

By now your wound is gaping, ripping at the base of your chest. It’s hard to breathe under all the pressure of the damaged flesh. Under all the memories of a life you once thought was good. Decent 

In another universe, you hope to god you feel just like this. Like the world is caving in and you’re the last survivor. At least then you wouldn’t feel so alone —so beside yourself while everyone else so carelessly continues moving. 

It helps calm the storm. Thinking of you —another you. Regardless of if they’re better or worse or completely equal to you, the thought of this feeling extending across the expanse of a place you don’t quite understand fills you with ease.

It closes the hole in your chest —pushes all the tainted flesh back inside for safekeeping. Slowly, it settles into something you can handle again, sewing up the edges that’ll inevitably leave a new scar. 

As you sit up from your bed, brushing past the tears to clear your vision, you feel your breath begin to steady. A slow one-through-five inhale, followed by another one-through-five exhale, each one becoming stronger than the last as you look towards the window, noticing the familiar blue and red spandex standing silently on your fire escape. 

He doesn’t move when you notice him. Doesn’t fly through the air or duck out of sight. Standing there, it’s as if instead of flesh he’s made of stone, unwavering in his attempts to watch you carefully through the window. It’s scary if you’re honest. The way he looks so detached from the world. Even without seeing his face, it’s as if there’s nothing behind the angered design that adorns his features below. His emotions feel completely blank underneath the fabric, making you wonder. 

What’s he thinking about?

As you inch toward the edge of the bed, you see him twitch. It’s subtle. The fingers of his right hand sort of jolt lightly in the air, and it’s over before you can even think about it, so you don’t. Instead choosing to forget as you move towards the window. 

Surprisingly, he still doesn’t move. All he does is breathe, letting the rise and fall of his chest ruin the image of his fixed stance. He’s nervous, like you, you determine. Scared, like you.

It motivates your movements, pushing you through the room until you’re standing in front of the window, reaching for it with shaky hands.

Why hasn’t he left yet?

You push open the window, slowly, watching his body begin to move towards it, his leg pushing through the moment you step away.

“What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t respond. At first, you assume it’s because he’s embarrassed and doesn’t know what to say but then he moves. Lifelessly, he brushes past you and wanders into the living room, forcing you to follow as he drops onto the couch with a groan. 

Seriously, why is he here?

You open your mouth to repeat your previous question but are interrupted by his mask. Almost instantly, it disintegrates before your very eyes, revealing fresh injuries that have you holding your tongue because laying there, he looks like Peter after a rough night. Maybe even worse thanks to the shiner that takes a good portion of his left eye. 

“Do you have any painkillers?” 

You don’t even respond before you leave the room, wandering into your bathroom to grab the usual meds you give Peter. They’re prescription, originally given to you for period cramps, but they do wonders on a battered body.

When you reenter, Miguel’s face is scrunched in pain, struggling to find comfort. Because of this, you practically run to the kitchen, grabbing all the usual items: water, ice packs, scotch, carrying it all in one go. 

“What’s the scotch for?”

You untuck a glass from the crook of your elbow and settle on the floor beside the couch, pouring it halfway to the top before downing it.

“None for me?”

You pour another one. “You’re not meant to take it with pills but Peter always says it makes him sleep better.”

“Okay.” 

You’re no doctor, but you’ve experienced this same formula countless times. If he takes one pill with one full glass of water then drinks the scotch, followed by another water he’ll be out like a light in no time.

“Pill, water, scotch, water,” you instruct, watching him closely as he follows suit, chugging back everything in under a minute.

After it’s done he settles into the couch again, tucking ice packs against his face and chest before glancing your way with a grin. “Stuff’s nice. Goes down good.”

He sounds like he’s been hit by a bus, his voice rubbed raw, scratching your brain in a way that makes you squint as you pour yourself another glass.

“Good cause it cost a pretty penny.” 

“Yeah?”

You nod, opting to sip this one, still feeling the burn of the other radiating throughout your chest. “Ben bought it for me. A graduation present or something.” 

“Wasn’t that ages ago?”

“Your point?”

All he does is grin and close his eyes.

-

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[whysojiminimnida]

But What About Orange Jimin, Though?

All I'm saying is that for a long time I did not understand the Lure of the Orange Jimin, and I am a hardcore Jimin in Perfect Man STAN.

It SLAPS. SHINHWA should be thrilled.

The choreo is amazing. Jimin carries that song FIGHT ME IDC I will happily die on that hill. Perfect Man Jimin is one of the top five Jimins in Jiminstory. Maybe top three but Seoul 2022 threw a wrench in there with that moon tattoo and that long hair

AHEM ANYWAY.

I have always been a Pastel Jimin enthusiast. Other people like Mint Yoongi (also excellent) or Red Taehyung or Purple Jungkook (it's me i'm purple jungkook) but I was a ride and die Kitty Gang girl

And let's be honest that is some peak Jimin right there. But Orange Jimin? It kinda eluded me.

I mean, he looks pretty but y'all it's Park motherfucking Jimin, he always looks pretty.

Lately though I've been going through a bunch of 2013-2016 stuff looking at the fetus-to-early Jeon-Parks, kinda trying to eyeball some parallels and stuff, and ...

I'm starting, belatedly, to figure it out. Like we all (I say all, some of y'all just got here last week it's cool) know that Jungkook really started showing up for Jimin more in 2015. That whole slightly mistranslated "I want you" video. THREE TIMES. And what the boy said translates better, according to some good translators and a Kevin, as "I want TO HAVE YOU" with, yes, all the things that implies.

And it started out like a game but I don't think it was really a game. It was plausible deniability and we all feel a little weird looking at this because of Jungkook's age (I'm getting to that) and Jimin's obvious fluster. This is 2015, Chicago, NOW 3 Part 6 photoshoot - the squirmy giggles start about 4:00:

Which is actually NOT EVEN WHAT I MEANT TO TALK ABOUT BUT. Later that year still in Orange Jimin Era we get this.

I'm OUT OF IMAGES? WTF TUMBLR FINE

Anyway I have decided that the Rainy Day Fight went down several months earlier than I thought. It had to have happened in the spring or summer (rainy season is June-August) of 2015. And I think that Jimin was in his full orange era, no longer the hip-hop snapback boy. Jungkook was coming of age that year in all the ways that mattered, although in 2015 Korea the age of consent was THIRTEEN and that's Korean age (I found a case involving a 15 y/o thrown out in 2017 for age of consent, believe it or not). It's now 16 which is still low. So we ain't gotta like it but the Orange Jimin was perfectly legal and then some, and so was Jungkook, in 2015 when they were 20 and 18.

THE SHIT I LEARN Y'ALL. PREtEND ThEREs A Pretty PICKSHUR HERE DERP

Anyway. I'm still not 100% on board the Bring Back Orange Jimin train - I'm holding out for blonde, or rainbow, or pastel Jimin again, lord love his hair follicles, but I think Jungkook would be totally into it. And for that reason (and the vain hope of a Perfect Man redo) I'm into it, too.