#they’re both emotionally stupid and

[crowbasils]

havign cactiflorwer thgouhtrs……..

[professorjirt]

I’ve discovered my favorite genre of Bagginshield art is where Thorin is a lovesick idiot who is Losing It and Bilbo is unbothered or oblivious to Thorin’s suffering LMAO

[nonbinarykai]

My hot take is that I think Kai did raise nya but he was an objectively bad and lacking parental figure (because he was like 7) who wasn’t able to properly fulfill Nya emotional needs and as a result (as well as the general stress of the situation) nya is as heavily traumatized as Kai.

[honeyed-blossom]

I am in love with your mc. Your art is so pretty. I love the way you draw Sebastian & Ominis too. Do you ship your mc with anyone?

AHHH HELLO HELLO THANK YOU!!! 💕🩷💕💘💘 YOU’RE TOO SWEET OMG OMG 🙈🙈🙈🙈

omigodyouliterallmademyday thank you for the kind words!!! ��🫶🫶 I’m glad you like my cotton candy haired daughter 🥹

To answer your question - yes!! I ship her with Sebastian!

I feel like Valeria’s the type to have a lot of crushes, but her biggest crush was on Sebastian after he took the fall for her at the restricted section. It wasn’t something she acted on, though; she just thought he was charming. They became good friends throughout fifth year and grew even closer that summer. Sebastian was her rock as she processed everything with Ranrock, Professor Fig, and her ancient magic. In return, she stood by him as he dealt with Solomon and Anne. It wasn’t until much later in their sixth year that she realized she had feelings for him.

They would constantly flirt with each other, and sometimes they’d hold hands “for fun.” Val was flirty by nature with all her friends, so she didn’t think much of it and passed it off as something that really good friends did. Really good friends who cuddled in the undercroft as they read until they drifted off to sleep, or star-gazed from the Astronomy Tower, huddled together in one blanket, or called each other endearing names like “honeybunches,” “sweetling,” and “darling.” She’s dumb, I’m sorry. Val is incredibly perceptive when it comes to other people she can spot a couple from a kilometer away but she’s really dense when it comes to herself. Eventually, Ominis had had enough of her nonsense and sat her down to explain what love was, as well as how to deliver him a swift death.

[qrovidcore]

man the thing about doing the temple of bhaal first is that durge is speaking from experience huh

[thehmn]

I wanted to make this post because we don’t see a lot of asexual characters in western media and despite him being from a hugely popular show (Seaside Hotel) you’re unlikely to know of his existence if you’re not from Denmark.

His name is Hjalmar Aurland and he’s one of the more sympathetic and realistic asexual characters I’ve seen. He lives in a time and place where asexuality as a concept doesn’t exist yet so he’s never labeled as such but rewatching the show made me realize that he acts exactly like the asexual people I personally know. Asexuality can mean a lot of things but his specific brand isn’t naive to sex nor is he repulsed by sex, sexual desire or thoughts simply doesn’t come naturally to him.

He can be convinced to have sex with his wife Helene but only if she appeals to their emotional bond. Just so you don’t get the wrong idea, he’s not being forced or emotionally blackmailed to sleep with her. It’s simply that he understands sex is a way to show emotional love too and he wants to express that love for Helene when it’s important to her, and seeing as sex isn’t unpleasant to him, just kinda boring, he’s willing to do that for her.

Unfortunately that isn’t enough for Helene and despite her love for Hjalmar she starts an affair with the dramatic and emotional actor Edward Weyse. He has a string of relationships, marriages and divorces behind him because despite what it may look like from the outside Edward doesn’t really want shallow sexual relationships. He just can’t help himself and keep falling in love with women left and right, fully and wholeheartedly, only to be dumped or dump them once the initial excitement has passed.

So Helene and Edward’s affair that was only meant to satisfy their carnal desires quickly becomes romantic. Helene feels torn between him and Hjalmar who she still loves and Edward understands the difficult situation they’re both in while also feeling jealous of Hjalmar. And Hjalmar? He doesn’t catch on for years. He’s not stupid but his brain just doesn’t jump to sex. He just assumes they’re good friends and why shouldn’t his wife be allowed to have friends, even male ones? Things get really complicated when Helene gets pregnant and she has to have sex with Hjalmar so he won’t wonder how it happened. Edward even has to join in on the seduction, reminding Hjalmar how much Helene loves him, even though it breaks Edward’s heart to do so.

But like I’ve said Hjalmar isn’t stupid. He saw the signs but chose to ignore them until one night when Helene accidentally says Edward’s name. It breaks the dam in Hjalmar’s denial and he has to face that deep down he always knew. Overcome by sadness and betrayal he wanders off into the night in nothing but his nightgown and gets a room at a different hotel where he can think in peace. Eventually he agrees to return to the first hotel with Helene and Edward and decides to take control of the situation.

He sits them both down and tells them that he understands that the three of them share a bond and that there are things he can’t really do for Helene so from now on he wants their relationship to be open and honest. He wants Helene and Edward to keep seeing each other and Edward is welcome in their house, but Hjalmar wants to be allowed to call Edward by his first name and makes it very clear that Helene and Edward’s children “belong to him” because he still thinks of himself as their dad and loves them as his own children. Both Helene and Edward agrees to it, though the emotional Edward is very flustered and confused by the acceptance and love he’s being shown by Hjalmar.

This is obviously a very tv drama situation but I was so stuck by how much Hjalmar acts like my asexual friends. Having a lover for your partner isn’t the most common solution but it’s an idea I’ve heard a lot of asexual people be open to under the right circumstances and of course that’s the most dramatic solution for a romantic tv drama.

Hjalmar is defined by so much more than his sexuality though. His main characteristic is his passion for social justice and equality, and other than some early show weirdness before they really cemented the characters, Hjamler is the only character who floats freely between the men and women. He’s just as likely to sit with the men as he is the women, often appearing in otherwise entirely female spaces. It’s never questioned or even brought up, not because he’s a “safe asexual” but because he cares and think their worries are as important as the men’s. He’s often called a pessimist by the other men when in reality he is determined to be hopeful and compassionate and spread the love he feels the world is lacking as WWII draws closer.

So yeah, I just wanted to share this sweet ace guy with you because you probably wouldn’t have known about him otherwise.

[viaxslz]

⭔﹐⌗ ATTENTION ﹕ᶻz﹒

享受 ! .°. ݁₊ 𐙚 gn!reader, cw: established relationship, post argument, making up, cold shoulders, pet names, oh take me back to this era 😭😭, not proofread :P

CHAN

You’ve been giving Chan the cold shoulder for hours after your argument. arms crossed, death glare loaded, and air pods in even though they’re not playing anything. Chan knows he's in trouble. You’re not even acknowledging the dog pics he sent you. The dog pics. That’s when he knows it’s serious. Cue Chan pacing back and forth in the living room like a sitcom dad. He's googling "how to apologize to your emotionally intelligent but terrifyingly stubborn significant other who might actually kill you with their eyes." No real help. He decides to go with the classic Chan combo: guilt + dramatic flair + ✨stupid charm✨. Next thing you know, he’s dramatically fake-sniffling outside your door with a Bluetooth speaker playing “Apologize” by OneRepublic at full volume. “Baby… it’s too late to apolo—oh wait, no, it’s NOT too late! That’s why I’m here!” You crack the door open just to glare, and that’s when he shoves a plate of perfectly microwaved dino nuggets into your hands like it’s a peace treaty. “I made these with love. And regret. Mostly regret. But also love.” You’re still silent. So he pulls out his final weapon: a handwritten letter addressed to “The Love of My Life (Who Could Annihilate Me With One Look).” It’s full of sappy lines like “Your silence hurts more than leg day” and “You’re my favorite notification and also includes a stick figure drawing of you kicking his butt, labeled “Me if I ever mess up again.” You finally snort, trying to stay mad but failing. He gasps. “Was that a laugh? Did you just—was that forgiveness I heard in your nose?” You: “That was me trying not to choke on a nugget, actually.” Chan grins like he just won an Oscar. “I’ll take it.” And before you know it, you’re in his arms, still pretending you’re annoyed, while he whispers sweet apologies into your ear and asks if you want to co-parent a puppy someday because, you know, trust rebuilding.

LEE KNOW

Minho isn’t the type to beg for forgiveness. At least, that’s what he tells himself. In reality, he’s been sulking in the kitchen for an hour, dramatically peeling oranges like they personally offended him because someone (you) won’t talk to him after your argument. He’s not even sure who was right anymore. Probably you. But admitting that out loud would break his cool, and that’s illegal in Minho Land. Instead, he starts making increasingly loud commentary to his cats. “Soonyoung, do you think I was being unreasonable? Hmm? No? Exactly. At least someone understands me.” You’re in the next room, scrolling on your phone, clearly ignoring him. He walks by casually and accidentally drops a photo of you two on the floor. “Oops,” he says way too loudly. “Didn’t mean to drop this beautiful memory we shared when we were still talking to each other like normal, emotionally stable people.” Still nothing. You don’t even blink. That’s when he resorts to phase two: petty bribery. He slides a plate of your favorite snack across the table toward you without saying a word. There’s a sticky note on it that says: “I’m still mad but I miss you more. Don’t let the cat eat this.” You glance at it, unimpressed. So he ups the ante and sends you a meme one of himself, edited to look like he’s crying in a corner with the caption: “Me after realizing I can’t win a fight against my insanely hot and emotionally intelligent partner.” Finally, you let out a laugh, and he looks up from across the room like a cat that’s pretending it doesn’t care but has been watching you the whole time. “Oh, so you do still love me,” he smirks, leaning against the counter. You: “I still haven’t forgiven you.” Minho: “That’s okay. I forgive me for both of us.” You roll your eyes and throw a pillow at him. He catches it, kisses it dramatically, and says, “Tell your representative we accept the terms.” Later, he lets Dori sit in your lap while he curls up next to you, whispering, “I hate fighting with you. Let’s not do that again. Unless you’re into angry make-ups. In which case, I’m very available.”

CHANGBIN

Changbin messed up. He knows it. You know it. The neighbors probably know it because you haven’t responded to a single thing he’s said in two hours and he’s been dramatically sighing every five minutes like someone just told him protein shakes were banned. He starts pacing the apartment like he’s mentally preparing for a final boss fight. Even his muscles look tense. He mutters to himself like a stressed-out drama lead. "Okay Changbin, you’ve survived leg day, you’ve survived Jihoon’s cooking, you can survive this." He tries casual tactics first. Walks by you holding a gallon of water like he’s not suffering. Drops a casual “sup” in the most broken voice ever. You don’t even blink. So he levels up: Operation Cute & Desperate. You hear rustling in the bedroom. Fifteen minutes later, he walks out in your hoodie, the one that’s comically tight on him and a headband with little bear ears. His arms are crossed. His face is dead serious. “I’m here to apologize,” he says, voice an octave higher. “As your oversized emotional support bear.” You blink. He waddles closer, overly dramatic. “I’ve been thinking about my actions. While lifting. And crying. Slightly. Okay maybe a lot. But my point is look into these bear ears and tell me you don’t miss me.” You burst out laughing. He grins like he just benched 300 pounds of forgiveness. But he’s not done. He dramatically pulls out a tiny tub of ice cream from behind his back like it’s an engagement ring. “I come bearing peace offerings and high-calorie emotional healing. If this doesn’t work, I’ll let you pick the next gym playlist. Even if it’s… ballads.” You, narrowing your eyes: “Even the sad ones with rain sound effects?” He winces. “Even those.” You pull him into a hug, bear ears squishing slightly, and he lets out a victorious sigh.

HYUNJIN

The argument was dumb. Like, really dumb. Something about the dishes and his suspicious ability to avoid them like they’re cursed. But now you’re not talking to him, and Hyunjin is spiraling. He’s lying facedown on the floor like a Victorian man fainting in a corset. Felix: “Dude, are you okay?” Hyunjin, muffled into the carpet: “No. My soulmate hates me and the world has lost color.” He tries texting you, but you left him on read. Tragic. So he gets creative. You walk into the living room and freeze. There’s a handwritten note taped to the wall that says: “In this house, i love and respect the queen (you). Even when she is intimidating and scary and not talking to me.” Below it: a trail of rose petals… leading to the kitchen… where you find Hyunjin in an apron, holding a vacuum cleaner in one hand and a spatula in the other like some kind of domestic apology warrior. ��I have vacuumed. I have cooked. I have suffered.” You stare at him. He drops the spatula. “Do I get forgiveness points if I say you’re prettier when you’re mad?” You squint. “No.” He gasps. “How dare. I’m literally groveling. Do you know how much I hate crumbs on my socks? I vacuumed for you. That’s love.” You try to keep a straight face, but he’s got that kicked puppy look and there’s flour in his hair. It’s… kind of adorable. “I’m still mad.” He nods solemnly, walks over, and holds up a crayon drawing of the two of you holding hands, labeled: “Me + The Love of My Life (please forgive me I am weak without you)” You burst out laughing, finally giving in. He beams like he just won an award. Hyunjin, hugging you tightly: “I’ll do dishes every day this week.” You: “And next week.” Hyunjin: “Let’s not push it.”

HAN

Han is not handling this well. You're ignoring him and he’s been pacing the room like a raccoon on Red Bull. The argument was over something stupid (probably him forgetting to text you back because he was distracted by a pigeon outside), but now you’re giving him the silent treatment and he’s one sad meme away from spiraling. He sends you a voice note titled “Please Listen or I Will Cry in Public” You open it. It’s just him saying “hi” in 27 different accents, followed by a long sigh and then: “I miss you. Also, I stubbed my toe and I feel like that’s karma.” Still no response. So he launches Operation Desperate But Make It Stupid™. You walk into the kitchen to find a post-it note stuck to your favorite snack: “This snack is yours. So is my heart. Please take both.” Then there’s another note on the fridge: “If this is where the cold stuff goes, why are you being so cold to me :(((((” Another one on the toilet: “I flushed my pride. Let me back in your heart.” You’re trying not to laugh, but it’s becoming physically impossible. Then you hear him yell from the living room: “BABY PLEASE I CAN’T WORK UNDER THESE CONDITIONS. I TRIED TO WRITE LYRICS AND THEY TURNED INTO A SAD POEM ABOUT YOUR LEFT EYEBROW.” You peek your head out and he’s sitting dramatically on the floor with a ukulele he can’t play, strumming random strings while freestyle rapping an apology. “I was dumb and now I’m numb, You’re my queen and I’m your crumb, Forgive me please, or I’ll become…A worm.” You: “…A worm?” Jisung: “An unlovable worm.” You finally burst out laughing. He scrambles to his feet like he just got a Grammy and hugs you tight, not letting go. “I’m sorry. I was dumb. I always mess things up but I don’t wanna mess us up. You mean too much to me, even more than ramen. That’s serious.” You: “Even more than convenience store ramen at 3am?” He gasps. “Don’t make me say it again. It hurts.”

FELIX

You’re mad. And Felix? He’s a walking apology wrapped in sunshine and panic. He’s been following you around the apartment at a five-foot distance like a sad Roomba. Every time you turn, he freezes like he’s been caught committing a crime. He tries whispering your name dramatically like a telenovela character. “Y/N… Y/N, please… don’t do this. Not like this. Don’t ghost me while we’re still in the same house. It’s emotional terrorism.” You ignore him. So he leaves and comes back wearing the most ridiculous outfit known to mankind: your fuzzy pink robe, heart-shaped sunglasses, and a single oven mitt. “Look,” he says, dead serious. “This is what losing your affection did to me. I have no sense of fashion. No sense of self. I tried to toast bread but forgot to plug in the toaster.” You raise an eyebrow. So he ups the ante. Grabs your plushie and gently makes it “walk” toward you with a high-pitched voice. “Hi! I’m Mr. Snuggles and I think you should forgive Lixie because he’s really sorry and his freckles are crying.” You cover your face trying not to laugh. “Help what???” Then he puts the plushie down, sighs deeply, and finally drops the crack for a second. “I know I hurt your feelings. I didn’t mean to. I’d never do anything to make you feel ignored or unimportant, but I messed up. So… I’ll keep making a fool of myself until you smile again.” You glance up, and he’s got his arms wide open like a dramatic K-drama confession, still in your robe. You: “You look like a chaotic sleepover aunt.” Him, with the brightest grin: “But am I your forgiven chaotic sleepover aunt?” You sigh, walk over, and hug him. He melts immediately, nearly collapsing with relief. “I’ll be better,” he murmurs into your shoulder. “I promise. Even if I have to learn how to use the toaster properly.”

SEUNGMIN

The argument was small but loud. And now you’ve gone full cold shoulder. No eye contact. No banter. No sarcastic jabs. Nothing. For Seungmin, that’s worse than death. At first, he tries to out-ignore you out of pure spite. He walks past you dramatically sipping water like he’s never been hydrated a day in his life. Slams the cup down. Sighs. Doesn’t look at you. Repeats. Then he escalates. You walk into the kitchen and the fridge has a post-it that says: “This is where cold things go. Just like your heart apparently.” You spot your favorite snack on the counter. The packaging is untouched… but there’s another note: “I was going to eat this out of petty revenge, but I remembered I’m a good person. Unlike some people.” You almost laugh. Almost. Later, you hear him muttering while gaming: “Wow, teammates who actually listen… must be nice…” You finally lose it and throw a pillow at him. He catches it midair like a smug little gremlin and smirks. “So you can still see me. Thought I turned invisible.” You: “You’re so dramatic.” Seungmin, fake offended: “I haven’t even started yet.” Then he softens. Just a little. Barely. “I don’t like fighting with you. And I definitely don’t like not talking to you. I’m still mad, but I miss you more.” He walks over, hands in pockets, and says it without looking directly at you. “I’m sorry for being a jerk. I’m working on it. Please don’t stay mad too long, okay?” You stare at him. He stares at the floor. “…Also I may or may not have named your pillow Kevin and cried into him last night.” You: “You WHAT—” Seungmin: “Shhh. Kevin and I are going through a lot.”

JEONGIN

Jeongin, immediately after the argument: “I don’t care. I’m not apologizing. I was RIGHT.” Jeongin, 20 minutes later, whispering to Hyunjin: “She’s not looking at me. Should I fake an injury?” Hyunjin: “What kind?” Jeongin: “Emotional.” Cue Operation Unbothered (but obviously very bothered). He starts acting extra around the house. Slams drawers. Loudly types on his phone with the keyboard click sounds on. Walks past you with exaggerated sighs and occasional mutters like: “Guess I’ll just go be emotionally damaged… ALONE.” You stay silent. Now it’s desperation hour. He walks in wearing a crown made from a cereal box, holding a mop like a sword. “I have returned from the Kingdom of Regret. I bring apologies and emotional growth.” You blink. He bows deeply, knocking the crown off his head. “Your silence wounds me, fair lady. I shall now sing of my sorrow.” You: “Jeongin, don’t—” Too late. He whips out his phone, plays the most dramatic instrumental music he can find, and starts fake-sobbing like he’s in a historical drama. “Forgive me, for I was young and foolish—AND STUPID. MOSTLY STUPID.” You’re cackling at this point, and he breaks character instantly, grinning like he just won the lottery. “AH, SHE SMILES. I AM REDEEMED.” You: “You’re so annoying.” Him, smug: “But… forgiven?” You roll your eyes, tug him into a hug, and he melts instantly, still holding the mop. “Next time,” you mumble, “just say sorry like a normal person.” He grins into your shoulder. “Where’s the drama in that?”

PERM TAGLIST 📌🔖 ──── @the-sea-called-history02 @oc3anfloor @queenofdumbfuckery @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @my-neurodivergent-world @bookswillfindyouaway @beal-o @velvetmoonlght

[emmaspolaroid]

guess who hurt her own feelings with her own stupid fanfiction again

aeoy enjoyers i am COOKING right now omg

[duvetchico]

stupid in love

summary you’re down bad for yunjin. rumors say she’s crushing on someone, and you’re losing it hoping it’s you. turns out, she’s been in love with your dumb ass the whole time.

genre fluff / humor / mutual pining / best friends to lovers / gay panic™

pairing huh yunjin x fem!reader

masterlist.

you are so fucking tired of people saying “i think yunjin has a crush.”

like ok. good for her. congrats to her and her mysterious crush. may they live happily ever after. whatever. you’re not bitter. totally unbothered. you’re just gonna lie down in traffic real quick.

because the thing is… you’ve been in love with her for, like, ever. and not in a chill way. in a “i see her tie her hair up and forget how to breathe” way. in a “she hugs me for too long and i have to physically restrain myself from proposing” kind of way.

and now everyone keeps talking about her stupid crush and you’re spiraling. if it’s not you, you’re gonna eat drywall.

“i’m just saying,” chaewon whispers one night like she’s gossiping about a celebrity scandal, “yunjin’s totally into someone. she’s been singing love songs in the shower.”

“maybe she just likes music,” you say, deadpan, already preparing to scream into a pillow later.

“she’s been smiling at her phone like a loser,” kazuha adds, sipping her tea.

you… dying. combusting. already halfway into a breakdown.

“okay cool,” you say, casually, while gripping your chopsticks like you’re about to stab someone. “good for her.”

meanwhile, yunjin walks into the room, looks at you, and goes, “hey loser,” with a grin that’s all teeth and heart-eyes.

and you? you just sit there blinking like a broken npc because holy fuck she’s so pretty and she called you loser in that tone and you're this close to kissing her out of pure emotional instability.

you’re unwell. actually.

you almost confess like. five times. every time you chicken out. flop behavior. you should be banned from having feelings.

the closest you come is during a dumb late-night kitchen moment. it’s 2:43am. you’re both standing in front of the fridge like divorced parents debating what to eat.

she’s wearing your hoodie. your hoodie. sleeves covering her hands. hair messy. half-asleep. and she’s so close.

you look at her. you open your mouth.

“i like your face,” is what you almost say.

but what actually comes out is “do you want noodles or eggs?”

yunjin blinks. “…what?”

“i said noodles. or eggs. pick one. coward.”

you don’t speak for the next thirty minutes.

everything gets worse when you see her and kazuha laughing together. they’re holding hands for some reason??? why are they touching?? why is yunjin giggling like that. why is your soul leaving your body.

you go to the bathroom and stare at your reflection like “girl be so serious rn.” you look insane. you feel insane. you’ve entered the third act of a queer romcom and it’s giving cringe.

y/n u busy? yunjin for you? never. what’s up?? y/n having an aneurysm come to the roof. i need to tell u something yunjin if u push me off i swear to god

you’re already pacing when she gets there. full gay panic. knees weak, arms spaghetti.

“yo,” she says, casually. like you’re not about to emotionally vomit all over her.

“yo,” you say back, voice cracking. excellent start.

she squints at you. “you good?”

“define good.”

“…are you dying.”

“maybe.”

you inhale. then just. let it rip.

“do you have a crush on someone?”

she blinks. “wow okay. starting strong.”

“answer the question, yunjin. this is life or death.”

she tilts her head, arms crossed. “why?”

“because i—i just. i need to know,” you say, immediately regretting this entire thing.

she stares at you. her expression shifts. softens.

she squints at you. “why? you jealous or something?”

you snort way too aggressively. “pshh. no. haha. what the fuck. who. me. jealous. lol.”

a beat of silence.

“you are jealous,” she says, grinning. “holy shit.”

“shut up,” you groan, covering your face with your hands. “fuck. forget i said anything.”

“can’t. too late. it’s burned into my memory forever.”

you peek at her through your fingers. she’s just. smiling at you. all soft and amused like you’re the most interesting thing in the room. your heart does a backflip and crashes into a wall.

“…so?” you ask, muffled. “do you?”

“i do.”

you drop your hands. “oh.”

she snorts. snorts. she’s having fun. you’re dying.

“wanna know who it is?”

you freeze. “not if it’s gonna hurt my feelings.”

she leans in. leans the fuck in. you can feel her breath on your cheek. you go red instantly. like. tomato. full cherry blossom.

“it’s you,” she whispers.

you blink. once. twice.

“fuck off.”

“dead serious.”

“ME??” you screech. “ME?????????”

she laughs. “yes???”

“you’ve been singing in the shower about me???”

“you were eavesdropping???”

you grab her by the sleeves of your hoodie.

“you’ve been walking around here making me lose my entire mind for MONTHS—”

“same??? i literally thought you hated me.”

“i thought you were in love with kazuha.”

yunjin makes a face. “ew no. she’s hot but she’s like. my emotional support retriever.”

you wheeze. “i was gonna write a whole ass letter.”

“i was gonna write a song,” she retorts. “it was called ‘i think my best friend’s a hot idiot.’”

“oh my god,” you whisper. “kiss me before i jump off this roof.”

she does.

and it’s fucking perfect.

like. embarrassingly good. like years of tension melting into soft laughter and shaky hands and her lips tasting like mint and ramen and pure serotonin.

when you pull away, breathless, she grins.

“soooo,” she says, “can i call you my girlfriend now or are we still playing the 'emotionally repressed besties' game.”

“nah,” you say. “i want the title. gimme the label. say it.”

she leans in, all smug and sweet.

“mine?”

you nearly pass out.

later, you’re lying on her bed, tangled in limbs and way too many blankets. she’s scrolling through her phone while playing with your fingers like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“by the way,” she says, casually, “i still want noodles.”

“you’ll get noodles when i stop blushing.”

“so… never?”

“shut the fuck up.”

she kisses your cheek. “make me.”

you do. poorly. but she giggles anyway and pulls you closer like you’re the whole damn world.

and yeah. turns out she was crushing on you. the whole time.

turns out you were just a dumb bitch in love. but hey. so was she.

so it worked out.

[skyenish]

Seventeen - Heathers | Scarabia animatic 🐍☀️

———

I love thinking about what JamiKali’s dynamic would’ve been if things had gone differently. I feel like both Jamil’s and Kalim’s personalities would really shine in ways we haven’t seen before of them (though maybe later, who knows! There going through a lot of development in the main story so here’s to hoping 🤞)

Ramblings/analysis under the cut

——

——

This song, Seventeen, speaks of a desire to JUST be seventeen years old, to be normal, to not have damage and scars dictate all you are. I found this song very fitting with Jamil and Kalim, because they’re seventeen, but neither had the opportunity to ever just be normal teenagers. They’ve both gone through a lot, they’re “damaged”, but that doesn’t make them wise, or special, or different. They’re still just teenagers, not yet emotionally developed, young, and not capable of carrying so much weight on their shoulders. The line “we don’t choose who lives or dies” I find particularly applies well to Jamil’s whole, ahum, incident, but also in general to Jamil’s desire to be in control of things (which of course stems from his desire to be in control of his own life, so one could argue that he wants to be in control of whether he lives or dies).

Sometimes I feel we tend to forget how young the twst characters are. Even Leona, sitting at 20 years old, I’d consider relatively young, which just makes everything they go through that much sadder. They’re so young, and though there will never really be an age where it’s easy to handle this sort of stuff, as a teenager it’s even harder because life is already so complicated and difficult for them (speaking as if I’m not a teen myself lol).

Kalim in this song/animatic pleads to just be normal, to do normal teenage things, to set aside all the complicated feelings that have been bubbling under the surface for both of them, all the stupid things their lives have thrown at them, and to just be seventeen. Not the Housewarden and Vice-Housewarden, not Master and Servant, not an Asim and a Viper, but just Jamil and Kalim, just two seventeen year old boys.

———

Soooo it’s been a month… I promise I’m not dead and I also haven’t lost interest in twst, I’ve just been hyperfixating on other things, plus I’ve been really busy with school. Drawing can be really hard sometimes :(

I kinda pulled a Wiege (Alien Stage) by including some weird AU of some sorts huh! What a fun episode Wiege was, I totally didn’t sob violently! Also!!! The Scarabia manga has FINALLY released and its so cool!!! Well worth the way. The new Yuu is a Gyaru, and she’s so cool! I had my doubts on the artist they chose, but honesty they really delivered, I’m really happy with how the manga looks :)

[nothingxtosayx]

i might be signing my death warrant by saying this, but just because annabeth is strong doesn’t mean percy is weak. annabeth was a lot more skilled in combat than percy when he first arrived at camp because he hadn’t had any training yet, whereas annabeth already had five years of training. but percy got better at fighting over time. he and annabeth are a battle couple and neither of them is significantly stronger than the other to the point that they would be helpless without them. reducing percy to just annabeth’s dumbass boyfriend doesn’t make annabeth look smarter. they’re both smart, just in different ways. annabeth calls percy “seaweed brain” as a lighthearted joke, she doesn’t legitimately think he’s stupid. annabeth canonically thinks of percy as the bravest person she knows. percy’s very good at coming up with battle strategies on the spot, he just doesn’t think through how dangerous they are and impulsively does them. all that saying percy would be lost without annabeth does for annabeth’s character is strip her of her complexity and reduce her to just a Strong Female Character. annabeth has more depth than that. she ran away from home when she was 7 years old, meaning she had to become strong and self-reliant at an age where she should not have needed to be. i would never deny that annabeth is very strong, smart, and powerful because she is, but letting her be flawed and emotionally vulnerable and sometimes rely on others for support doesn’t change that.

tl;dr: the percabeth where annabeth is the #girlboss One With The Braincell and percy is just her Idiot Boyfriend is fanon and reductive to both their characters.

[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: 850 notes because 600 were reached in 2 days, what the heck is wrong with y'all *cries*

next | index

⋆｡°✩ taglist✩°｡⋆

@cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @jimineepaboya @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @jkrailme @rpwprpwprpwprw @mar-lo-pap @jeontae @whothefuckisthishoe @mikrokookiex @minniejim @btstrology @vialattea00 @curse-of-art @cristy-101 @mellyyyyyyx @mimi1097

© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[agneslovestheinternet-blog]

FUCK YOU, don't leave me

Part Five: Thin Line THE FINAL PART (Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four)

Gally x Fem!Reader

There is a paper thin line between love and hate. You and Gally have been using that line as a proverbial jump rope for multiple passion-filled weeks. In the wake of your last argument with him, you both are pulled further towards the affectionate side of said line, much to both of your protests. 

Genre: enemies to lovers, light angst, smut scenes sprinkled throughout

Word Count: 6K Read Time:

Warnings & Info: movie version, arguing, lowk angry sex, betrayal??????

Author’s Note: IT’S DONE!!! Oh my god this has been so fun to write. I had no idea what this series was going to turn into when I started it and it has been a JOURNEY. Thanks to everyone who left a kind comment, reblog, or heart; y’all truly motivated me to keep going when I felt like giving up due to writer’s block lol. Thanks for everything and stay tuned for my next upcoming fics! I’ve got a new, super duper Hurt/No Comfort Teen Wolf series I’m dropping soon and a Maze Runner one shot that’s lowkey a crackfic???? Maybe??? So hope you enjoy those!

<----------------->

Day 37

Gally feels as though a large rock has been dropped straight into his chest cavity. He wasn’t aware that emotional pain could manifest physically until this moment. He wonders how long he can lay here until his crew or his friends come knocking, starting up another slew of well-meaning questions that he might not be able to answer without bursting into tears again.

Fuck, I’m so pathetic. All those months spent preaching about how Glade girls are a distraction and here he is, letting his heart get practically ripped open by one. I’m so stupid. He pulls himself up to a sitting position, almost wincing in pain at the movement. She just wanted to fuck you, why’d you have to ruin it? He pulls his clothes on slowly, his limbs feeling significantly heavier today than any other day.

Day 39

You shouldn’t miss him. You know you don’t have any right to anxiously search for his face across The Glade. But every time you do catch a glimpse of his broad figure, doing manual labor under the hot sun or his bright blue eyes, crinkling with laughter while talking with his friends, or his calloused hands, holding a backhoe as he helps out in the garden, you feel like all of the breath has been sucked from your lungs in one fell swoop.

Despite the torture of your access being cut off from him, you still haven’t even begun to understand your feelings for him. Or how they had managed to blossom despite the thick layer of hatred you had fought hard to smother them with. 

Or maybe it wasn’t that at all. Maybe the hate wasn’t covering up the mushy feelings, but mixing themselves in, like an emotionally taxing cake batter. Love and hate coexisting within your frame drew you like a magnet towards Gally. Whether fighting or, (to put it indelicately), fucking, there’s something within you both that ignites everytime you two are near each other. You hope that that flame hasn’t been extinguished indefinitely.

Day 40

Gally opened his eyes this morning. He thought of you. He closed his eyes late tonight. He thought of you. His dreams aren’t even an escape, as you’ve become the only subject in them. They’re not sexual, like they were before you two hooked up for the first time. They’re embarrassingly soft.

You, nestling against his body in his bed. Your laugh, just ringing on repeat. You, patching up an injury of his in the Med-hut, smiling gently at him the whole time. You, holding his hand under the table in the dining hall as you eat. But the most captivating one by far is the one where your face slowly comes into focus out of a white void. You smile at him for a moment, then speak; “Gally…I love-

He awakens with a start, his bleary eyes wildly searching his darkened hut for anything that will bring him back to reality. When he finally does come to his senses, the ache in his chest starts afresh, fueled by your imaginary confession.

Day 41

“I don’t mean to pry. Just, checking in, I guess,” Thomas had whispered over breakfast this morning.

“You good?” Zart had asked with an uncharacteristically concerned look on his face this afternoon. 

“Seriously, if there’s something going on; you can tell me. I’m here for you, mate” Newt had stated softly this evening, before quickly leaving Gally to eat his dinner alone, as he could tell the Builder wasn’t in the mood for company.

Each display of concern had tightened Gally’s chest and made the air dissipate his lungs for just a moment. Each question sent a kaleidoscope of memories of you spinning through his head. He doesn’t know how to answer them; he doesn’t even know how to answer himself. Racing questions of love and feelings and hatred and lust have been swirling in his head since the moment he sent you away that night. He can’t seem to separate what he’s been telling himself to feel and what he actually feels. And would it even matter if he could?

If he could figure out how he felt about you, would it change the way you saw him?

Day 42

You watch Minho jog confidently back into The Glade after another evidently successful day of dodging death in the Maze. The setting sun casts a romantic backdrop behind him and you admire the swiftness of his gait, the angle of his jawline, the veins bulging in his hands and the way all of those things are getting closer to you as you’ve begun walking towards him as though entranced.

“Hey Minho,” you call out when you’re several paces away from him and he looks up with a smile.

“Hey Y/N; how was your day?” he asks, quickly breaking from the group of his friends forming around him in favor of walking in step with you.

“Fine. Listen; do you wanna go out with me?” you blurt out, surprising yourself with the question as much as him. 

Minho blushes and shock causes the smile to fall from his face unceremoniously. His mouth feels dry all of the sudden and he has a hard time hearing his own response over the pounding of his heart in his ears.

“Um…yeah? Are you-are you asking me out?” he croaks out quietly, feeling as though this moment might just be too good to be true.

“Yeah…” you nod, as if pondering the question yourself. “Yeah I am,” You’re not quite sure why this is the coping mechanism you’ve decided to employ, but you once heard Ariana mutter a crude phrase to Gia when she got left high and dry by a Builder and you’ve always wondered if it’s true; “The best way to get over one guy is to get under another,”

Day 43

Gally was usually in bed at this hour, but he realized he left his jacket sitting on a pile of lumber at the construction site and it was almost certainly going to rain tonight. So he dragged himself out of bed to go and get it and that’s when he heard the telltale pitch of your voice cut through the otherwise silent Glade.

“Minho…” your muffled moan rings out clearly, in a tone of voice Gally is all too familiar with. It’s coming from the Keeper of the Runner’s hut and the soft grunts and garbled compliments in the lower voice that accompanies yours, are no doubt coming from him.

Gally stops dead in his tracks, the cool breeze of night whistling the tall grass around him. The bitter drip of betrayal floods his veins like a deadly poison that effectively stops his heart for a moment. He should be furious, as that’s his time-tested reaction to almost any wrongdoing done to him. He’s territorial and aggressive and certainly not above ripping Minho’s door off its hinges and confronting the both of you for this unexpected menage a trois. He doesn’t, though, as he can’t bring himself to move, let alone cause substantial property damage.

He stands motionless in the field, his jacket balled up in a two-handed, white-knuckle grip, and he waits for the familiar heat of his anger to rush to his temples. But it doesn’t go there. Or to his fists, to prepare him to punch. Instead, it pools gently behind his eye sockets, squeezing his tear ducts until hot tears are streaming down his face for the second time this week.

Gally lets the humiliation wash over him like a gentle wave. He’s used to pushing away feelings like these, trying to remain strong no matter what obstacle he’s faced with. But right now, his resolve weakens and crumbles, like an eroding sand castle. He lets the tears fall without protest and the pain in his chest spreads outward until every fiber of his body seems to ache slowly for you.

Only for a minute though. Just a few moments of weakness. Of letting himself be a boy with a broken heart and nothing more. And then that minute passes. He wipes his tears, he starts back towards his hut, he forces his body to move from its leaden stupor.

It isn’t until he’s laying in his bed several minutes later that the anger finally starts to replace the pain. He comes back to himself, letting his fury cover up the sadness beneath it like the sun eclipsing the moon.

Day 44

The med-hut can often feel like a thatched-roof prison, but today it seems to be the opposite. It is a fortress, shielding you from the litany of awkward encounters that might occur, should you step outside of its boundaries. You move through your to-do list of mundane tasks, your hands completing them easily as your mind wanders elsewhere. 

As you restock the supply closet, it plays the memories of your spontaneous tryst with Minho last night as clear as if you were watching a recording of them. The sound of his gruff voice, the sight of his shoulders glistening with sweat above you, the feeling of his body colliding with yours over and over; these images dance intoxicatingly on your consciousness. You tried to keep your mind on the Runner for most of the morning, thinking of how easily your conversations with him went, how he just seemed to fit into your life without you needing to move anything around to accommodate the space he takes up. 

It also helps that he’s clearly very into you, and probably has been for a while. But no matter how many pros you could come up with for Minho, there was always one, glaring con burning in the back of your mind.

He’s not Gally.

Which is a ridiculous thought because Gally is an infuriatingly difficult person to be around, let alone pursue romantically . He’s an arrogant asshole most of the time. He’s exceedingly angry and decided to hate you the moment he met you. He called you a slut in front of everyone. He’s coarse and prickly and generally unhelpful. He’s nothing like Minho, with his heart on his sleeve and a helpful attitude.

Having sex with Minho felt like what you assumed sex should feel like before you had it; good, but slightly awkward and then over entirely too soon. But sex with Gally felt like something almost indescribable. When he’s with you, he doesn’t just make the world seem better; he makes it melt away entirely. There’s a passion that sizzles beneath every encounter like two live wires intersecting. 

It can’t be replicated with anyone else. So as sweet as you knew the Runner would be to you, something tells you that you’d never be fully satisfied with him. The Builder is the only option for you.

Day 45

Gally moves through the slow-moving dinner line as if in a daze. Once his plate is full, he scans the dinner hall for the emptiest table he can find, until he catches a glimpse of his friends, animatedly talking at a table in the direct center of the room. He feels a pang of guilt reverberate through his chest as it dawns on him that he’s been essentially ignoring them for days now.

As he walks over to their table, he starts to pick up on bits and pieces of their conversation and it becomes increasingly clear that his original path was the correct one to take.

“...believe you got lucky, you dog,” Zart hisses, barely concealing his jealousy. Minho grins knowingly.

“I know. And she’s…” he trails off and widens his eyes, “good,”

“Like she’s done it before?” Newt asks with raised eyebrows.

“Yeah. But who could she-” Minho starts but his sentence is cut through with a barking order, courtesy of Gally.

“Are you talking about Y/N?” He’s standing with his feet spread apart, his dinner tray in one hand, the other balled into a fist. He looks like he’s ready for a fight, and Minho’s never seen that stance directed towards him. The Runner feels his heart rate spike and the heat drain from his cheeks as he struggles to come up with an answer.

“Gally…I ...yes but-,” Minho manages to stammer out but it doesn’t seem to matter much. Gally swiftly pivots on his heel and storms out of the hall in a huff, resigning to eat his dinner in livid silence in the comfort of his own hut.

“What the hell was that?” Zart blurts out as soon as Gally is out of earshot.

“Why’s he so angry?” Thomas asks genuinely.

“I thought you said Y/N and him made up,” Newt says earnestly, searching Minho’s face for answers.

“I thought they did,” Minho whispers quietly, trying to keep the shiver of fear from creeping down his back. He finally gets with you and now Gally’s going to kill him? Great.

“Guess they didn’t,” Zart shrugs, “You might as well start planning your funeral now, Minho,”

Day 46

You had almost jumped out of your skin when Gally had leaned in close and told you to meet him in his hut at nine. He’d said it in your ear as he passed you to get into the meeting room for one of Alby’s “town hall” meetings, as he called them. Just as quickly as he had gotten next to you, he had disappeared to the other side of the room, and had seemed determined to avoid your eye contact for the entire meeting.

You had half a mind to think that this might be some kind of cruel joke as you walked obediently to his abode as soon as it hit nine. But it didn’t matter. You wanted to see him so badly you didn’t care how this could end.

You slink through his door in your familiar way and stand to face him. His expression is unreadable and his body is tense. There’s a strange energy in this room that you haven’t felt all the other times you’ve been here. You open your mouth to greet him but he cuts you off with a coarse command.

“Get on your knees,” It’s not an aggressive statement, just firm. You’re taken aback by his directness, but then become intrigued as a smile pulls at your lips.

“Is that any way to talk to me?” you tease. Gally stiffens and holds firm.

“It’s a fine way to talk to you. Do it,” he repeats in the same monotone.

You comply wordlessly and he makes his way over to you, undoing his belt as he walks. He stands in front of you and lets you do all the work of pulling down his pants, then his boxers, then taking his hard cock in your hands and eventually, your mouth.

He lets his head lull back and his hands find a firm grip in your hair as he tries to lose himself in the pleasure of your tongue swirling around his tip. He tugs on your strands sharply, extracting a strained whimper from that Gally tries to ignore. Everytime he gets close to his mind going blank, a worry manages to slip through the cracks. 

Did she do this for Minho? When they…was he better than me? Did she miss me? Like, at all? Did I miss her? Do I love her? And if I do, what the hell am I doing treating her like this? 

Though you’re growing wetter by the second and determined to make your companion feel good, your mind is far from at ease as well. Guilt rattles your chest at the memory of your tryst with Minho that failed to smother your feelings for the Builder then anger at said Builde’s forcefulness replaces it then a deep pining overtakes that feeling and then your brain finally circles back around to raw sexual attraction.

Both parties can feel that the other is in vacillation between an array of conflicting emotions and it reads plainly in your body language. Gally’s hips are taught and his breathing is shallow and your hands are gripping the backs of his thighs with desperation, as if terrified he might walk away at any moment.

The sexual encounter continues robotically, as if you two are just carrying out a complicated program of instructions given to you by software developers. Clothes come off, lips meet, hands travel downwards, cores pulse with heat but the spark is dead and buried

Gally’s eyes laze out of focus as his hips thrust themselves into you. Your soft moans and the sounds of skin chafing against each other fills the warm air in his hut. He can feel the emergence of an orgasm unraveling his core and pants with pleasure as he plunges deeper inside you, but neither sensation can stifle the mounting dread he feels.

He then ceases his movement abruptly, causing your mind to reel from the sudden lack of friction.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” he mutters softly, more trying to convince himself than you.

“What?” you murmur breathlessly, pulling your neck upwards to look him in the eyes.

“I said I don’t want to do this anymore,” he repeats louder, still not meeting your eye line. He pulls out of you and gets off the bed, leaving you in place.

“Wait…what? Gally what the hell are you talking about?” you accuse, pulling your once aroused body up into a sitting position.

“This was a mistake. I never should’ve invited you here. Get dressed,” he rasps, aggression growing in his tone. You scoff with indignation but follow his instructions.

“I’m sorry, what about this was a mistake?” your voice queries, venom filling your tone, “Starting this in the first place or ignoring me for like, two weeks and then suddenly inviting me back?” you continue, your hands fumbling for your underwear as Gally pulls his on in front of you. His back is still towards you, conveying a level of coldness that plants an ache deep in your chest.

“Does it fucking matter Y/N?! I don’t wanna do this, can you please just leave?” he snaps angrily, wheeling around to face you as he pulls his shirt over his head.

“Yes it does fucking matter! Why is your first fucking instinct always to tell me to leave?! We never talked about what happened two weeks ago and now you just wanna avoid discussing whatever the hell is happening now?” your voice rises to a screech as you clip your bra together in the front and spin it around so it’s on correctly.

“What’s there to discuss? If I send you away now you’ll probably just jump on Minho’s dick again so what’s the issue?!” he bellows, stepping closer to you and abandoning all attempts at dressing further. You recoil in shock, a sharp inhale piercing your lungs.

“How the fuck did you know that?” you question desperately, all vitriol lost to bewilderment.

“I heard you, shank. You weren’t exactly being quiet,” Gally mentions, his voice staying cold as ice while his heart burns at the memory of your betrayal.

“You’re fucking insane! Are you jealous of Minho?” you rant, feeling the distance between your words and your feelings grow larger with each passing remark.

“No, I’m not jealous!” Gally snaps, the lie almost burning his throat on its way to his lips, “I just didn’t sign up to fuck a girl that gets passed around to every guy in the Glade!” he yanks the door to his hut open, jabbing the air violently with the back of his hand, clearly motioning for you to leave.

“‘Passed around’?? I have sex with two guys, one of which is a massive prick,” you shoot an acidic glare into Gally’s steely blue eyes as you stomp towards his position at the open door, “and that counts as being ‘passed around’?”

“Well it does count as something that I don’t want to deal with; can you please just fucking leave?!” Gally snaps, his patience running thin, all positive emotions now buried under the burning hatred for you that simmers underneath his skin.

“NO!” you snap, crossing your arms and planting yourself firmly in place in front of the open door. If you two keep yelling like this in your underwear, eventually someone will hear and come over. But you can’t bring yourself to muster anything but apathy for that prospect.

“What do you mean no?!” Gally scoffs, releasing his hold on the door with his right hand and now assuming a defensive stance in front of you, his shoulders rolled back and chest puffed out.

“I mean; no,” you repeat, instinctively taking a step backwards. You are officially out of his hut, meaning you are standing in the grass wearing nothing but your bra and underwear. “I am so sick of all this back and forth, Gally. First I’m a slut, then I’m the girl you lost your virginity to, then you cry in front of me for whatever fucking reason, we stop talking, you invite me back, now I’m a slut again?? Your opinion on me flip flops like, every other day. What the fuck am I supposed to do with that? What the fuck is this? Why are we even doing this at all??” you rant, slightly stumbling over your own feet as the Builder keeps advancing menacingly towards you.

“We did this because we got drunk and horny one night; you’re the one trying to put words in my mouth and make this something it’s not. And I’m sorry I don’t lie down and worship the ground you walk on! If that’s something you want, princess,” he spits the nickname at you like a slur, “then why don’t you just find Minho?” Your voices ring through the clear night like alarm bells and you both can hear footsteps approaching from afar.

“Gally you are so full of shit. I see the way you look at me,” you snarl and the Builder’s face goes white, “If you want to lie to your friends or yourself then go right ahead but you can’t lie to me!”

“Oh, and you aren’t obsessed with me too?” Gally retorts and now it’s your turn to be taken aback with shock, “‘Gally, you’re so smart and strong. Gally I’m glad I can do this for you’,” he mocks in a high-pitched voice.

“I’m not obsessed with you!” you lie, “If you’re actually stupid enough to believe shit I said when you were fucking me than you’re even dumber than you look! But don’t worry, it won’t happen again, because I never wanna-” you step gradually closer to him, your nostrils flaring and eyes glinting as you round out your raving with a pointed finger in his face. Your sentence is abruptly cut off by the bark of your leader’s unmistakably furious voice.

“Stop! What the hell is this about?” Alby demands, taking both you and Gally by surprise, as he rarely swears. You turn your barely-clothed bodies towards him and begin explaining your side of the conflict in blustering detail, your words climbing and clamoring over each other. Alby holds up a palm that sends a hush through the both of you.

“Alright, alright!” he yells to be heard over the raucous explanations you two are providing, “Y/N where are your clothes?” he asks sharply, carefully keeping his eyes focused on your face as you jab a finger in the direction of Gally’s hut. “Go get dressed, now. Gally stay right here,” he orders and you comply instantly, the hot blush in your cheeks dissipating slightly when you reach the hut’s door.

You dress quickly and exit the abode, awaiting your leader’s punishment.

“Gally, Y/N; get to bed, now,” Alby instructs, shoving the Builder’s shoulder in the direction of his hut, “And the rest of you,” he snarls, spinning to address the growing crowd of sniggering boys gathered around this altercation, “If I hear a word of this discussed or spread around tomorrow, you’ll be without dinner for a week!” 

The crowd disperses with a jolt, their leader’s uncharacteristic anger necessitating a quick escape. You steal one last look at Gally before turning to walk away. His face is hardened and angry, but his eyes are welled with tears. He stalks back to his hut and slams the door so loud it shakes the whole building. 

Day 47

“You guys must think I’m really stupid,” you confess shyly, keeping your eyes focused on the rug on the ground. Your friends sit around you in a semicircle. They had hung on to your every word as you clumsily recounted everything that happened between you and Gally in the last two months.

“You’re not stupid,” Gia reassures, placing her hand on your knee and rubbing gently.

“You can’t pick who you fall for, you know” the newest member of your girl group, Erica, pipes up earnestly.

“Yeah, but I can pick what to do about it,” you fidget with your hands and try to steady your tone, “Or what not to do about it,”

“I mean, he’s kind of obsessed with you Y/N,” Lireale responds and you feel your face flush uncontrollably.

“Yeah, I mean he’s always talking about you,” Ariana pipes up, and the rest of the group nods.

“Yeah but it’s more like complaining about me,” you counter unconvincingly.

“Still obsessed with you,” Lireale repeats, “I mean that’s gotta count for something,”

“So I should pursue him because he has an unhealthy attachment to me?” you ask, your forehead wrinkling in confusion. 

“No, you should pursue him because you like him. You tried to distract yourself with Minho and that was a flaming disaster. There’s no other way out of this than through it; you’ve gotta tell him how you feel,” Erica rattles off confidently. The rest of the group turns to face her with stunned expressions that turn into concurring nods in a matter of seconds.

No other way out than through it.

Day 48

The water rushes from the crudely-constructed spigot at a nearly boiling temperature. Gally drops his towel and enters the warm stream, feeling his tense muscles relax under the constant water pressure. He goes through the routine of cleaning himself from head to toe, but when he finishes, he doesn’t move. He just lets the water fall as he attempts to unravel the knots that have formed in his mind over these past few days.

He’s pretty sure that he’s in love with you. 

He’s tried to come up with other explanations for his attraction to you and his want to see you, despite how much you hurt him by getting with Minho and how angry you made him for arguing with him the other night. But there isn’t another one at this point. He’s drawn to you in a way he’s never been to another person. Your laugh, your smile, your sarcastic insults, your nagging jabs, your body, all of it acts as a magnetic pulse that just keeps pulling him back to you, no matter how much he digs his heels in and refuses to budge; he always pulls back towards you.

Day 49

It might not have been the best idea to come clean to Alby. Gally had felt uncomfortable at his own vulnerability the whole time, though he found that once he started talking about you, he couldn’t stop. The Leader had been pleasantly surprised at the Builder’s willingness to open up, and listened intently, nodding along wordlessly through the whole thing.

“What do you think I should do?,” Gally mutters sheepishly once he finishes his tale.

“What do you think you should do?” Alby repeats with a wan expression on his face. 

“I don’t know…I feel like I’m going crazy,” the Builder replies, dropping his head in exasperation.

“I’ve been told love can feel like that,” the Leader responds evenly. Gallys head snaps up to meet his eye contact at the particularly terrifying word.

“I’m not in love with her,” the Builder snaps defensively. He’s not sure he means it, but he still didn’t want to hear someone else tell him that.

Alby shows his palms in an act of surrender. “All I’m saying is that you’ve always been very passionate about her. At first it was with hatred, now it’s with the opposite. There’s a very thin line between love and hate and you and Y/N have been walking that line since the day you met. I think it’s only natural that something like this would develop,” the Leader recites matter-of-factly. Gally’s mind begins replaying all of his memories of you in a new light and he realizes with horror that his leader is right.

Whether with hatred or affection, Gally has never felt more strongly about anyone else.

“So…I should tell her?” he asks nervously, feeling that he already knows what Alby’s answer will be.

“I don’t think you could go on if you didn’t,” the Leader states bluntly. “And that kind of passion doesn’t come around very often. I think if anyone feels like that about another person, it’s worth holding on tight to,”

Day 50

“Can we talk?” Gally asks sheepishly, keeping his blue eyes focused on yours instead of the slightly terrified looks on Clint and Jeff’s faces. 

You take in his nervous frame in the doorway of the medhut, too intrigued to say no. You set down the log book and move to leave without consulting your coworkers.

“Sure,” you say with a nod, trying to arrange your features into a neutral expression.

The walk from the med-hut’s doors to the site of your first rendezvous with Gally occurs in abject silence. Two sets of work boots navigate the woodland path as easily as the breathing two sets of lungs perform, unperforated by words.

Gally reaches the clearing he was aiming for and stands with his back towards you, fidgeting with his hands as his heart rate increases. You cock your head to the side slightly, waiting patiently for his clumsy monologue to begin. 

“Y/N, I-,” he starts, and turns to face you, not taking his eyes off of his rapidly moving fingers, “I’m only gonna say this once and then you can think whatever you want about it and-and if it doesn’t go well then…” he trails off, a slight quiver warbling his voice.

“I don’t think you need to say anything,” you interject boldly, and the Builder’s eyes meet yours.

“You…don’t? What about-” he goes to ask about the fiery argument that occurred the last time you two were in each other’s presence.

“Well, I thought about it, and I think actions speak louder than words,” you explain evenly, stepping closer to him, “Your pupils are huge,” you remark with a chuckle and take his hand in yours, “your hands are…very sweaty,” you continue with a twinge of disgust and Gally’s face turns a deep shade of pink, “And,” you lean forward slightly, bringing your ear to his chest, “your heart is beating ridiculously fast,” you turn his hand palm out and place it on your own chest, “Mine is too by the way,” Gally smiles warmly and you return the gesture.

“So…you don’t think we need to talk about anything that happened?” Gally responds, his mouth dry as a deep yearning makes a home in his chest.

“Oh we definitely do,” you respond slyly, “I just don’t think you need to tell me how you feel about me…” you lean in closer, warmly placing your arms around his broad shoulders, “...because I already know,” 

Your lips brush his as you form those words and at your sentence’s conclusion, Gally pulls you in desperately, his lips connecting to yours with a proverbial smattering of sparks. He keeps his hands planted firmly on your waist, not wanting to let go for anything. The kiss is drawn out and passionate, with two sets of tongues dancing, not fighting for dominance. There’s no expectation for sex or bracing for argumentative comments.

You both just let it be what it is.

When you both finally pull away from the kiss, a blissful sigh escapes from your lips and Gally rests his forehead on yours.

“I don’t think you need to tell me how you feel either,” he adds with a smirk.

-Epilogue-

“That’s the gardens, where the Trackhoes plant all our food,” Newt points out, a lanky finger pointed in the direction of said Trackhoes, who sweat profusely under the midday sun, “That’s the main meeting hall and that,” he continues, pivoting his body to the side and pointing at a thatched-roof building, “is the Med-Hut. If you get sliced, tripped or poisoned, that’s where you’re going to want to go,”

The Greenie commits Newt’s words to memory, but his eyes are soon distracted by another sight; a girl, holding the door to the building open as several boys file past her with large boxes of supplies from The Box in their arms.

“Who’s that?” the Greenie asks, his gaze following your every movement. Newt chortles darkly, drinking in the newcomer's dopey appearance and relishing in the delight of the information he’s about to reveal.

“That is Y/N. She was just made Keeper of the Medjacks a few weeks ago. I wouldn’t stare though,” he grins.

“Why?” the boy asks with his eyes still transfixed. As if on cue, a gruff boy with a toolbelt set around his waist walks into the Greenie’s eyeline, delivering a swift peck to your cheek.

“That’s why,” Newt smiles, clapping a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “See that, is Gally. Keeper of the Builders, a nasty piece of work and Y/N’s boyfriend. If he ever catches you staring at her like that, you had better run or grab the nearest weapon,” the second-in-command advises, watching the Greenie’s face blush and his eyes dart quickly away.

You take your boyfriend’s hand and stroll leisurely towards the Box to pick up the next round of supplies.

“So how much of a fight do you think that new Greenie’s gonna put up tonight?” Gally asks with a mischievous smile, referencing his habit of challenging each new Glader to a fight on their first bonfire night. He only extends this invitation to the male Greenies, (obviously), so he’s been itching for new competition for two months.

“Oh god, go easy on him, baby,” you whine playfully, rolling your eyes.

“Why do you care about that shank?” he asks. 

If he hadn’t been reassured of your complete devotion to him so often, he might’ve had half a mind to be jealous. But the entire Glade is resolutely aware that you only have eyes for him. They’re also aware that Gally has hands for anyone, (besides himself), who dares to have eyes for you.

“I don’t,” you retort sharply, “It’s just that if you beat him to a pulp, I will be the one who has to put said pulp back together,” Gally laughs.

“You could just get Clint or Jeff to do it. Besides, there are worse things to happen at bonfire night, princess,” he smiles warmly, invoking his favorite pet name for you.

“Yeah, like stoking the fire with your elixir, huh?” you ask sarcastically, keeping your facial expression vague.

“Yes, that would definitely be worse,” he replies, his face going slightly pale as realization dawns, “You’re not actually gonna do that again, right?”

“I don’t know…the flames were really pretty…” you start with a smile.

“...Y/N, please, no,” your boyfriend pleads exasperatedly.

“...and Chuck said it looks really cool…you know I was too drunk to notice it last time…” you continue, reveling in your ability to raise Gally’s blood pressure with a joke.

“Yeah and I got burned! I still have scars on my arms,” he snaps, humor still coloring his outburst.

“I know,” you concede roguishly, “But come on, it’s not all bad. It got you this,” you reason, lifting your intertwined hands.

“That’s true, but once is enough,” he smiles, flaring his eyebrows upwards in shock, “Come on, Y/N, seriously don’t do that,” he replies, his tone settling back into sincerity. “No promises, Gally. I’m a bit of a loose cannon, so I’ve been told,” you jest, leaning in to kiss him gently on the cheek, “Just don’t stand so close this time,” you whisper in his ear.

<--------------->

Tag List: @gallyismylittlesilly @my-little-universes @cthood @katie-tibo @sarahstar11 @cxlt-lamb @hellokitty811 @alia0102 @honethatty12 @randallkirkland @strangunddurm @goldenfaced @coaquinbae @oak05

[spcherryygirl]

YOU KNOW THAT I LO-LO-LOVE THE CHASE ! m. grayson x reader

✷ CATEGORY : SMAU ( SOCIAL MEDIA AU )

✷ SYNOPSIS : two best friends, one brain cell, & way too much flirting. unfortunately, both are idiots.

✷ PART ONE ⟡ PART TWO ⟡ PART THREE

✷ TAGS: ooc. fluff. teasing disguised as affection. intense mutual pining (they’re basically already in love but pretending it’s casual). emotional intimacy ft. chaotic flirting. he’s your menace <3. casual love confessions in the middle of jokes. banter as foreplay. you wearing his hoodie and him stealing it back like it’s a love language. flowers as a threat (but romantic). him showing up at midnight because you were sad. the “we’re not dating” dating phase. lowkey obsessed. highkey obvious about it. mark being stupid in love but acting like it’s no big deal. tension? yes. angst? no. cheesy texts. “this doesn’t feel real” energy. him in a button-up = end of the world. flirty threats. emotionally unavailable who? not here. criminal levels of softness. “i’d go to jail for you” & he MEANS it. delusional future-planning in the name of love. almost saying “i love you” but oops,,,, he already did. they confessed, but both are still idiots.

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 NOTES !

001. can u guys tell i luv mutual pining

002. IM SORRY I SAID ILL POST P2 YESTERDAY BUT JON & MARK HCS KIND OF GOT ME💔💔

003. but p2 as promised!

004. teach me how warnings / tags works.... I BE ADDING RANDOM STUFF. LIKE I THE FIRST PART HAS LEEEEESSSSS TAGS / WARNINGS BUTBUTBUT IDK IF I DID IT CORRECTLY

© minorlyatfault, 2025

[devilish-cherry]

ᨳ♡₊➳ jujutsu kaisen x reader

ᨳ♡₊➳ crack with plot

"You hate your job. The pay is bad, your manager is worse, and customers are somehow both entitled and clueless. Just as you finish contemplating whether unpaid breaks are a human rights violation, weird new people keep showing up to the café. They all seem to know each other. Sometimes they talk in cryptic phrases. What the hell is this domain and why do they want to expand it? One time, a man with stitches on his forehead walked in, made prolonged eye contact with you, and then left without ordering anything. You’re pretty sure he was a serial killer. Another time, the one with white hair and sunglasses indoors mentioned a "higher mission", and you’re 90% sure this is how cult documentaries start. One of your regulars only speaks in weird food-related phrases. You assume he has some kind of medical condition, but no one explains anything to you. But you are not about to ask questions, because ignorance is bliss and also job security. And unfortunately, they are all weird and they seem very interested in coming back."

꒰ masterlist ꒱ ₊⊹. ꒰ chapter 5 ꒱ ₊⊹. ꒰ chapter 7 ꒱

ᨳ♡₊➳ or read on archive of our own!

ᨳ♡₊➳ a/n: HELLOOOO BELOVEDS!!! first of all, thank you for all the kind comments and unhinged reactions, they are genuinely fueling me like a questionable energy drink. you have no idea how much it means to me to see people enjoying this ridiculous little fic. i had so much fun writing this chapter (probably too much fun honestly) and i would love to hear what you think!!! scream at me. leave your thoughts. tell me which character is making you lose your mind the most. i am here. i am listening. i am emotionally invested in your reactions. as always, thank you for reading!!! hope you enjoy this chapter! 🫶

The morning had been relatively uneventful, meaning that the espresso machine had only threatened violence twice, Greg had not yet committed a fireable offense (debatable), and Muffin Guy was, as always, engaged in his thousand-yard stare into the abyss of his pastry.

And then Gojo burst into the café.

"Barista," Gojo declared, striding up to the counter with the urgency of a man reporting a crime. "We have a Code Red."

You blinked. You had not emotionally prepared yourself for this.

"Gojo," you said slowly, already exhausted. "What?"

He slammed his hands onto the counter, leaning in like he was about to deliver classified government intel. He removed his sunglasses for dramatic effect, which always meant whatever he was about to say was extra stupid.

"My punch card. It’s missing."

Silence.

Gojo stared at you. You stared back. Somewhere in the corner, Muffin Guy continued to stare at his muffin like it contained the meaning of life.

 "...Why did you even have one?" you asked, already regretting engaging with this conversation.

"For fun," Gojo said earnestly. "But now it’s not fun. It’s personal."

You sighed and crossed your arms over your chest, feeling a headache starting to come on. "Gojo, you made the punch cards. You wrote the ‘rewards’ yourself. You even give out the rewards yourself. You know they’re literally useless to you, right?"

"I support small businesses." Gojo simply said, as if that explained everything. It didn't.

You exhaled. "I can just give you another one."

Gojo gasped. "You would just replace it? Just like that? Without even trying to find the original?"

"Yes."

"Barista," he whined, looking deeply wounded. "You are everything wrong with modern society."

"Because I refuse to track down your own punch card? That you did not need?"

"Justice must be served!" Gojo declared, slamming his hands onto the counter once more. You swear you start to see it crack a little.

"Fine," you surrendered. "Where did you last see it?"

"It was last seen right here," he asserted, spinning around to dramatically point to the table he was sitting at a while ago like it was a crime scene. "Someone took it. And I will find out who. Last time I saw it, I had exactly four punches. And it even has 'The Strongest' on it with a doodle of me!"

You glanced down at the rewards.

Buy 5 coffees, Get a Pat on the Head from Gojo!

"You—" You inhaled sharply. "Gojo, you cannot give yourself head pats."

Gojo looked appalled. "Why not?"

"Because that defeats the entire purpose!"

Gojo pouted. "So you're saying self-care is illegal now?"

"I am saying you're an idiot."

Gojo pointedly ignores you in favor for straightening up, adjusting his sunglasses with the solemn air of a detective on the brink of uncovering a grand conspiracy. He pivoted on his heel and surveyed the café like a man on a mission—because he was, in fact, a man on a mission.

A very, very stupid mission.

Gojo, self-appointed detective of this entirely unnecessary case, wasted no time causing problems. He began his investigation in the most Gojo way possible: by harassing every single person in the café, and dragging you along with him as his unwilling accomplice.

"Alright, one of you took my punch card," he announced loudly, pointing to the entire café. "I’m giving you a chance to come clean before I unleash my full investigative abilities."

No one reacted. It was dead silent other than some old guy doing one of those gnarly old man coughs.

"Okay. Hard way it is."

He leaned over a table and pointed directly at a college student buried under their laptop. “You. Where were you approximately forty seven minutes ago?"

The student, looking up with the dead eyes of someone who had seen too many midterms, just blinked. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” Gojo said, crossing his arms. “I know a criminal when I see one.”

“I—” They looked at you in distress.

You sighed. “Gojo, leave the customers alone.”

“Never.” He turned, zeroing in on the next suspect: Muffin Guy.

Muffin Guy, as always, was sitting at his usual table in the corner farthest from the door, staring at his usual muffin.

Gojo approached the man like he was in an interrogation scene of a cop drama. You trudged along behind him, silently screaming inside your head at the fact that you have to babysit a fully grown man. He pulled up a chair, turned it around, and sat on it backward like an absolute menace.

"Alright, pal," Gojo said, pulling out a notebook that he absolutely did not need. "You wanna tell me where you were when my punch card went missing forty nine minutes ago?"

Muffin Guy did not even acknowledge Gojo’s existence. His eyes remained locked on his muffin, like he was waiting for something.

Gojo narrowed his eyes. "Suspicious."

Silence.

"Listen, I get it. You don’t wanna snitch. You’ve got a reputation to uphold," Gojo said, nodding like he totally understood Muffin Guy’s plight. "But I need you to talk. Where. Is. My. Punch. Card?"

Nothing. Muffin Guy did not move. Muffin Guy did not blink. Did not acknowledge him. Did not react in any way whatsoever.  

Gojo narrowed his eyes. “Ohhh, you’re good.”

You massaged your temples. “Gojo, he hasn’t moved in like, four weeks. I doubt he even knows what a punch card is.”

“That’s exactly what he WANTS us to think.”

Gojo tapped a finger against the table like he was waiting for a confession. Muffin Guy continued his unwavering, soul-searching gaze into his muffin.

“…Fine,” Gojo said finally, standing up. “We’ll be watching you, muffin man.”

Muffin Guy did not respond.

Muffin Guy never responded.

Gojo jotted something down in his notebook anyway.  

You sighed. "Are you done?"  

"Not even close," Gojo said. "We have another suspect."

Gojo’s next suspect? The espresso machine.

Yes. The espresso machine.

Gojo stormed back to the counter, which was for employees only mind you, heading behind it with all of the confidence of a man who owned the place despite him very much not even working there. His energy was even more unhinged now, which you hadn’t thought was possible.

"It knows something." Gojo said seriously, surveying the espresso machine.

You glanced at the espresso machine, which had been through a lot. Its buttons were worn down, its exterior was dented from years of abuse, and it did act like it was on the verge of achieving sentience and declaring war.

But it was just a machine.

"You’re losing it," you said flatly.

Gojo did not respond. The espresso machine let out a deep, unnatural groan. The lights flickered. A faint screeching noise echoed from within its depths.

Gojo nodded. "Hm... I see, thank you for your time."

Was he... talking to the espresso machine?

You took a step back. "Okay, I think we’re done here—"

"No," Gojo interrupted, eyes snapping open. "We are not done."

"Listen up!" he announced. "Since no one wants to confess, I have no choice but to conduct a full-scale investigation."

Oh no.

Gojo was determined. He took things to their logical, insane conclusion.

That was how the café ended up with a full conspiracy board pinned to the back wall, complete with string, random photos, and several unhinged notes like "Muffin Guy = SUSPECT 1????" and "Greg = Wild Card. Cannot be trusted."

Nanami walked in, took one look at the board, and immediately turned around and left.

“Smart man,” you muttered.

Gojo jabbed a finger at the board. “We’re close, Barista. I can feel it.”

You glanced at his so-called evidence, which consisted mostly of:

A blurry photo of Muffin Guy.

A napkin with "Who benefits from this crime???" scrawled across it.

A drawing Gojo made of himself shirtless.

“Uh-huh.”

After approximately an hour of complete nonsense, the truth was finally revealed.

Toge walked in.

The second Gojo saw him, his eyes narrowed. "Wait a minute."

Toge tilted his head, then casually reached into his pocket.

And pulled out Gojo’s punch card.

There was silence.

Toge smirked. "Salmon roe."

Gojo gasped dramatically. "You little fiend."

Toge shrugged, completely unbothered.

"Okay, listen, we can work this out," Gojo said, already shifting into negotiation mode. "What do you want? Money? Power? Name your price."

Toge tapped the menu.

He wanted a free drink.

Gojo immediately caved.

You handed Toge his iced vanilla latte. He took one sip, gave an approving thumbs-up, and walked out with Gojo’s punch card still in hand—because, apparently, Toge was not only a mastermind but also a scammer.

Gojo stared after him, stunned.

"Did I… did I just get played by a kid?"

"Yes," you nodded, not surprised in the slightest.

Gojo groaned and ran a hand through his hair. "Man, this is not my day."

You rolled your eyes before grabbing one of the punch cards, wrote Gojo’s New Punch Card on it in thick marker, and slid it across the counter.

Gojo picked it up like it was a sacred artifact.

“This is why you’re my favorite,” he said solemnly.

You ignored him and went back to work.

And then, somehow, in less than thirty minutes, he lost the punch card again.

This time, Muffin Guy had it. (It had somehow accidentally fell into his lap, but Gojo isn't convinced.)

And thus, an eternal rivalry was born.

Gojo was a man of many talents. He was the strongest sorcerer alive. He was an esteemed mentor, an agent of chaos, and a connoisseur of sweets. He had faced many formidable opponents in his life. Powerful curses. Dangerous sorcerers. Nanami’s disappointed stare.

But nothing—nothing—compared to the enigma that was Muffin Guy.

And the worst part? Muffin Guy had no idea they were rivals.

A customer who had never spoken a word. Never made an order. Never blinked (as far as anyone could tell).

And now? Now, he had Gojo’s punch card.

The betrayal was immeasurable.

It all started when Gojo realized his brand new punch card was missing.

And then he saw it, sitting in the lap of Muffin Guy.  

Now, here’s the thing: Muffin Guy had not moved in approximately four weeks. You had once joked that he was actually a statue, and frankly, the evidence was compelling.

He simply sat at the same table, day after day, with an untouched muffin in front of him. Staring at it. Unwavering. Unmoving. A man and his pastry, locked in some kind of profound, spiritual journey that no one else could understand.

It was unclear if he was contemplating the meaning of life or if the muffin had personally wronged him in a past life.

But today—today—Muffin Guy had unknowingly committed a crime.

Gojo marched over, stopping just short of Muffin Guy’s table. His expression was grim. His sunglasses reflected the dull café lighting like he was in some sort of low-budget action movie.

"Alright, muffin boy," he said. "Hand it over."

Muffin Guy did not react.

The punch card remained where it had fallen, untouched in his lap. Muffin Guy himself continued his muffin-induced trance, oblivious to the war he had just ignited.

Gojo narrowed his eyes. "Oh, so that’s how it is."  

He placed his hands on the table and leaned in slightly. "Listen. I don’t know what kind of mind games you’re playing here, but I’m not leaving without my card."

Muffin Guy did not move.

The muffin remained uneaten.

Gojo squinted. "You’re good," he admitted. "Too good. But I’m better."

Still, no reaction.

At this point, you were 100% certain that Muffin Guy did not even know Gojo was talking to him.

But Gojo was not deterred. No—if anything, the complete lack of response only fueled him further.

"I see," Gojo murmured. "So this is psychological warfare."

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "Gojo. He did not steal your punch card on purpose. That man is completely checked out. He has no idea what’s happening right now."

Gojo ignored you. A slow, confident smirk spread across his face.

"Okay, buddy," he continued, "if you wanna play dirty, then so can I. You want to make this a battle of endurance?" he mused. "A test of willpower? Oh, you poor, poor fool."

He leaned in.

"I could sit here for hours."

The café collectively turned to look at you, silently asking Are you going to stop this?

You did not intervene.

Because, honestly? You kind of wanted to see where this was going.

Gojo and Muffin Guy remained locked in a tense, one-sided standoff.

Gojo leaned on the table like he was interrogating an international spy. Muffin Guy continued his usual thousand-yard stare into the muffin’s nonexistent soul. The café was caught in the crossfire, helpless witnesses to a battle that absolutely did not need to happen.

The customers were starting to look uncomfortable. Even Greg, who had an impressive tolerance for nonsense, peeked out from behind the counter with an expression that said, "Is this my problem? No? Cool."

You folded your arms and sighed. "Gojo. Just take the damn punch card."

"I can’t," Gojo whispered dramatically. "That would mean he wins."

You deadpanned. "I don’t think he even knows he’s playing."

Gojo shook his head. "No, no. This is a power move. He’s asserting dominance. Look at him."

You did.

Muffin Guy had not moved a millimeter. His posture was slightly slumped, the kind of relaxed yet oddly rigid stance of a man who had fully merged with his chair. His hands rested in his lap, motionless. His expression was blank, unreadable.

"You’re reading way too much into this," you muttered.

Gojo scoffed. "Barista. Sweet, naïve, simple barista. You don’t understand the art of psychological combat."

"Please stop talking."

"This is a game of patience. And unfortunately for Muffin Man over here, I have the patience of a god."

You stared at him. "You literally don’t."

Gojo grinned, pushing his sunglasses up his nose. "Don’t I?"

Thirty minutes passed.

Thirty.

Agonizing.

Minutes.

Gojo had not moved. He remained seated across from Muffin Guy, chin resting in his hand, staring intensely.

Muffin Guy? Unbothered. A picture of serenity. He had reached a state of enlightenment that Gojo could never hope to attain.

You were nearly impressed.

"Gojo," you finally called from behind the counter. "Are you actually going to do anything or…?"

Gojo, without looking away, reached for his drink, took a slow sip, and set it back down with exaggerated precision.

"This is deeper than just a punch card now, Barista," he said solemnly. "This is a battle of souls."

You rolled your eyes and went back to work.

By the one-hour mark, the other customers had started placing bets.

Nanami, who had returned to the café during this mess, stood near the counter with his arms crossed, observing the situation like it personally offended him. He scowled. "This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen."

You nodded. "Yeah."

"…I put 500 yen on Muffin Guy winning."

You blinked. "Oh my god."

At another table, Yuji sat with a wide-eyed look of concern. "Uh… should we stop him?"

Nanami, looking unimpressed as ever, just sighed. "No. Let him suffer the consequences of his own actions."

"Okay, but like—what if he never gives up?" Yuji asked. "Like, what if this is it? What if Gojo-sensei just lives here now?"

Your expression darkened. "I don’t want to think about that."

Meanwhile, Gojo was starting to crack.

The problem was… Muffin Guy was too powerful.

Gojo shifted slightly in his seat. He flexed his fingers. His leg bounced a little. His energy was starting to get restless. He was like a dog that had been told to "stay" for longer than his attention span allowed.

Muffin Guy remained perfectly still.

Gojo exhaled sharply, then abruptly straightened up. "Alright," he announced. "I’m initiating Plan B."

Plan B, apparently, was Gojo very dramatically standing up, taking a deep breath, and—

"HEY, LOOK! A DISTRACTION!"

Gojo threw his arms out and gestured wildly toward the window.

Muffin Guy did not look.

Muffin Guy did not acknowledge this in any way.

Muffin Guy simply continued to stare at his muffin.

It was an incredible display of indifference.

Gojo groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Why won’t he break?!"

"He doesn’t care," you pointed out.

"No one is this unbothered," Gojo muttered in despair. "He has to be suppressing some deep, hidden rage. A darkness within him."

You eyed Muffin Guy, who had not reacted to literally anything this entire time. "Yeah, sure."

Gojo sighed and slumped back into his seat. He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling like he was questioning every life choice that led him here.

And then.

Then.

It happened.

The door opened and a breeze moved the punch card off of Muffin Guy's lap, onto the floor. It lay there. In the open. Right at his feet.

And then.

Muffin Guy… moved.

Barely. But he did.

His shoe—slowly, deliberately—rose up.

With an almost absentminded motion, he stepped on the punch card then kicked it away.

Gojo, eyes wide behind his sunglasses, slowly looked down at the fallen punch card.

Gojo’s hands clenched into fists. He looked back up at Muffin Guy, mouth slightly open in betrayal.

"You—" he whispered. "You absolute bastard."

Muffin Guy blinked once. And then, finally—finally—he moved his gaze away from the muffin.

And looked Gojo dead in the eye.

For the first time ever.

It lasted only a second. Maybe two.

But it was enough.

It was enough to shake Satoru Gojo to his very core.

And then, Muffin Guy returned his gaze to the muffin, as if nothing had happened.

Gojo staggered back. "Oh my god."

He turned to you, expression shell-shocked. "Did you see that?"

You glanced up, having been working on an order. "See what?"

Gojo clutched his chest. "The raw intimidation. The absolute menace of it all."

You looked at Muffin Guy.

He was back to staring blankly at his muffin.

"You’re making this up," you said.

"No, Barista. No." Gojo shook his head solemnly. "That was real."

He bent down, picked up the punch card, and held it in his hands like he had just recovered a stolen artifact.

"I have won," he declared. "But at what cost?"

And with that, he turned and walked away.

And Muffin Guy? Muffin Guy continued to sit there, unmoving, as if none of this had ever happened. As if he had already ascended beyond human concerns. As if this was all just a blip in his long, unbothered existence.

Gojo, shaken but victorious, walked up to the counter and carefully placed his now-returned punch card in his pocket.

"I have faced many things in my life, Barista," he said, shaking his head. "But nothing—nothing—compares to him."

You did not care. "Are you gonna buy something or not?"

Gojo blinked. "Oh. Right." He grinned. "One Death By Sugar, please!”

After the whole Gojo and Muffin Guy fiasco, it had been a long week. A really long week.

Longer than usual. And that was saying something, considering your usual weeks included existential crises, cryptic nonsense from regulars who seemed vaguely cult-adjacent, and whatever the hell Greg did instead of actual work.

Just this morning, a man had thrown his coffee at the wall and shouted that it had “too many molecules.”

You had simply stared at him, dead inside, until he shuffled out of the café like a scolded dog. Greg the Manager, who had watched the whole thing, just shrugged and said, “You know, sometimes science, like, gets to people.” Then he went back to his very important task of playing Candy Crush in the back.

Another customer demanded a “non-liquid latte,” which led to a long and painful conversation about what a latte actually was.

So yeah. The bar was low, but somehow, this week had still found a way to dig beneath it.

In short: You were done. Completely, utterly, cosmically done.

So there you were, leaning against the counter, staring blankly at nothing, dark circles under your eyes so deep they could have been considered voids of the abyss, when Choso entered.

Choso was—how to put this?—an experience.

It wasn’t that he was bad. He was just… weird. The kind of weird that made you wonder if he was raised in a cave by a wise old hermit who only spoke in riddles. Or wolves. Possibly both.

He took one look at you—slouched, dark circles under your eyes, contemplating whether you could get away with faking your own death to escape this job—and immediately panicked.

"Barista."

"Choso."

"You are unwell," he declared, voice heavy with alarm.

You blinked slowly. “I’m tired.”

“Dying,” Choso corrected gravely.

“No.”

“Yes.”

This was going nowhere.

“What do you need? Please, tell me. I will get it.”

You, in a moment of sheer exhaustion-fueled stupidity, decided to mess with him. “I need a million dollars and a nap.”

Choso didn’t even hesitate.

He just nodded. Then vanished.

Literally.

One second he was there, the next? Gone. Like a cryptid retreating into the woods. You didn’t think much of it. Maybe he had finally reached his weird quota for the day.

Five minutes later, Yuji Itadori sprinted into the café, looking like he’d just witnessed a national emergency.

"CHO’S TRYING TO ROB A BANK," he wheezed.

Your brain short-circuited.  

“What.”

Yuji, barely holding it together, flailed his arms in the air. "HE SAID YOU NEEDED MONEY AND REST, AND I TRIED TO STOP HIM, BUT HE JUST SAID ‘IT MUST BE DONE’ AND LEFT."

You stared at him. "You’re joking."

"I’M NOT JOKING."

That was all you needed to hear.

Without another word, you threw your apron onto the counter, ignored Greg’s halfhearted “Hey, where are you going?”, marched past a shocked line of customers (who had given up on understanding anything that happened in this café), and stormed out of the café, because apparently, preventing your customers from committing felonies was now part of your job description.

Outside the bank, you spotted Choso standing by the entrance, looking deeply contemplative.

His expression was tense, brows furrowed in serious thought, like he was weighing the logistics of a full-scale heist.

You marched up to him. "Choso. What the hell are you doing?"

Choso turned to you with the heavy sincerity of a man about to make a life-altering decision. "I have realized I do not know how to rob a bank."

"Good," you said. "Fantastic. Let’s go."

He looked vaguely disappointed, like he had really been hoping for a step-by-step guide. He hesitated. “But you need the money.”

"I do not need bank robbery money, Choso."

“…Are you certain?"

You grabbed his sleeve and started dragging him away. “Very certain."

He did not resist. Just nodded solemnly as if he was allowing you to stop him.

Yuji, breathless from running after you, skidded to a halt. “Oh thank god.”

Choso turned to his brother. “You should have more faith in me, brother. I would not have gotten caught.”

“THAT’S NOT THE POINT."

Back at the café, you reclaimed your position behind the counter, mentally adding Prevented a Felony to your resume.

Unfortunately, that was not the end of it.

Because Choso still believed you were dying.

Which is why, for the rest of the shift, he kept handing you random things to “help.”

First, a protein bar.

Then a full meal from some restaurant down the street (you had no idea how he got it so fast, and frankly, you were scared to ask).

Then vitamins.

Then—at one point—a whole ass bucket of water.

“Hydration is important,” Choso said solemnly.

You stared at the bucket. Then at him. Then back at the bucket.

"...Where did you even get this?"

Choso simply nodded, as if that was an answer.

You groaned. “Choso—”

“I will not let you perish,” Choso said, his tone eerily similar to when he’d considered robbing a bank on your behalf.

This was getting out of hand.

At some point, Gojo had walked in, witnessed Choso wordlessly draping a blanket over your shoulders like a solemn warrior, and nearly died laughing.

Choso, unfazed, simply turned to him and said, “They are unwell.”

Gojo whistled. "Aw, Choso, you’re such a gentleman."

Choso looked pleased. "It is important that they do not perish."

Gojo, whispered to you with a teasing grin. "I think he just confessed."

You refused to acknowledge this.

But it didn’t stop. For the entire shift, Choso kept appearing out of nowhere to hand you various life-sustaining items. A banana. A juice box. An entire bag of rice.

By the end of the day, you had somehow acquired a small mountain of food and drinks, and Choso was still watching you like he expected you to keel over at any second.

Greg the Manager, walking by, looked at the pile and nodded approvingly. "Nice. Free snacks."

Before you could stop him, he reached for a rice ball—

And Choso slapped his hand away.

Greg froze.

Choso glared at him.

Gojo, somewhere in the background muttered a "Holy shit."

Greg backed away.

Choso nodded to himself, victorious.

You put your head in your hands. "I need a vacation."

"I will acquire you one."

"No."

₊⊹. tag list: @alpha-mommy69 @luluminati @amortsukii-writes @inthedarkshadows000 @isomehowexist @not-aya @emochosoluvr

[seagiri]

some chilshi headcanons?

(Contextualizing my headcanons, I mostly like chilshi post-canon. It doesn’t click during the main story for me)

I think they’re very domestic. One of those situations where they don’t even realize how infatuated they are with the other- until they do. And they don’t know what to do about that so they get used to being close but never taking it a step further. I think Senshi is a good influence for Chilchuck, and Chil he is Senshi’s way to connect with others.

The two of them are people that had to mature emotionally very quickly due to their life circumstances and I think that’s what draws them together in a way

Senshi has the excuse that he wants to help Chil feed himself better and maybe help him taking care of his home, and Chil likes the company. He worries about the guy lmao

They smoke and drink in the porch of his old family house and they bicker about people. Senshi tends to their garden and Chil sometimes when he’s bored and his wrists don’t hurt, he combs his hair.

And Senshi travels and explores and when he comes back he gets to talk about everything and show Chilchuck his new recipes and he is mortified but he listens anyway :) Chil complains about work, updates him on his daughters and they get to talk. They open up

Maybe they go fishing together, to the market if there’s a chance. They drink in the tavern at nighttime. idk

It’s whatever. Whatever you know

>They’re both big spoon interchangeably but it’s Chilchuck the most because he doesn’t like feeling crushed and also Senshi’s beard is equal to 3 layers of blankets

>Senshi likes teaching Chilchuck how to cook but Chil gets annoyed fast if he can’t do it first try so they barely try anymore

>They own a lot of alcohol from different places either Senshi visits or Falin and Izutsumi bring them. That pantry is wild

>They fight over stupid shit that is just mildly annoying and not a real issue

>Their way of loving is to do things for each other. If Chilchuck is tired from work Senshi will offer to arrange his picklocks, maybe go something for him. And Chil tidies up the place for him after cooking or goes buy whatever is missing. “Don’t worry, I’ll do it for you. It’s fine”

>They had to get slightly bigger furniture

The perfect version for me is when they never get together because they’re stubborn and afraid of interfering in each others lives so they self sabotage and don’t know what to do. But I also love it when they’re happy together so make of this what you will <3 they are everything to me