#what can I say their friendship makes me emotional

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 17

˗ˏˋ reconnecting ˎˊ˗

"Fridays are not always the best day of the week, you can vouch for this one at least. It's Emma's birthday party and you're not sure you two still vibe together or not after all this time. And coming home... you don't expect Jungkook to be awake, especially not with your cold war going on. But he is."

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⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 9,6k

content: begrudgingly gift-shopping, hidden treasures, old vs new friendships, reconnecting, pretty girls and the inability to discern whether it's flirting or polite talk, AM talks, actually listening (thank god, progress!), and vanilla kink striking again because jungkook in this fic has free will and i cannot control him

✧ author's note ✧

WASSSSSUPPPP my peoplessss!!

Okay so here’s Chapter 17—aka the chapter where all of you start collectively projecting your unresolved issues with your high school best friend, your fuckboy roommate, and your local pastel/goth lesbian duo. I say that with love.

Now LISTEN. I keep raising the bar for this story like but honestly?? That’s on YOU. You absolute feral gremlins with your “when’s the next update” comments like I’m a vending machine that dispenses emotional damage. (It’s fine. I thrive under fear and pressure. You’re welcome.)

About this chapter!! So my initial plan was for Nix to buy Jungkook an actual vinyl player… until I did the research and realized those bitches go for 150-300 bucks even secondhand. Be fr. They are NOT in a relationship. This man is her hot emotional disaster roommate who’s been beefing with her for three days and literally slammed a door at her. I would not spend a single euro on that man beyond what is legally required. Fifteen dollars for a John Mayer record? That’s the sweet spot. It says “I hate you but I know what music you like and I think about you when you’re not around and that makes me want to bite drywall.”

Also: if you know that Inside Wants Out is an early acoustic EP that’s kinda slept on but has a few gut-wrenching tracks about vulnerability and romantic ambivalence… well. Have fun.

Now shut up because I love writing female friendships and this chapter is my offering to the goddesses of sapphic chaos. Yeji and Irya being absolute queens??? We love. But also EMMA. Emma and that awkward tension of do we still fit? Did we ever really know each other or was it just proximity and hormones and being stuck in the same suburban hellscape? That shit is SO REAL. Reuniting with old friends is like a spiritual liminal space and I needed to capture that gnawing weirdness.

AND JIMIN. The eyeliner scene??? I almost CRIED writing it. I had to pause. That man is so soft it makes me want to shove him into a pillow fort and protect him from the world. He’s so good. He sees her, without wanting anything in return. You better analyze it or I’ll strangle every single one of you.

Now. Regarding the very tense bathroom cologne scene. I was actually going to drag the cold war out longer, truly. I had plans. But Jungkook opened his slutty little mouth and said, “No, actually, I’m feral and I’ve been suffering in silence and she smells like sex and nostalgia and I must act.” And what was I supposed to do? Argue? Please. I have 0 narrative agency here. That much is clear.

Also his birthday is coming. So like. I didn’t want to enter that subplot with them still fake-ignoring each other like divorced parents. You’re welcome.

ANYWAY. The next few chapters are slower paced but VERY important. It’s all those little moments where the characters start changing without realizing it. The kind of growth you only see in hindsight. The slow part of the slow burn. But I swear to god I’m obsessed with how it’s turning out and I just want to share it with you and roll around in the angst like a dog in grass.

Okay that’s all. I love you. Go scream in the comments or eat drywall. Or both! <3 Mwah.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Fridays aren't supposed to sneak up on you like a debt collector with something to prove.

Usually, you spend the whole week crawling toward Friday like it's an oasis in the desert of your existence. Monday is hell. Tuesday is hell's waiting room. Wednesday offers a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, the week won't actually kill you. Thursday is its own special brand of torture—so close to freedom you can taste it, but still trapped in the purgatory of obligation.

And then: Friday. 

Glorious, beautiful Friday.

Except this one. This one materialized out of nowhere, ambushing you with its presence and the sudden, horrifying realization that you have exactly zero hours to prepare for what's coming.

So here you are, somehow already standing in a flea market that smells like mothballs and questionable life choices, watching Yeji hold up a fishnet... something against her body while Irya coos over crystals that probably came from the dollar store.

"What do you think?" Yeji asks, draping the fishnet monstrosity over her shoulders. "Is it giving 'fashion-forward' or 'I found this in a dumpster'?"

"Definitely dumpster," you mutter, eyes scanning the crowded stalls without really seeing them. 

Because your mind? Your mind is elsewhere—specifically on the fact that you still need to find a birthday gift for your insufferable roommate.

Jungkook. 

Just thinking his name makes your jaw clench. 

It's been three days since your argument, and the apartment has been a cold war zone of pointed silences and aggressive door closing. 

He wants to be petty? Fine. You can be petty right back. Twice as petty, even. So you’re not talking to him either.

"Hello?” Yeji waves a hand in front of your face. "You've been staring at that old guy selling taxidermy squirrels for like, two minutes straight. Should I be concerned?"

You blink, refocusing. "What? No. I'm just... looking."

"For what exactly?" Irya appears at your side, a small purple crystal clutched in her palm. "You said you already got Emma's birthday present."

"Just browsing," you lie smoothly. "Flea markets are full of... treasures."

Yeji snorts. "Since when do you care about 'treasures'? Last time I dragged you to a vintage store, you said it smelled like 'dead people's closets.'"

“No I didn’t.”

"Right." Yeji doesn't look convinced, but she's already distracted by a display of chunky silver rings. "I'm gonna check these out. Meet you at the food trucks in twenty?"

You nod, grateful for the chance to browse alone. Not that you have any fucking clue what to get Jungkook. What do you buy for someone whose entire personality seems to be "brooding film student with inexplicably good taste in coffee"?

It is like an abandoned warehouse, this flea market—stalls crammed together in haphazard rows, hipsters and bargain hunters elbowing past each other, haggling over everything from antique doorknobs to hand-knitted beanies that look like they were made by someone's cat…

You wander aimlessly, passing stalls selling vintage cameras (too expensive), artisanal coffee beans (too obvious), and leather-bound journals (too pretentious, even for him). 

Nothing feels right. 

Not that it matters—it's just a stupid obligation gift. You shouldn't care this much.

But you do. And that's annoying as fuck.

Then, a rickety table stacked with milk crates catches your eye—or rather, the handwritten sign that reads "RECORDS $5-20" in faded Sharpie. 

The elderly man behind the table looks like he's been selling vinyl since before your parents were born, his weathered hands carefully flipping through a box as a customer asks about some obscure band.

You wait until they leave, then approach, trying to look like someone who actually knows something about records. The crates are dusty, disorganized, with no apparent system. Just hundreds of albums crammed together like sardines.

"Looking for anything specific?" the old man asks, voice gravelly from what you assume are decades of cigarettes.

"Just browsing," you say, already flipping through the nearest crate.

Most of the covers are faded, corners bent, some with water damage or mysterious stains you'd rather not identify. You recognize maybe one in ten artists—a lot of jazz, classic rock, some folk singers your dad probably listened to in college.

This is stupid. You don't know what you're looking for. Jungkook collects vinyl but doesn't even own a record player. What kind of pretentious bullshit is that? It's like buying books just to display them on a shelf without reading them.

You're about to give up when your fingers pause on a familiar name.

John Mayer.

The album cover is slightly worn at the edges, but otherwise in decent condition. 

"Inside Wants Out," it says in simple white letters against the picture of a dude (you guess it’s John) in the background. 

You don’t recognize it at all.

But Jungkook listens to him. His vynil collection is basically a shrine to him. 

So you ask "how much?", holding up the record.

The old man squints. "Fifteen."

Fifteen bucks. Okay, that’s... actually reasonable. Not so expensive that it seems like you care, but not so cheap that it looks like an afterthought. 

Just a casual, "hey, saw this and thought of your weird vinyl collection" kind of gift.

Perfect.

"I'll take it," you say, already digging in your bag for your wallet.

The man slides the record into a paper sleeve, takes your money, and hands you your change with a nod. 

Transaction complete. Gift acquired. Problem solved.

You tuck the record under your arm, feeling oddly satisfied despite yourself. It's just a record. Just a stupid birthday gift for your annoying roommate who thinks he knows everything about everyone, including your taste in men.

But as you weave through the crowd toward the food trucks, you can't help but wonder if he'll like it. If his face will do that thing—that brief, unguarded thing where his eyes light up before he remembers he's supposed to be all cool and detached.

Not that you care. You're just fulfilling a social obligation. That's all.

That's absolutely all.

"Did you actually buy something?" Yeji asks when you reach her, eyeing the record under your arm. "Since when are you into vinyl?"

"Just decoration. For the vinyl wall.”

Irya peers at it. "John Mayer? Isn't he like, your dad's music?"

"He's not that old," you find yourself saying, then immediately wonder why you're defending John fucking Mayer of all people. "And anyway, it was cheap."

"Whatever you say." Yeji shrugs, then holds up a small paper bag. "I got those earrings we saw last week. The ones that look like little daggers."

"Nice," you nod, grateful for the subject change. "I'm starving. Can we get food now?"

As you follow them toward the food trucks, you resist the urge to check the record again, to make sure it's not too scratched or damaged. It doesn't matter. It's just a record. Just a gift.

Just something to cross off your to-do list before Emma's birthday tonight and Jungkook's surprise dinner tomorrow.

Nearing the trucks, suddenly everything smells good. Too good. The kind of good that makes decision-making a fucking nightmare.

You slow your steps, scanning the options.

One truck’s got sizzling skewers of grilled meat, charred at the edges, dripping onto soft pita. Another is doing fresh arepas, the scent of melted cheese thick and indulgent in the air. A few feet away, some guy with tattooed knuckles and an unreasonably aggressive beanie is ladling out steaming bowls of Vietnamese pho.

And then there’s the birria taco stand—because of course there is—and the line is criminally long, people clutching Styrofoam trays of consommé like their lives depend on it.

Your stomach rumbles.

By the time you settle on something—one of those ridiculous but beautiful smash burgers, glossy brioche bun soaking up all that greasy, caramelized goodness—you barely get your wallet out before Yeji hip-checks you out of the way.

“I pay, I pay, I pay,” she announces, tapping her phone against the card reader with swift finality.

You blink. “Okay, what?”

Yeji grins, entirely too pleased with herself. “Well, I’m obviously paying for my beautiful girlfriend, and I kinda figured I’d put you in the package deal.”

You snort, giving her a shove. “Fine. But beers later on me.”

“Deal,” she says easily, tossing the receipt onto the counter like a Wall Street exec closing a million-dollar deal.

Irya latches onto your arm, steering you out of the way so Yeji can continue flirting with the guy behind the counter—some blue-haired, too-many-rings kind of guy who’s already leaning into it, smirking as Yeji compliments his “artistry” with the grill.

“She’s ridiculous,” you mutter.

Irya hums, but there’s amusement in her eyes as she grabs your food, balancing her own order on top of yours. “Just my type of ridiculous.”

You shake your head, leading the way toward a set of old picnic tables at the edge of the food truck lot. The wood is worn, graffiti-scratched and dented from years of use, but it’s clean enough. You drop into a seat, setting your tray down, and Irya follows, sliding in across from you.

She sets her elbow on the table, chin resting lightly in her palm, and smiles. A lock of blonde hair falls loose, catching the light, and she tucks it back behind her ear absently.

“So, Emma’s birthday tonight?”

You unwrap your burger, glancing up at her. “Yeah.”

She studies you for a second, eyes warm. “Excited?”

You hesitate. 

“Yeah,” you say again, but it comes out different this time. Not untrue, exactly, but not as sure as it should be.

Irya notices. Tilts her head slightly, patient, the corners of her mouth tugging into something knowing. 

“You don’t have to be.”

A breath of something close to laughter slips out of you.

 “I mean, I am excited,” you say, because you are. “It’s just—it’s been a while. We used to be really close in high school, but then, you know… life.”

Irya nods, thumb idly tracing the grain of the table. “She’s in Columbia, right?”

“Yeah. I stayed in-state for a bit before moving here. Different cities, different schools, different everything.” You shrug, picking at the edge of the wax paper lining your tray. “We tried to keep in touch, but it’s not the same when you’re not living through the same things anymore. And then you just… don’t talk as much. And then that becomes normal.”

“And now?”

“Now she’s in the city, and I guess we’re both trying to reconnect.”

“That’s good,” Irya says, and she means it. “It’s nice when people want to find their way back to each other.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, glancing down at your food, pushing a fry through the puddle of ketchup on your tray. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

Irya watches you, quiet for a second. Then—

“She’s inviting a lot of people, right?”

You nod, grateful for the slight shift in direction. “Yeah. Told me to bring people, too, so I figured you and Yeji. Maybe Jimin.”

“Jimin would love that.” Irya grins. “He’s been in study-group hell all week. He deserves some fun.”

“You think?” You manage to say whilst chewing on the potato. “I thought I wouldn’t be doing him any favors. Like, he’s the type of person to say yes just out of obligation. And I didn’t want to pressure him into anything.”

Irya makes a soft sound of amusement, propping her chin in her palm. “Nah. If Jimin really didn’t want to go, he’d find a way to say no without actually saying no.”

You pause mid-chew. “What does that mean?”

“It means he’d do that thing where he apologizes like, three different ways in the same sentence, but somehow, you still walk away not totally sure if he said yes or no.”

You snort, swallowing. “Okay, yeah. That sounds about right.”

Irya grins, poking at her fries. “And anyway, he actually likes going out. He just overthinks it first.”

“You say that like you’re sure.”

“I am sure,” she says breezily. “I have classes with him. I watch it happen in real time.”

“Real time?”

“Oh, yeah. Like, someone invites him somewhere, and you can see him start to spiral. Like, ‘Okay, but what if I go and I regret it? But what if I don’t go and I regret that instead? But what if I go, but it’s not fun? But what if I don’t go, and it was fun, and now I’m missing out?’” She mimics his voice, exaggerated and tragic, and you can’t help but laugh.

“Okay, but that is a valid crisis.”

“It is,” Irya agrees, laughing too. “But the point is, once he actually gets there, he has a good time.” She levels you with a look, half teasing, half expectant. “So invite him.”

You sigh, reaching for another fry. “Fine.”

And then—

“I got us free dumplings.”

Yeji appears out of nowhere, sliding into the seat next to Irya and dropping a white takeout box onto the table like she’s just secured a goddamn business deal.

You blink. “How?”

She shrugs, already reaching for a dumpling. “Wouldn’t take my money.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

Irya hums, all faux-innocent. “Didn’t happen to have anything to do with that very long, very intimate conversation you were having with the guy behind the counter, did it?”

Yeji smirks around a bite of dumpling. “I dunno. Did it?”

You snort, shaking your head. “Men and their non-existent gaydars.”

“Right? Kinda sucks when she grabs all their attention,” Irya smiles, reaching for a dumpling of her own.

“Not my fault he was easy to entertain,” Yeji says, looking entirely unbothered. “Anyway, eat. They’re fresh.”

You don’t argue. The dumplings are good—warm, crisp at the edges, the filling rich with just the right balance of spice.

Yeji watches you for a second, chewing thoughtfully. “So what were we talking about?”

“Jimin,” Irya supplies.

Yeji groans. “Ugh. Tragic little academic. Is he still alive?”

Irya nods, popping a dumpling into her mouth. “Barely. But we’re dragging him to Emma’s party tonight, so he might actually remember what fun feels like.”

Yeji quirks an eyebrow, chewing slowly. “Emma?” She flicks a glance at you. “Your other friend? Birthday girl?”

You take a sip of your drink. “Mmhm.”

Yeji hums, tapping her chopsticks against the takeout box. “Bestie competition, then.”

You nearly choke. “Oh my god.”

Irya grins, delighted. “It is kind of serious. High school bestie versus new college besties.”

Yeji tilts her head, considering. “I don’t know, man. Legacy friends have an unfair advantage. History. Nostalgia.”

“Yeah,” Irya sighs, fake mournful. “How can we ever compete with the memories?”

You level them both with a flat look. “You’ve known me for a month.”

Yeji leans back. “It’s been a whole month already? Woah.”

“We’re joking. I’m sure we’ll get along.” Irya adds.

You snort, shaking your head.

Yeji watches you for a second, still smirking, but then the expression shifts—just a little. 

“Are you excited?”

The question catches you off guard. Not because it’s unexpected, but because it’s… genuine.

You pause, setting down your cup. 

“Yeah,” you say, slower this time. “I mean, I haven’t seen her in a while, so it’ll be—nice. A little weird, maybe. But nice.”

Yeji nods. “You gonna introduce us?”

You blink. “Uh. Yeah?”

Irya arches her eyebrows. “Yeah?”

You groan. “Oh my god, what is that supposed to mean?”

Yeji shrugs, reaching for another dumpling. “I mean, if she’s bestie material, we gotta vet her.”

“Shouldn’t she be the one vetting you two? She’s known me since I had braces and a regrettable side bang phase. Feels like she’s got seniority here.”

Yeji gasps. “Wow. So you’re saying we have no authority in this situation?”

“We really don’t.” Irya muses, almost singsonging.

“I don’t know,” Yeji muses, tapping a finger against her chin. “I feel like we bring some very important qualifications to the table. For example, we met Y/N when she was already in her fully realized, evolved form. We didn’t just settle for her because we grew up in the same town.”

You roll your eyes. “Jesus.”

Yeji nods, completely serious. “Yeah, we got to make an informed choice. Handpicked, if you will.”

“Wow, lucky me.”

Irya grins. “So lucky.”

You shake your head, reaching for another fry. “Just… behave.”

“I always behave,” Yeji says, smirking. “You’re just afraid we’ll be better besties than Emma.”

You scoff. “That’s not even remotely the issue.”

“Then what is the issue?” Irya prompts, head tilting to the side.

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know, but because saying it out loud feels like giving it weight. Giving it power.

You exhale. “It’s just—there’s a difference between keeping in touch and actually knowing someone after years apart. And I guess I don’t know if we still… fit the way we used to.”

That quiets them for a beat.

Yeji tilts her head, watching you with something unreadable in her gaze. Irya rests her chin in her palm again, a small, knowing smile playing at her lips.

“That’s fair,” Irya says, voice softer this time. “It’s weird when people grow in different directions. Sometimes you come back together. Sometimes you don’t.”

You nod, not entirely trusting yourself to speak.

“But hey,” Yeji cuts in, voice as casual as ever, “if she sucks, at least you’ll have us.”

You huff a laugh. “So generous of you.”

She winks. “I know.”

And just like that, the weight on your chest feels a little lighter.

You stare at your reflection, one eye perfectly winged, the other a smudged disaster—like your life, really: half put together, half absolute chaos.

You lean closer to the mirror, squinting at your uneven eyeliner with the kind of intense focus that FBI agents would reserve for defusing bombs or something. You've been at this for twenty minutes now, and your right eye is starting to look like it's been drawn by a five-year-old with a crayon during an earthquake.

"Fuck," you mutter, reaching for a cotton swab. 

Third time's the charm, right? 

Or maybe fifth. 

You've lost count.

From the living room, Griffin's thunderous purr competes with Yeji's animated voice. She's been trying to convince Yoongi to produce some track for her for the past fifteen minutes, her persistence almost admirable if it weren't so clearly futile. Yoongi's monotone responses barely register over the distance, but you can picture his expression—bored, unbothered, probably wanting to kill himself before engaging.

"Orange cats are literally the basic bitches of the cat world," Yeji declares loudly enough for you to hear. "Black cats have personality. They have depth. They're mysterious."

"Tell that to Griffin," Irya responds, her voice warm and amused. "He seems pretty content being basic on your lap right now."

"That's cats for you," Yeji sighs dramatically. "The least person who wants them is the one who gets them."

You smile despite your eyeliner frustration. Because it’s ironic—Yeji, who swears black cats are superior, is now trapped under Griffin's substantial orange weight. 

That's karma, feline edition.

You’re wearing a dress to the gathering—the same one from that night in January. You've worn it exactly once since buying it, and now it's making its second appearance. 

It's not like you planned it this way. It just happened to be the perfect outfit for Emma's birthday dinner. 

(At least that's what you tell yourself as you deliberately avoid examining your motives too closely.)

Emma. Your high school friend. Your only real connection to your life before college. 

Before this apartment. 

Before Jungkook. 

You haven't seen her in months (since that night in January), and there's a strange anxiety bubbling in your stomach that has nothing to do with your makeup struggles. 

You did vibe back then. But… was it a ‘we vibe because we are going out’ situation; or was it because you two actually connected?

People change. You've changed. The question hanging in the air is whether you've changed in compatible ways.

At least you won't be alone tonight. Emma said you could bring friends, so naturally, you are bringing them along.

You dab at your eyeliner again, smudging it further. Great. Now you look like you've been punched. Or crying. Or both.

A soft knock on the door interrupts your silent self-criticism.

"Come in," you call, not bothering to hide your frustration. It's not like anyone in this apartment hasn't seen you in various states of disaster before.

The door creaks open, and Jimin's face appears in the gap, his expression shifting from curious to sympathetic as he takes in your makeup situation.

"Having trouble?" he asks, stepping into the small bathroom. 

The space immediately feels warmer with him in it. Jimin has that effect—like a human comfort blanket.

"What gave it away?" you deadpan, gesturing to your face. "The fact that I look like I let a toddler do my makeup, or the fact that I've been in here for half an hour?"

He laughs softly, the sound gentle and reassuring. "It's not that bad."

"Liar."

"Okay, it's a little uneven," he admits, moving closer to examine your handiwork. His eyes narrow slightly as he studies your face with unexpected intensity. "Let me."

Before you can respond, he's taking the eyeliner from your hand, his fingers brushing against yours in a brief moment of warmth.

"You know how to do this?" you ask, surprised.

"I have sisters," he says simply, which doesn't really answer your question, but you don't push it. "Close your eye," he instructs, his voice soft but confident.

You comply, feeling the gentle pressure of his hand steadying your face. His touch is light, precise—and you can’t help but feel this is some sort of significant moment. 

"Stay still," he murmurs, and you can sense the smile forming on his lips.

The eyeliner glides across your lid with surprising smoothness. One stroke, then another. No hesitation in his movement. You're impressed and a little confused by his skill, but mostly grateful.

"Where did you learn to—"

"Shh," he interrupts. "No talking or I'll mess up."

You fall silent, letting him work. There's something about Jimin that's always made you curious. He's like a book with half the pages glued together—what you can read is beautiful, but you sense there's more to the story.

"Done," he announces after a moment, stepping back to admire his work. "Take a look."

You turn to the mirror and blink in surprise. The wing is perfect—sharp enough to kill a man, as Yeji herself would say. It matches the other eye exactly, creating a symmetry you couldn't achieve on your own.

"Jimin, this is..." you trail off, turning to face him. "How are you so good at this?"

He shrugs, a small, almost shy grin playing at his lips. "I just have a steady hand, I guess."

There's more to it than that—you can tell by the way he avoids your eyes, the slight flush creeping up his neck. But something tells you not to press further. 

Everyone has their secrets.

Private pieces they're not ready to share. 

You, of all people, know that.

"Well, whatever the reason, thank you," you say sincerely. "You just saved me from looking like a hot mess at Emma's birthday."

"Happy to help," he replies, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "You look beautiful."

The compliment is simple, genuine, without the weight of expectation or desire that usually accompanies such words from men. 

It's refreshing. Because you feel like Jimin sees you—really sees you—without wanting anything in return.

"We should probably get going soon," he says, glancing at his watch. "Yeji's been threatening to leave without us for the past ten minutes."

"As if she would," you scoff, reaching for your lipstick. "She's too excited about meeting Emma and judging her worthiness."

Jimin laughs. "True. Though I think she's more excited about the free food."

"Priorities," you agree with a smile.

You apply your lipstick—a muted berry shade that complements your eyeshadow without being too dramatic. The final touch to your appearance. Not too casual, not too glamorous. Perfect for a birthday dinner.

You've always loved makeup, the ritual of it, the transformation. 

Not because you're trying to hide or become someone else, but because it's an extension of yourself—another form of expression. 

You're so tired of those cliché "not like other girls" characters in movies and books who supposedly wear nothing but mascara yet somehow have flawless skin and perfect brows. 

As if enjoying makeup somehow makes you shallow or less authentic.

The truth is, most girls you know love makeup to some degree. Some for the artistry, some for the confidence boost, some just because it's fun. And you're no different. 

That doesn't make you basic or vain—it makes you human. 

A human who happens to enjoy the satisfying swipe of a good lipstick.

"Ready?" Jimin asks, holding the door open for you.

You take one last look at your reflection. The girl staring back looks put together, confident. 

Whether she actually feels that way is another story entirely, but hey—fake it till you make it, right?

"Ready," you confirm.

You're halfway out the door when you pause. 

Something's missing. The final touch.

"Oh, wait. Cologne."

Jimin nods understandingly, already retreating toward the living room. "Don't take too long or Yeji might actually follow through on her threats this time."

You turn back to the bathroom counter, sliding open the narrow drawer where your collection lives. Four different bottles stare back at you, each with its own personality, its own statement. Your fingers hover over them, indecisive, until they land on one particular bottle.

Ember.

The golden liquid catches the bathroom light, glowing like trapped sunlight inside the crystal bottle. 

You haven't used it since... well, since that night in January. You've been saving it for special occasions, though what constitutes "special" has remained conveniently undefined.

You lift the bottle, turning it in your hand. You apply it to your wrists, your neck, your ears. And before you can overthink it, you bring it to your nose, inhaling lightly.

Memories unfurl instantly, blooming in your mind like clouds puffing up in a winter sky. They tumble through your consciousness, overwhelming and vivid, making it hard to breathe—though you're not entirely sure you want to.

His hands on your hips, fingers pressing into your skin with just enough pressure to leave phantom marks that lingered for days afterward. 

His slicked chin when he smiled up at you from between your thighs, all smug and proud for making you cum with his tongue. 

His infuriating, satisfied smirk that somehow annoyed you, but also turned you on.

Rosy cheeks and disheveled hair, soft eyes in the aftermath. 

You distinctly remember that was the first time you had thought Jungkook looked cute. Not just hot or sexy, but genuinely cute in a way that had caught you off guard.

And you didn't even know his name then.

The door swings open without warning.

You nearly drop the bottle, fumbling to catch it before it shatters against the tile floor. Your heart leaps into your throat as you look up, startled.

Jungkook peers inside, and you both freeze, staring at each other like you don’t know which one of you should stay and which one of you should leave. His eyes flick from your face to the bottle in your hand, recognition dawning in his expression.

A long pause.

Your eyes drift down his torso, inevitably.

He's wearing a black t-shirt that hugs his frame in all the right places, hair rumpled and messy. His rainy-like scent envelops the cramped space, mingling with the lingering notes of vanilla on your wrist like they’ve always belonged together. 

His eyes drift too. Drop lower, taking in the dress hugging your curves, fingers tightening on the doorframe, knuckles whitening with the pressure. 

You watch the subtle movement, the physical manifestation of restraint, and feel an answering tightness in your chest.

You haven't spoken since Tuesday. Since the fight about Jason. Since he suddenly starting talking about vibes like he’s the type of guy to trust his gut.

And maybe he is. 

And maybe you aren’t.

"Sorry," he says finally, breaking the silence. "Didn't know you were in here."

He avoids your gaze.

You don’t know if that makes you angry or anxious. It’s hard to determine what’s crippling your chest.

"It's fine. I was just leaving."

Neither of you moves.

His eyes drift to the cologne bottle again. Recognition, desire, frustration. 

Then, he masks it. 

But you caught it. 

He remembers the fragrance.

And how could he not? When he constantly praised it that night, how it rested on your skin, how good it made you smell, how fucking good you tasted.

"Going somewhere?" he asks then, interrupting your conflicting thoughts.

"Emma's birthday dinner," you reply, voice tight.

He nods slowly, gaze returning to the dress. The dress from that night. The dress he peeled off you with those same hands now gripping the doorframe like it's the only thing keeping him anchored.

You should move. You should cap the cologne, put it away, walk past him and join your friends who are waiting. You should maintain the cold war you've established since your fight.

Instead, you find yourself asking, "Did you need something?"

He purses his lips. "Just needed to pee.”

"Right," you say. "I'll get out of your way."

You cap the cologne, and you just know his eyes are tracking your every motion. Because that’s Jungkook for you—when he’s focused on something, it’s obvious.

You move toward the door—toward him—and it’s like suddenly, the small bathroom feels impossibly smaller. Like there’s not enough space for both of you and all the unspoken words crowding the air.

You'll have to squeeze past him. There's no way to avoid it.

His grip on the doorframe tightens further, as if he's holding himself back. From what, you're not entirely sure. Touching you? Yelling at you? Both seem equally possible.

"Excuse me," you murmur.

He steps back marginally, not enough to clear the path completely. 

Like he’s hesitating. 

Like he doesn’t know whether he wants to move for real, or stay rooted in place.

“Jungkook,” you say, and his name feels strange on your tongue after days of not speaking it. “Move.”

“You smell like that night,” he settles for staying instead of moving, voice dropping lower, annoyed. “You know that, right? You’re going to smell exactly like you did when I had you against that wall.”

Your breath catches. Heat blooms across your chest, up your neck.

“That’s not—” you start, but the lie dies on your lips. 

Because it is. Of course it is. You knew exactly what you were doing when you reached for that bottle.

You see his jaw work. His tongue peek against the inside of his cheek. His eyes lock into yours like he wants to say something else.

But he doesn’t. 

“Have fun at your dinner,” is all he comes up with, stepping aside. 

The movement feels like it costs him something.

You move past him. Take a deep breath, pushing thoughts of Jungkook aside. 

Tonight isn’t about him. It’s about Emma, about reconnecting with a part of your life that existed before this apartment, before him.

But as you step into the living room, you can still feel the weight of his gaze on your back, can still smell Ember on your skin, can still hear his voice in your ear.

You know that, right? You’re going to smell exactly like you did when I had you against that wall.

And the worst part is, you don’t know why or how—but maybe that’s exactly what you wanted.

The restaurant is too loud, too crowded, too New York—but Emma’s hug is warm, and that makes up for it.

“Finally.” She squeezes you tight, like she’s trying to merge your atoms together. “You took forever.”

Yeji, behind you, snorts. “Blame her eyeliner existential crisis.”

Emma pulls back, eyebrows raised. “Oh? We still doing that?”

“We are always doing that,” you deadpan.

She laughs—her laugh. It’s the same as it was in high school, loud and full, like she actually enjoys things instead of just tolerating them. That hasn’t changed. Neither has the way she looks at you, eyes scanning your face, taking you in like she’s checking if you’re still the same person too.

The answer? You don’t know.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you guys,” she says, looping an arm through yours.

You let yourself be pulled in—into the restaurant, into her world, into the crowd of fifteen fucking people all squeezed around a too-small table in the back corner. She moves through the chaos easily, hand on your wrist, steering you like she used to when you were seventeen and invincible.

“This is Yeji, Irya, and Jimin,” you say as you go, pointing them out like exhibits in a museum.

Emma grins at them, all effortless charm. “Your uni friends. I’ve heard so much.”

Jimin, ever polite, smiles back. “All good things, I hope.”

Emma does not confirm or deny, which says enough.

There’s a blur of names you won’t remember—Emma’s friends, classmates, people who probably have their lives together in a way you do not. Someone pulls her into another conversation, and you hover awkwardly at the edge of the group, watching her slip back into a world that isn’t yours.

It’s strange.

You used to know everything about her. Every inside joke, every dream, every late-night insecurity whispered over FaceTime. 

But now—now you’re an observer. 

A guest.

Still, when she sits, she grabs your wrist again and tugs you down next to her.

“So,” she starts, picking up her glass—red wine, something deep and rich. “Are you finally admitting that I was right, or are we still in the denial phase?”

You blink, thrown. “About what?”

She gives you a look. “Do I have to spell it out?”

Your stomach knots.

Jungkook. She means Jungkook.

You exhale through your nose, reaching for your water instead. “We are so not doing this here.”

Emma grins, but she lets it go—for now.

Instead, she leans back. “God, I forgot how exhausting socializing is. I swear, law school is turning me into one of those people who can only function in coffee shops and libraries.”

You snort. “You were already that person in high school.”

“True,” she concedes, tilting her glass toward you. “But now it’s worse. Now I actually enjoy tax law. Like, genuinely. It’s fascinating.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I refuse to believe that.”

“Swear on my life,” she says, amused. “You should see me in my internship. I get excited about deductions. I have a favorite tax loophole.”

“That’s disgusting.”

Emma just grins. “Give it time. One day, you’ll come to me, desperate for tax advice, and I’ll be your only hope. And I will lord it over you.”

“You wish.”

“Oh, I know.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the way your lips twitch. It’s easy, falling into conversation with Emma. Easier than you thought it would be, considering how much has changed since high school.

“So, what’s the plan then?” you ask, nudging your knee against hers under the table. “You still set on Seattle after graduation?”

Emma hesitates. Not in a bad way—more like she’s holding onto something, waiting for the right moment.

“Actually,” she says, twirling the stem of her glass between her fingers. “I’ve been thinking about Europe.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Europe?”

“Yeah.” She leans forward slightly, eyes lighting up. “I did a summer program there—France, Italy, Greece, Spain. It was insane. I loved it. I don’t know, I just—” She exhales, shaking her head like she can’t quite put it into words. “Seattle was always the safe plan, you know? The practical one. But now? I keep thinking about the Mediterranean coast. The markets, the people. It feels like people there work to live, not live to work like they do here in America.”

You watch her carefully. Emma has always been a planner, a strategist. She doesn’t make decisions lightly.

And yet—she looks alive talking about this.

“So, what?” you ask. “You’re gonna become a tax attorney in Greece? Help rich expats avoid paying their fair share?”

Emma snorts. “God, no. If I go, I’d probably work with international firms, corporate law, maybe even consulting. It’s different over there, you know? Taxes, policies, loopholes—everything shifts depending on the country, the treaties in place.”

“You realize you sound even worse now, right?”

“Shut up,” she laughs. “At least I’m passionate about something.”

You hum, thoughtful. “So, Europe.”

“Maybe,” she says. “Nothing’s set in stone yet.”

But you can tell, just from the way she says it, that it’s more than a maybe.

It’s funny. The last time you saw her, she was talking about Seattle like it was inevitable. Now she’s talking about the Mediterranean coast with the kind of quiet certainty that makes you think she’s already half there.

People change.

You’ve changed.

And yet, it feels like nothing between you two has changed at all. 

Emma eyes you for a long moment, then smirks. 

“Your turn.”

You blink. “What?”

“You’ve barely told me anything about your life,” she says. “How’s English? Still planning on breaking the hearts of young, impressionable students as a professor?”

“First of all, no. That is not the plan. And second—”

“You can’t tell me you don’t look the part,” she teases. “The eyeliner? The whole vibe? You’d have students falling in love with you instantly.”

“I hate you.”

She grins. “I missed you too.”

You feel it, then—the warmth of familiarity, of friendship. It settles in your chest, light and unburdened, and for the first time in a while, you think:

This is nice.

Even with the changes, even with the time apart, even with the half-truths lingering at the back of your throat—this is still Emma.

“Come on,” Emma nudges your arm, eyes gleaming. “Let me introduce you to my favorite tax nerds.”

You groan, but let her pull you toward the other end of the table. “If I die of boredom, I’m haunting you.”

“They’re fun,” she insists, dodging between chairs and half-full wine glasses. “For tax people, anyway.”

The group is mid-conversation when you arrive—something about offshore accounts, corporate loopholes, and why the ultra-wealthy pay less in taxes than you probably spend on coffee each year. (Fascinating.) Chris and Max, two guys who both look like they were born wearing pressed button-ups, are deep in debate, hands gesturing, voices overlapping.

But the girl sitting across from you—Nina—just listens, quiet, observant.

She clocks you the moment you sit down. And you clock her right back.

Dark brown skin, black curls tucked behind one ear, a delicate gold necklace resting just above the collar of an oversized sweater. The sleeves are pushed up to reveal slender wrists, and she has the kind of presence that doesn’t need to fill space to be felt. 

There’s something measured about her. Something thoughtful. Like she only speaks when there’s something worth saying.

She’s pretty.

Really pretty.

But it’s more than that. She’s composed in a way that makes you hyperaware of yourself—your posture, the way you’re holding your drink, the way she looks at you with a quiet, unreadable expression.

“Hi,” she says, voice smooth, accent lilting ever so slightly.

It’s just that—simple. Friendly. Maybe.

You clear your throat. “Hey.”

Emma gestures between you. “Nina, this is my friend from high school—the one I told you about?”

Nina hums like she remembers, tilting her head. “The one who thinks tax law is boring?”

You blink. “Emma told you that?”

“She warned me in advance,” Nina says, lips twitching. “Said you might try to stage an intervention.”

You shoot Emma a look, but she’s already sipping her wine, unbothered. 

“Well,” you say, turning back to Nina, “I was going to be polite about it, but now I feel like I have a responsibility.”

That gets a small smile out of her. Just a slight curve of the lips, like she’s amused but won’t give you the satisfaction of knowing just how much.

You don’t know why that makes you want to push, just a little.

“So,” you continue, tilting your head, “what is it, then? The thing about tax law that actually doesn’t put you to sleep?”

Nina considers this. Takes a slow sip of her drink. And when she speaks, it’s not rushed—it’s careful.

“It’s not about the numbers,” she says, setting her glass down. “Not really. It’s about human nature. About how people behave when they think no one is watching. Governments set up incentives, and people react accordingly. It’s a game of strategy. A reflection of what a society actually values, not just what it claims to.”

You weren’t expecting that answer.

Your fingers tighten slightly around your glass. “So, what—you think taxes are, like, a moral compass?”

Nina shrugs. “Not a moral compass. But they show you what people are willing to bend the rules for. What they think is worth cheating for. And that’s… interesting, I think.”

You watch her, trying to get a read on her. She’s got this almost effortless kind of intrigue—the kind of person who could make anything sound poetic if she wanted to.

Emma groans. “Oh god, don’t encourage her. She’ll start talking about capital gains tax next.”

Nina lifts a brow. “It’s actually fascinating, if you—”

“Absolutely not,” Emma interrupts. “Nope. I refuse.”

You smirk. “I don’t know, Em. I kind of want to hear her out.”

Emma glares at you. “Do not encourage the tax philosophy.”

But Nina is looking at you again. Not in a dramatic way. Not in a way that screams I’m interested. But in a way that’s… present. Attentive. Like she actually finds this conversation worth having.

And maybe that means nothing.

Or maybe it does.

You’re not sure.

Which—God, why is this always harder with girls?

With guys, it’s obvious. But with girls—well. You think she’s enjoying this. But is she just enjoying it, or is there something else there? Is this just conversation, or is it something that, in hindsight, will feel like a moment?

You have no fucking idea.

The conversation shifts after that—Emma talks about her summer in Europe, Chris and Max start debating New York’s best pizza, someone brings up an upcoming bar crawl.

And then, at some point, Nina glances at her phone before looking at you again.

“You mind if I get your number?” she asks.

Casual. Easy. Nothing in her tone suggests it’s anything more than that.

“Emma talks about you a lot,” she adds, mouth twitching slightly. “I feel like I should probably fact-check at least half of it.”

Emma swats at her, but you barely register it, already pulling your phone out.

You’re not reading into it. You’re not.

But also—

You kind of are.

Still, you hand your phone over, watch as Nina types in her number, then passes it back. Just a name in your contacts now. Simple. Unassuming.

You have no idea if you just made a new friend or if this is something else.

And honestly?

You kind of like not knowing.

“Well, well, well,” Yeji drawls, sliding into the conversation without invitation. “Are we allowed to sit, or is this a tax-exclusive gathering?”

You exhale. “Jesus, Yeji.”

“What? We were getting bored.” She drops into the seat beside you, tossing an arm over Irya’s chair. “Jimin’s been overanalyzing the condensation on his glass for the past fifteen minutes, and Irya’s just been smiling at people like a lost pageant contestant.”

“I was being friendly,” Irya corrects, unfazed.

“You were being too friendly.”

“Networking,” Irya insists, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I love people.”

“You do,” Emma says, delighted. “It’s terrifying.”

Irya beams, pleased. Yeji just sighs like she’s accepted her fate.

Nina watches all of this unfold with quiet amusement, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “You two are together?”

Yeji tilts her head. “That a problem?”

Nina meets her gaze evenly. “No. It’s nice.”

It’s a simple statement, but it rings genuine, like she’s not just saying it to be polite. Yeji studies her for a second longer before nodding, satisfied, and pulling Irya in to kiss her temple.

Emma turns to you, grinning. “Your friends are so much more fun than my law ones.”

You smirk. “That’s because they have souls.”

Chris, still lingering in the tax-law-heavy end of the table, lifts a hand in protest. “Hey.”

Yeji ignores him completely, waving to Nina instead. “So, you’re a tax philosopher?”

Nina looks faintly amused but nods. “That’s what they tell me.”

“Cool, cool,” Yeji muses, reaching for Irya’s wine and taking a sip before Irya can protest. “And do you also believe that money isn’t real?”

Nina tilts her head slightly, considering. “I think it’s real in the sense that it determines the way the world functions. But I also think it’s one of the biggest shared delusions humanity has ever committed to.”

Yeji brightens. “See? This is the tax conversation I want to be having.”

You roll your eyes, but Nina takes it in stride. She’s good at this, you notice—letting conversations unfold naturally, never forcing her presence but never fading into the background either.

Across from you, Jimin has settled into his usual quiet observation, sipping his drink slowly. He’s not uncomfortable, just taking it all in. He catches your eye at one point, a small look that says ‘you good?’

You nod, barely perceptible.

He doesn’t push. Just gives a small nod back and turns his attention back to the conversation. Just listening in.

Emma leans in slightly, nudging your arm. “I like them,” she murmurs.

You glance at her, raising a brow. “Yeah?”

She hums. “They make you lighter.”

It’s such an Emma thing to say—blunt in a way that doesn’t feel invasive, just observant. 

You don’t respond right away, but you don’t need to. 

She’s already grinning like she knows the answer.

The apartment is quiet when you finally get home, the only light coming from the TV screen where some game is paused. 

Jungkook is sprawled on the couch, controller resting loosely in his hands, looking like he's been there for hours. He glances up when the door closes behind you, expression neutral.

"It's late," he says, not quite a question.

You drop your keys in the bowl by the door. "Yeah."

"Had fun?" He unpauses the game, thumbs moving lazily over the controller buttons. His character on screen walks aimlessly into a wall.

"Yeah," you say, kicking off your heels with a sigh of relief. "Emma's friends are cool. We ended up at this bar in Brooklyn after dinner."

He makes a noncommittal sound, still not looking at you.

"Jason wasn't there, though, so don't worry," you add, unable to help yourself.

That gets his attention. His thumbs still, and he scoffs, a short, sharp sound in the quiet apartment. 

“You know I don't give a fuck about that guy, right?"

"Really?" You raise an eyebrow, heading to the kitchen for water. "Because you seemed to have very strong opinions about him on Tuesday."

The controller drops onto the couch as he turns to face you fully. 

“Look," he says, voice tight with frustration. "I don't give a fuck who you fuck or who you date. Seriously. Not my business."

"Yup. Three rules," you start, unscrewing the cap on your water bottle.

"One, no one knows," he recites, cutting you off.

"Two, if somebody asks, we're just roommates," you continue.

"And three," he interrupts again, more forcefully, "no feelings. I know the fucking rules, Phoenix. I helped make them."

You take a long drink of water, studying him over the bottle. His hair is messy in a stupid endearing way, and there are shadows under his eyes. 

"So what was Tuesday about, then?" you ask finally.

He exhales slowly, jaw working. "I told you. The guy gives me bad vibes."

"Bad vibes," you repeat flatly.

"Yeah. Bad fucking vibes." He rubs a hand over his face. "Look, I know how it sounded, okay? But it's not—" He stops, frustrated. "It's not about you. Or us. Or whatever the fuck we're doing."

You consider him for a moment, then set your water bottle down and cross to the couch, sitting on the opposite end. 

"Explain."

"What?"

"Explain these 'bad vibes.' Because from where I was sitting, it sounded irrational."

"It's not—" He stops again, shaking his head. "You know what? Forget it. Not my problem."

"Jungkook."

He looks at you, surprised by the use of his actual name.

"I'm trying to understand," you say, softer than you intended. "So explain it to me."

He studies you for a long moment, like he's trying to decide if you're serious. 

Finally, he sighs. "He's fake."

"Fake how?"

"The way he talks. The way he looks at you when you're not watching. The way he touched your arm in the car." His words come faster now. "The way he asked about your schedule, your classes. The way he positioned himself between us. It's all... calculated."

You frown. "That's a lot to read into a few interactions."

"I know what I saw," he insists. "Guys like that... they start small. Compliments. Attention. Making you feel special. Then it's suggestions about what you should wear. Who you should hang out with. What classes you should take."

His tone is raw, really raw, and you realize it’s the first time you’ve heard him talk like this. 

Like it’s personal.

“You're saying he's controlling."

"I'm saying he could be." He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up further. "Look, I've seen it before, okay? People who seem perfect on the surface but underneath they're just... manipulative. They make you think everything's your idea when really they're pulling all the strings."

You're quiet for a moment, processing. 

"This isn't just about Jason, is it?"

His eyes flick to yours, then away. 

"I told you. It's not about you or us."

"But it is about someone."

He doesn't answer, but his silence is confirmation enough.

"Mia?" you ask softly.

"I don't want to talk about her."

"Okay," you say, respecting the boundary even as curiosity burns through you. "But that's why you're worried about Jason? Because he reminds you of her?"

"Not of her specifically," he says after a pause. "Just... the type. The signs."

You pull your legs up onto the couch, turning to face him fully. "What signs?"

He looks at you for a long moment, like he's deciding how much to share. 

"The perfect act," he says finally. "The way everything seems rehearsed. The charm that never quite reaches their eyes." His voice drops lower. "The way they make you feel like you're the only person in the room, but it's not because they care about you. It's because they want something from you."

"And you think that's Jason?"

"I don't know," he admits. "Maybe I'm seeing things that aren't there. But my gut says something's off with him."

You consider this. "Your gut's been wrong before."

A bitter smile twists his lips. "Yeah. More than once."

Silence stretches between you, but it’s not the uncomfortable kind. It’s like you’re both still processing the words exchanged.

"I'm still going on the date," you say finally.

He nods, looking away. "I know."

"But I'll... keep what you said in mind. Watch for the signs."

He glances back at you, surprise flickering across his face. 

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You shrug, trying to keep it casual. "Contrary to what you might think, I don't actually enjoy being manipulated."

"Could've fooled me," he mutters, but there's no real heat behind it.

You kick his thigh lightly with your foot. "Asshole."

The corner of his mouth twitches upward. "Brat."

Silence again. His forearms are resting on his knees, hands crossed together as his gaze remains unfocused.

"So," he says eventually, "how was the birthday girl?"

You're surprised by the question, by his apparent interest in your life outside this apartment. 

"Good," you say. "Different, but good. She's in Economics. Has a serious boyfriend. Wears a lot of beige."

"Sounds thrilling."

You laugh despite yourself. "It was actually nice. Weird, but nice. Like visiting a place you used to live but don't anymore."

He nods, understanding in his eyes. "Did your new friends play nice with your old friend?"

"Yeji, Irya and Jimin?" You smile at the memory. "They were on their best behavior. Well, Yeji's version of best behavior, which means she only made three inappropriate jokes and only drank half the table's wine."

He snorts. "Sounds about right."

"Emma liked them, though. I think." You pause, considering. "It's strange, bringing different parts of your life together."

"I bet it is," he agrees quietly.

You look at him, really look at him, sitting there in the dim light of the TV. For once, there's no smirk on his face, no challenge in his eyes. Just Jungkook, tired and rumpled and unexpectedly honest.

"Why were you still up?" you ask suddenly.

The question catches him off guard. "What?"

"It's 3 AM. Why are you still awake?"

He shrugs, defensive again. "Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd play for a bit."

You glance at the TV screen where his character has been standing in the same spot for the past ten minutes. 

"Right."

"What?" he demands.

"Nothing," you say, but you can't help the small smile that forms. "Just... nothing."

He narrows his eyes at you, but doesn't press.

"I should get to bed," you say, standing up. "It's late."

He nods, picking up the controller again. "Yeah."

You're halfway to your room when his voice stops you.

"Phoenix?"

You turn back. "Yeah?"

He’s staring at you, but it’s not the usual smirk. No. 

His eyes flick downward. To the floor, like he’s seriously considering his next words—or rather, if he should vocalize them at all. 

But then he looks up at you again, seemingly decided.

"You..." he starts, licking his lips like he’s trying to pull himself together. But he’s failing. "You know you smell fucking delicious, right? Like, it’s so fucking unfair."

Your pulse stutters. "Excuse me?"

"The cologne," he says, standing up. "You’ve been driving me insane the whole night. The whole apartment smells like you.”

You blink at him, caught somewhere between disbelief and something hotter, heavier. "I didn’t wear it for you."

"No?” His lips twitch, almost a smile but not quite—like he knows exactly how full of shit you are. "The cologne from that night. The dress from that night. And I’m supposed to believe that’s just a coincidence?"

"It is," you snap back, defensive even as your pulse betrays you by speeding up.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head like he can’t believe what he’s hearing—or maybe just like he can’t believe you.

“Fuck, Phoenix," he mutters, voice dropping into something rougher, more dangerous. "Do you have any idea how good you smell? How much I’ve been thinking about getting my mouth on you again?"

Your breath catches somewhere in your throat—an audible hitch that makes his eyes darken further.

"We’re fighting," you remind him weakly.

"Are we?" He steps closer, until there’s barely a whisper of space between you. "Because right now all I can think about is how wet you were for me the first time I smelled that shit on your skin."

You retreat physically; even though mentally you’re honestly already naked for him.

"Four days," he muses, tone dripping with frustration, almost needy. "Four days of smelling your shampoo in the bathroom, that stupid body lotion, and now—now you pull this shit. That’s fucking cruel, Nix.”

"You could’ve apologized," you point out dryly.

"For what?" He scoffs like the idea itself is offensive. "For telling the truth? For saying Jason gives me bad vibes?"

"There it is again," you say, crossing your arms over your chest like it’ll protect you from whatever energy he’s radiating right now. 

It doesn’t.

He exhales softly, eyes flicking to your lips before moving back up. 

“I’m being for real, Phoenix. Your vanilla shit drives me nuts,” he confesses bluntly.

Then llicks his lips, considering what he’s about to say 

But says it anyways. 

“I jerked off after you left.”

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for air.

"Couldn’t help it," he continues. “The smell of your cologne... seeing you in that dress again... I couldn’t get the image out of my head."

"What image?"

"The first time," he says slowly, like he wants every word to sink into your skin and stay there forever. "In that room. The way you tasted... the sounds you made when I had my tongue inside you."

Your legs threaten mutiny.

"And now?" You force yourself to ask because silence feels dangerous—like it might give him permission to keep going without restraint.

"Now?" He repeats, almost hushed. "Now, I’m… really craving vanilla.”

You should walk away—should turn around and retreat into your room where things are safe and quiet and not vibrating with tension so thick it feels alive—but instead?

Instead, your feet betray you by staying planted firmly in place: "Eat some cookies.”

“I want to eat something else.”

“What if I don’t want you to?”

He purses his lips. Tongue drops to lick the lower one. Gaze flickers to your mouth again before they come back to your pupils.

“You don’t?”

And the way he exhales it, like the mere idea of you saying no pains him—it melts through you. 

Especially when his hand finally finds its way to your waist (warm and solid and grounding despite everything else about this moment feeling anything but grounded).

All thoughts of resistance evaporate faster than they came.

"I do," you hear yourself reply. 

And when his lips brush against the sensitive skin just below your jawline?

You realize two things simultaneously:

One: You were never going to walk away from this moment no matter how much logic tried to intervene earlier.

Two: Logic doesn’t stand a chance against lust when Jungkook looks at you like this.

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[shy9-29]

Waiting For You ✶ [s.jy]

“I loved you in silence, while you kept running back to her.”

SOMAR𝒊O ─── A heartbroken friend silently suffers as the one they love keeps returning to the person who hurts him. 엔하이픈 제이크 𝐱 𝑓. reader ✉️ wc. 3.7k ✶ careful ! skinship, kissing, nicknames, jakes lwk an ass, cheating, heart break, not proof read 🔖 genre. romance, drama, angst, friendship, tragedy, unrequited love, emotional fiction

📕 a/n — omg I’m back after 500 years and yes I’m still writing lost in Seoul and I WILL FINISH IT I PROMISE.

Jake and you had been best friends for seven years, ever since that random high school orientation day where you two bumped into each other, both lost in a crowd of strangers. Since then, you’d seen the best and worst of each other—been there through every heartbreak, every triumph, every awkward phase. You were the kind of friends who knew exactly what the other was thinking, even when no words were spoken. He made you laugh when you wanted to cry, and you were the anchor he could always rely on when everything else felt like it was falling apart.

When Jake started dating Yunjin, you had seen the change in him. He was happier, more radiant. Yunjin seemed to be the perfect fit for him—smart, beautiful, and funny, with a sense of adventure that matched his own. Watching them together, you couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy—not because you wanted Jake for yourself, but because you could see how much he was in love with her. It made you wonder if you’d ever find that kind of connection.

But now, as you sat in your car on a quiet Wednesday night, your phone buzzing in your hand, you realized that your best friend had just been torn apart.

—

“Hey, you busy?” His voice came through the phone, sounding strained, like he’d been holding something in for a while. “Can you come over? I—I really need to talk.”

You didn’t even hesitate. You knew that tone in his voice. Something was wrong. You threw the car into gear, speeding toward his apartment.

When you arrived, the place was quiet, too quiet. The lights were dimmed, the kind of atmosphere that felt almost too heavy for a normal night. You opened the door slowly and called out for him, your voice echoing against the walls.

“Jake?”

He was sitting on the couch, looking smaller than usual, as if all the energy had been drained from him. His hair was a mess, and his usually sharp eyes were red and hollow, rimmed with exhaustion and something deeper. It looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

“Jake, what happened?” you asked, stepping into the room.

He didn’t answer right away, staring at his hands, then glancing up at you, as if he was seeing you for the first time in a while. His expression was empty, a ghost of the confident guy you had known for so long.

“Yunjin… she cheated on me,” he said quietly, his voice breaking on the last word.

You felt the floor drop out from under you, your body freezing. Yunjin, his girlfriend of more than a year? The girl who was always smiling at him, the one who made him so happy? It didn’t make sense. You couldn’t wrap your mind around it.

“Wait, what? How do you know?” You stumbled over your words, trying to make sense of the situation.

“I—I saw the messages. She was texting some guy, saying things… things that she shouldn’t be saying to anyone but me. I confronted her, and she didn’t even try to deny it. She told me it just happened, like it was no big deal. Like I meant nothing.”

The way he said it broke something inside of you. It wasn’t just the betrayal that hurt him. It was the way she had dismissed everything, made him feel like he wasn’t worth the effort. You wanted to say something—anything—to comfort him, but you couldn’t find the right words. How do you comfort someone who’s been told they’re not enough?

“I’m so sorry, Jake,” you whispered, sitting beside him on the couch. “That’s… that’s awful.”

“I don’t even know what to do anymore,” he admitted, his voice hollow. “I thought we had something real. I thought she was the one.”

You wanted to say that she wasn’t the one—that someone who would betray him like that didn’t deserve him. But you kept quiet, letting him speak, because deep down, you knew it wouldn’t matter. He had already made up his mind. He was in love with her. No matter how much it hurt, he would never stop caring.

“I just feel… empty,” he said after a long pause. “Like everything I thought was real doesn’t matter anymore.”

You wanted to pull him closer, to take all that pain away, but you knew you couldn’t. You had never seen Jake this broken, and the thought of him like this, unable to fix himself, made your heart ache.

“Jake,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “You’re not alone. I’m here. I always will be.”

He looked up at you then, his eyes full of emotion. He didn’t say anything right away, but you could feel something shift in the air between you. It was subtle, like a crack in the foundation of everything you’d known.

—

The days that followed were a blur. Jake spent most of his time holed up in his apartment, brooding and distant. You would text him, check in, but every conversation felt like pulling teeth. He wasn’t the same person anymore. He was angry, hurt, and confused, and he was taking it out on everyone, including you.

But then, after a few days, he started calling more. The first time, you answered quickly, hopeful that maybe he was starting to move forward.

“I don’t know what to do anymore, y/n,” he said, his voice a little steadier than before. “I don’t think I can let her go. I keep thinking that if I give it one more shot, maybe… maybe things will be different.”

Your heart sank, and something inside you recoiled. You wanted to scream at him, to tell him that he was better off without her. That he was worth more than this constant cycle of heartbreak. But you couldn’t. He was your best friend, and you couldn’t stand to see him hurting, even if it meant he had to go back to her.

“You don’t have to do this, Jake,” you said quietly. “You deserve someone who loves you for you. Not someone who treats you like… like this.”

He was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke again, there was a quiet, resigned tone in his voice.

“I know, y/n. I know. But I don’t know how to stop. I can’t just forget her. I don’t think I can move on.”

You didn’t have the strength to argue with him anymore. You could hear the pain in his words, and you knew he wasn’t ready to hear what you had to say. Maybe, deep down, you knew that nothing would stop him from going back to Yunjin. Not yet. Not when his heart was still clinging to the idea of her.

A week later, you received a text from him: I’m going back to her. I need closure. I need to know if this is the end or if I can fix this.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to beg him not to go. But instead, you just typed out a quick response: If that’s what you think you need… I’m here when you’re ready.

And so, he went back to her.

It felt like an eternity before Jake reached out again. You hadn’t heard from him in days, and you were starting to worry. You knew he had tried to mend things with Yunjin, but something inside you kept telling you it was a mistake. That he was only setting himself up for more heartbreak.

Then, one night, you got another message from him.

“She did it again,” the text read. “She cheated on me. She left me for good this time.”

You felt your heart break for him. You wanted to reach out, to pull him into your arms, to tell him that you had been there all along. But instead, you just stared at the screen, tears filling your eyes. He had tried so hard to make it work, but in the end, he was left with nothing but more pain.

When you saw him the next day, he was a shell of the person you once knew. His eyes were empty, his posture slumped. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, like he hadn’t eaten. You wanted to tell him everything would be okay, but the words got stuck in your throat.

“I’m sorry, Jake,” you whispered, your voice shaky as you wrapped your arms around him. He didn’t pull away. He just let you hold him, his body stiff and fragile against yours.

“I just… I don’t know what to do anymore,” he murmured, his voice raw with emotion. “I thought… I thought she was the one. But now, I don’t even know who I am without her.”

You closed your eyes, letting the tears fall freely. This wasn’t fair. He deserved so much more than this endless cycle of heartbreak.

“You don’t need her, Jake,” you said softly. “You never needed her to be whole. You’re enough on your own.”

But even as the words left your mouth, you knew it wasn’t true. You knew that Jake wasn’t ready to hear that. Not yet. Not when his heart was still so tangled up in Yunjin.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now, y/n,” he whispered. “I feel so lost.”

You held him tighter, but a part of you knew that no matter how tight you held on, it wasn’t going to be enough. Jake was always going to be searching for something that wasn’t there. He was always going to be looking for closure, for answers that would never come.

And you? You were always going to be the one standing in the background, waiting for him to see you. Waiting for him to realize that you were there, always there, even when he was too broken to see it.

But for now, all you could do was hold him, knowing that the person he needed most was never going to be the one he chose.

You loved him. But he would never love you the way you needed. And that was the hardest truth of all.

oh wow I never cried that bad while writing something! 200 notes for pt 2 | masterlist

[thebroccolination]

Soooo when I said, “There’ll likely be a loud minority openly complaining about Krist topping and Singto bottoming and much more silent disapproval,” in my last post, I was giving the fandom way too much credit.

According to friends on Twitter, there was indeed a significant backlash over the sex scenes portrayed in the novel, some fans even going so far as to @ the series’ official account to complain about it.

(Don’t want PhiTam, yet tagging Krist first. Mixed signals, fam.)

Multiple folks say the mood among the fandom on Twitter at large right now seems to be mainly denial, that because the novel and series are written by different people, Singto’s character will surely play the top role in the series—even though he’s the bottom in the novel.

But, y’know:

And I, uh. I mean. This is:

Y’all?

Even outside the series, they’ve been—

Yeah, that.

So like. Y’know.

I mean, listen. To be so viscerally clear here, the reason I’m excited about Krist playing the top is because he played the bottom in both of his previous BL roles. (KristSingto had two shorts for Baby Bright where Krist seems more top-leaning, but I guess it was vague enough for people to ignore if they didn’t want to see it.) So I’m glad he’s getting versatility as an actor.

But it’s also because he’s been mistreated in the past by many KristSingto fans who, since they perceive him to be “the bottom” or “the wife,” seem to think this means he’s got to be docile and submissive and sweet, even when he’s pushed too far. To be honest, I had the realization recently that maybe the reason so many Peraya chose to ignore interfans calling Krist homophobic for so many years could be that they didn’t care either way. As one of the OG fandoms, it seems that their fans skew older and more conservative, so it could be as simple as that. They knew he wasn’t homophobic, everyone did, but real life queer issues didn’t matter to them, so they didn’t care that interfans were absolutely decimating his reputation among the queer community when it was OG Peraya stalking him and harassing him that made him post that story in the first place.

I mean, not to invalidate the high emotions going on over on Twitter dot com, but I can’t believe this upset over Singto’s character bottoming for Krist’s character wasn’t limited to a few silly temper tantrums from fringe fans with outdated beliefs about queer people.

Honestly, that there’s anger over this at all says plenty about how they must perceive the bottom role. Being on top is hot, but being on bottom is shameful? (What is this, Ancient Rome?)

I hope y’all know I try as much as I can to avoid making posts about fandom negativity and toxicity. I think emphasizing the positive aspects is more helpful in the long run. But many in KristSingto’s fandom continually treat both of them like products, and I am truly tired of it. Many whitewash Singto, many belittle Krist, and they need to fix their attitudes.

Personally, I consider myself part of all three of the KristSingto fandoms: Yuyu (Krist), Peraya (KristSingto), and Samoonjaopa (Singto). So when I criticize any of them, I’m not trying to burn the house down. I’m saying, “Stop playing with matches in the house.”

Many Peraya boycotted “Be My Favorite” which, like, whatever, watch what you like. But many among that many also openly complained about it while it was airing. Some went so far as to bully Gawin, using alt accounts to call him a halfbreed and a leech. When I called out this behavior, I was accused by multiple Peraya of trying to make the fandom look bad, that those alt accounts were clearly run by other fans trying to do the same. When the focus, as far as I’m concerned, should have been on protecting and supporting Gawin. There were very few Peraya who showed support for Krist’s friendship with Gawin continuing publicly, and their quiet likes and endorsements of tweets criticizing Krist did far more damage to their reputation than me standing up for Gawin ever did.

While I’m doing this, lemme just address the fandom ridiculousness that’s been going on across the board over the past year, shall I?

Some Samoonjaopa complained about Singto’s lack of solo work last year compared to Krist’s and went so far as to @ Krist to tell him that he wasn’t doing enough to keep Singto steadily employed. Which? Isn’t Krist’s job??? And ignores the possibility that Singto can get his own work, is a seasoned talent at GMMTV in his own right, and maybe just wanted to relax last year since the man is a dedicated introvert who’s openly and repeatedly said he’s prioritizing his mental health more these days? And again: there are many in Singto’s fandom who are continually, constantly whitewashing his photos. Stop whitewashing Singto. You’re his fanbase. The people who are supposed to love him most for who he is, not the fictional person you’re photoshopping him into for your aesthetic preferences. How do you think he’s felt for the past decade seeing not only the media whiten his skin but his own fans? Portray his melanin or stop posting photos of him at all. If you can’t see how beautiful he is tan, you don’t deserve to call yourself Samoonjaopa.

Meanwhile, some Yuyus have continually moaned about Singto’s return, complaining about Krist’s lack of music projects even though Krist himself said he’ll be focusing on that after “The Ex-Morning” airs. He’s already been hospitalized this year? Stop pressuring him to film a series, host, take care of his family, and work on an album? They’ve also accused Singto of coming back to GMMTV because he ran out of money, that his freelance career was bombing, etc. Calling him desperate and a leech. (People really like to accuse people close to Krist as a leech, what is that.) What’s worse is that some of them don’t even dislike Singto—they just want to piss off the Peraya. But hasn’t Krist made it devastatingly clear that he adores Singto? Was it not enough when he had to call out one of his own solo fans for trash-talking Singto last year when he was already getting backlash for his friendship with Gawin?

Fans in all three fandoms need to reevaluate why they’re even here.

This applies to all fans in all fandoms everywhere: if you spend most of your time in fandom fighting and policing people and spreading anger and toxicity rather than lifting up the real people you’re ostensibly here to support, then you’re doing this wrong.

Love brought you here. Act like it.

I left Twitter because the situation there was too toxic to stand, even to stay for KristSingto and BounPrem, and while I haven’t been there for months, I did predict that some Peraya would be upset about a possible dynamic switch. I just overestimated their maturity about it, clearly.

I probably should have said all of this while I was on Twitter, but people have to realize it on their own or it won’t stick.

So what I’m going to do instead is go on promoting KristSingto to fans who haven’t had the chance to get to know them yet, because I love Krist and I love Singto, and I think they deserve more fans, new fans who don’t treat them like property.

Obligatory final note that of course this isn’t the entire fandom behaving badly. If you’ll notice, I used qualifiers in this entire post. Some, many, etc. There are many lovely people in all three fandoms, but the ones ruining everything are loud and need to be addressed for things to improve. Ignoring them hasn’t helped so far. I say this because sometimes people get very upset and don’t utilize close reading skills.

All this over top/bottom dynamic switch.

Told y’all it was brave of KristSingto to do it.

Now to hope no one bothers KristSingto about it at the book fair tomorrow. 👁️👁️

[missanthropicprinciple]

I am....fascinated...by this exchange in This Side of Paradise...

Kirk, armed with a large metal bar, watches Spock materialize in the transporter room. Jim lashes out to release Spock from mind-altering spores.

Kirk: "Alright, you mutinous, disloyal, computerized, half-breed, we'll see about you deserting my ship."

Kirk knows Spock is probably the most loyal officer on the ship, knows Spock has emotions he just doesn’t express them in the same way everyone else does, and using the term half-breed is something a bigoted jerk might think or say.

Spock: "The term half-breed is somewhat applicable, but computerized is inaccurate. A machine can be computerized, not a man."

Kirk: "What makes you think you're a man? You're an overgrown jackrabbit, an elf with a hyperactive thyroid."

Kirk is clearly resorting to childish jibes because he can’t think of anything to really criticize him for.

Spock, chuckling: "Jim, I don't understand."

Spock is laughing at this point because he knows this is not how Kirk normally acts, so he figures it's a joke or a game.

Kirk: "Of course you don't understand. You don't have the brains to understand. All you have is printed circuits."

Spock is arguably the smartest person Jim knows and is not simply like a computer.

Spock: "Captain, if you'll excuse me."

Kirk: "What can you expect from a simpering, devil-eared freak whose father was a computer and his mother an encyclopedia?"

Kirk is almost talking nonsense, saying whatever pops into his head. The choice of the word simpering is interesting because Spock ingratiates himself to Kirk somewhat but not in a coy way, and Jim knows he’s not a suck-up. Jim doesn’t act like Spock is a freak at all and defends him. He also doesn’t even say things about his ears much or in the same way Bones does.

Spock: "My mother was a teacher. My father an ambassador."

Spock is still calm as he would be generally when insulted but the hint of humor in his voice is fading.

Kirk: "Your father was a computer, like his son. An ambassador from a planet of traitors. A Vulcan never lived who had an ounce of integrity."

Jim is using the word integrity because Spock has great integrity both personally and because of his Vulcan upbringing. This is starting to touch a nerve.

Spock: "Captain, please don't."

Spock is now asking Jim on an emotional level not to hurt him. He is only offended where there is feeling and of course he has deep feelings for Kirk, even if you interpret it as friendship.

Kirk: "You're a traitor from a race of traitors. Disloyal to the core, rotten like the rest of your subhuman race, and you've got the gall to make love to that girl."

It's really interesting that Jim is using the term "make love". From what I remember he doesn't use that phrase to refer to romance or sexual activity, usually referencing sex more obliquely. I could psychoanalyze this that maybe Jim wants to be the one either making love to the woman, being made love to in general, or wants Spock to make love to him. And again, Spock is extremely loyal and not just to Jim. Also, Jim doesn’t consider Vulcans to be sub human, shows them respect, and knows who T’Pau is.

Spock: "That's enough."

Kirk: "Does she know what she's getting, Spock? A carcass full of memory banks who should be squatting in a mushroom, instead of passing himself off as a man? You belong in a circus, Spock, not a starship. Right next to the dog-faced boy."

"Passing himself off as a man" is a particularly painful remark, but again Kirk often defends him against bigotry, talks about how important Spock's human side is, and repeatedly makes testimonials about how much he values Spock. And of course Jim must know Spock is objectively handsome. "Does she know what she's getting?" is interesting too. It could imply that Jim is asking "Does she know what an incredible man she's getting? Will she value you like I do?" but then he turns it into an insult.

Spock bends the metal bar with one blow and bashes Kirk around the transporter room for a bit before Spock suddenly realizes the spores are gone, broken like a fever.

Kirk: "Had enough? I didn't realize what it took to get under that thick hide of yours. Anyhow, I don't know what you're so mad about. It isn't every first officer who gets to belt his Captain several times."

It seems like Jim is saying it took a lot of effort for him not just to figure out what would push Spock over the edge but what to even say to insult him in the first place.

Spock: "You did that to me deliberately."

Spock, to the best of my knowledge, never says someone does something to him. He is also saying that he understands it was a calculated attack and not one stemming from impulsive emotional anger, therefore revealing Jim's true feelings.

Kirk: "Believe me, Mister Spock, it was painful in more ways than one."

Obviously this is played as a joke because Kirk is a pretty battered, but I would like to think it's because Jim truly regrets saying those words. It's written as dual meaning for comic effect but I like to read emotions into it when I can.

Spock: "The spores. They're gone. I don't belong anymore."

This is so sad. Even though the spores are gone he still reveals an emotional response. Luckily Spock does belong on the Enterprise.

Kirk: "You said they were benevolent and peaceful. Violent emotions overwhelm them, destroy them. I had to make you angry enough to shake off their influence. That's the answer, Mister Spock."

Spock: "That may be correct, Captain, but trying to initiate a brawl with over five hundred crewmen and colonists is hardly logical."

Kirk: "I had something else in mind. Can you put together a subsonic transmitter? Something we can hook into the communications station and broadcast over the communicator?"

Jim is not directly addressing the fact that he did this to save Spock. He didn't want to lose him. Yes, he needed Spock to help him save everyone else but Spock is important to Jim personally and belongs with him on the Enterprise.

Spock: "It can be done."

Kirk: "Good. Let's get to work."

Spock: "Captain. Striking a fellow officer is a court martial offense."

Kirk: "Well, if we're both in the Brig, who's going to build the subsonic transmitter?"

Spock: "That is quite logical, Captain."

Jim is going back to his usual way of communicating with Spock: kind, almost jovial, focusing on logic, and giving Spock a purpose because he really needs him as a colleague. He's happy to have Spock back to normal. While Spock regrets losing the spores and his sense of perceived belonging, Jim values Spock in the way he's always known him: Vulcan and human, taciturn and logical.

[darlingdaisyfarm]

hey! im sorry to make another post like this, but i feel like i need to say some things. because honestly, if i don’t, i won’t be able to move on from it.

further text under the cut because i don’t want to flood your feed with this

when i posted that anon message, i wasn’t expecting.. well, anything, really. i just felt very awful, i dumped my feelings out because i got emotional and i was ready to just delete this app and not come back. i thought, okay, that’s it, i embarrassed myself for the last time, im done. but when i came back, suddenly there were all these kind messages from people telling me they care, and i think it’s only because of you all that i’m still here. you all mean so much to me, i don’t think i’ve ever felt this supported in my entire life. i don’t know what i did to deserve this kind of kindness, but it means everything to me. so thank you, thank you so much to everyone who didn’t just walk past me when i needed it the most, i really needed to hear that. i cant help but smile when reading your words. i appreciate each of you.

the truth is, that anon text hit me like a knife to the chest. and i hate that it did. i hate that i let a random person make me feel sick about my own hobby, my own blog and everything i’ve ever shared here. but the thing is i’ve always felt this way. hesitant, always unsure if i even have the right to take up space here, i guess a lot of that comes from the friendships i used to have.

because ive always been that friend. the one who listens, who gives. who’s always there when someone needs to vent, to cry, to talk about their passions, struggles or random thoughts. and i never minded, i loved being there for people. but when i tried to share smth about me, it was always met with indifference. like what i had to say wasn’t worth anything. and after years of that, i started believing it myself. even now, posting this, i still feel awkward. like, it’s hard for me to even write this without thinking, should i delete this before anyone sees it? that’s where the anxiety comes from and it’s smth im still working through

so when that anon said what they did, it was like hearing all of my worst thoughts spoken out loud. as if they reached inside my brain, pulled out every insecurity i’ve ever had, and threw it right in my face. ive always felt like im being too annoying. i know i post a lot, but every time i cant help but feel so cringe about it. and i fight it because i dont like being constantly embarrassed for just being myself, but it’s exhausting.

so yeah, when i saw that message, i just felt so damn embarrassed about everything, like i was making a fool of myself this entire time and just didn’t realize it and i hate feeling that way.

and the part that really got to me was the comparison. it hurt more than anything, it made me feel like no matter how hard i try, ill never be enough, that all the effort, all the time, all the small moments of pride i let myself have were just misplaced. i know I’m not perfect, i know there are better writers, faster writers or just people who seem to create more interesting ideas or plots or describe characters way better, but i didnt mind? i mean i was just trying to find space where i can express myself without fear, but then that comparison just made me feel so sick of myself. like “oh look, they’re better, so mb you should just give up.” it made me feel like i don’t have the right to take up space here at all

its hard to explain, but that comparison just made me feel like i was less than

i wouldn’t say i’m a perfectionist, but i am very critical of my writing. i put a lot of effort into my stuff, especially since english isn’t my first language. it’s twice as hard to make sure my sentences are right, that i didn’t mess up the grammar, that i used the right words. and when you pour so much effort into smth and then someone just comes and shits all over it, it kills any desire to create or continue smth. makes you feel like maybe you shouldn’t create anything else. hell, i know that sounds dramatic, but that’s how it feels. and i hate that i’m letting this ruin smth i loved

and the part about taking too long to update... i don’t know what to say to that, i’m not a machine, i write when my brain lets me. when i have an idea, an image in my head, when i feel inspired. and i did have inspiration. i spent a whole week writing that last fic, actually enjoying the process, i felt proud of it, which is rare for me. excited to share it with people. and for what?

and the worst part is, i was planning to start posting my art too. i wanted to finally get out of my comfort zone, to share smth i’ve been afraid to share for so long. but if this is the kind of reaction i get for just writing, then what the hell is gonna happen when i post art? i blocked the last anon who sent me hate, so this is someone new then? meaning there’s two people now who actively dislike me enough to go out of their way to make sure i know. and i know, i know, i shouldn’t care about whether people like me or not. but fuck, it’s hard, i’m a professional overthinker, and unfortunately, i don’t think i’ll be quitting that job anytime soon.

i already had so much going on in my personal life. so much i was trying to get off my mind by being here, writing, sharing things that make me happy, talking with people. and then i open this app and see that, and suddenly it’s like, what’s even the point?

i know i’m being a sensitive crybaby. i hate to be this way. and i get that it’s the internet, and people can be jerks and assholes. but i REALLY don’t understand how much poison you have to have in yourself to send this hateful shit to a complete stranger. i just don’t get it. i’ve never left hate on anything, not even on stuff that isn’t for me. it just feels so pointless?

and as for the thing about Stan’s speech in my fics - im not american. english isn’t even my first language. and you have no idea how much effort it takes to get his voice even close to what it should be, he is one of the hardest characters for me to write. so fuck you, anon, you suck. genuinely

but... as much as that anon’s words gutted me, the kindness i received in response meant even more, it reminded me of why im here in the first place. to share things i love, to create, to talk with people who actually care. what im trying to say is thank you for making me feel less alone. i’m honestly just.. overwhelmed, in the best way. i was drowning in self-doubt, and your kindness and support pulled me out. i don’t take it for granted. i love all of you ♡♡ ive read all your messages, and ive never felt SO damn appreciated

[mikodrawnnarratives]

(last minute i made another graph to fit what I point out better ig cuz discord + narinder don't have much unique to them and not shmilk maybe it'll make more or less sense idc)

I didn't want to fill out the commonalities in the graph(s) so i'll leave it to text

All: powerful entities that got chained/imprisoned for long period of time that's only made them more vengeful ALSO happen to be popularly shipped with their favorite/favorite for a time in fandom spaces, canon has some hints in the ships favor

kinda also similar in some ways

Discord + narinder:

Motivated by revenge for at least some time, one is reformed in canon and the other kinda depends on the fic/playthrough

I have the least on this since shmilk's been on my mind so much but there are likely more

shadow milk cookie + discord:

What really is the difference between deceit and chaos? Not very much I'd say. Both also don't like friendship all that much b4 being reformed/redeemed (in shmilk's case lol that's not in canon not yet at least)

Very uniquely attached to their favorite in a way thas very apparent to other ppl

also:

"PSH HAHAHAHA LONELY?! NOW WHO'S THE CLOWN HERE?! OH, I'M TEARING UP..." "You dare act like you know ME?!" "friend...?" "You think you can boss Discord around? You think I'm just going to turn all this back because YOU say so? Because if I don't I'll lose the one friend I ever had?" ! "oh....Well played fluttershy. Well played"

That's where they diverge of course lol, Discord's just built different

Narinder + shadow milk cookie:

Usually when I think of narinder I think of Trod narinder from The Rehabilitation of Death by @/ bamsara so both have their favorite betray them, they were happy for a bit then nope then fav still wants a relationship and all that complicated stuff (they still differ in how their fav thinks of them b4 the betrayal)

Both have a time before becoming a villain; Shmilk (if my understanding is correct to cookie lore) used to be good then changed, and Narinder used to be with his siblings before betrayal

Both lose the/a source of their powers (admittedly I'm still trying to get a good grasp of cookie lore so I'm not too well versed in cookie jam power rules 👉👈) and either get downgraded or at least their ex-favorite has gotten an upgrade

More than 2 eyes, and they tattle on their emotions (at least in the fanart)

And likely more that I'm not thinking of rn

[officeobject]

I actually have a friend - okay that's extremely different, but both are still meant to be committed positive relationships (even if Stolitz fails at that) - and we also have a huge power-gap (even without the huge age-gap), and man, I have quite somethin' to say!

So anyways, we befriended each other without even a single spoken verbal word between us - not even through text - just alone through whatever we could see of each other from a field apart (and even our windows have height differences and stuff), and on the surface, we have nothing in common - Gerald over there (not real name), is someone always showing up with perfectly fitted clothing and perfect hair and always looking like just an ordinary male stock photo, meanwhile, I come in while listening to music and looking like fecking SHIT (in my opinion) - they're the older, more mature, more composed, taller, bigger, stronger person, who contributes to the workplace (they genuinely love office working), and can concentrate SO well on that, and who can be assertive, and who can be confident, or calm, or take over the conversation, etc, meanwhile ... I'm ME -

We've seen each other for a year, and we have NOTHING in common, interest-wise - I mean, I love office stuff and all, but I have no idea what office stuff is, I just like the aesthetic and staplers and routines and 30 year olds, etc, and that's the closest we have, to liking the same thing, but we still make it work with all of that -

The thing is, that we don't need any interests in common, and we can still be SO close, even with a power-gap - we make it work because they take my emotions seriously, and balance giving me attention and all, with work - they let me watch them, defend me against their coworkers, show concern if I'm for example soaked in the rain, and might also come back to their office if they see me searching for them. If they wanna be left the fuck alone, they might be starin' at me, but they won't even confront me (they tried once or something and ended up being too harsh which hurt me so they had to apologize lmao), and they'll just move out of my sight until I can take the hint and stop staring - if they need to focus, they might move their body so it faces away from me (yes they sometimes need to move their entire body just to not look at me LOL). They still find time within the month, to just watch me exist and do whatever, but they don't judge my clothing or anything - like, they seriously don't judge - they might end up accidentally mirroring me. I personally watch their body (they somehow KNOW it's platonic), and I can't really see their emotions and whatnot, when they look at me, but we still make sure to stay near each other and whatnot -

Like, my point is, that we make it work, because we somehow can still communicate. We LEAN INTO the power-gap, because that's how we naturally are, so we don't change for each other (but we do affect each other positively, like them giving me attention and confidence, and me making them more productive and more attentive), so we're just honestly ourselves in the friendship (well, I'm still a flustered mess but whatever), and they look out for my well-being without judgement, and don't treat me like a child - furthermore, I genuinely can't feel what boundaries there are between us, but obviously they're not gonna start talking about taxes after meeting me. They have a balance in their life, tend to their work, I give them attention - and also, seriously, if I haven't talked much about what I give, it's because I have no idea what I contribute or why they like me so much, but whatever -

Also helps that we have the same brain-species + type of friendship - so my point is, that, unlike Blitz(o) and Stolass:

We're both clear about what type of relationship we want (a weird intense friendship), and naturally grew into that

We set boundaries with each other ... or maybe barely have any - they just naturally fall into place to the point where I can't tell

We work WITH the power-dynamics, not AGAINST (power-dynamics also compliment our personalities

We don't change for each other, nor try to change each other, yet still improve each other

We actually have fun

We take each other's feeling seriously and try to see what each other needs

We SOMEHOW manage to communicate

We're honest to each other (kinda hard not to be when older taller Gerald over there is staring you down with the most serious face you've ever seen since your mom's and you end up getting flustered)

We have the same type of absolutely creepy, and stop if each other doesn't want that

We actually try to be near each other and it's a WANT and not an obligation

Vivziepop didn't write us (I predicted them and our dynamic before they even were a thing though and I'm not even kidding)

And probably other things.

Conclusion: We have nothing in common but we do have a healthy friendship.

I feel like the intention for Stolitz was to explore the "lust to love" kind of dynamic but it looks kinda stupid and unbelievable in execution because I don't see a reason for them to love each other romantically.

The “lust to love” dynamic can work but in Vivziepop’s case, it turned to “sexual coercion to stockholm syndrome.” It really doesn’t help that the only “chemistry” they have is in the bed room…

Besides daddy issues, experience with their daughters hating on them, self loathing, and having relationship issues: what else do these two have in common? They can’t be trauma bonding and venting to each other forever. What fun hobbies or activities do they have in common?

Even if they don’t like each other’s hobbies, they can still create a fun and an enjoyable atmosphere similar to the Instagram accounts back then.

[bumblingbabooshka]

I love Vulcans we need to get more into the emotional lives of Vulcans without imposing Human standards onto them. "The way you feel is wrong/repressive because it's not the way it's "supposed" to be from my perspective as an alien called Human" is boring to me especially when it's treated as correct. I wanna know how the aliens feel about their alien way of life. Vulcans are so interesting to me when written AS aliens and not as analogous to repressed Humans. I think about Tuvok's description of attachment to his family and how that isn't the emotion 'love' but something else, something that he feels no shame about having and sees as normal, as naturally Vulcan and I love it and I love it because there aren't any Humans there to go "Um actually checkmate you Vulcan s.o.b - that's emotion!" and he isn't being influenced by anything. These are his authentic thoughts. He sees his children, his family, as part of him. They were at times illogical, incomprehensible, and it was extremely rewarding to be in their lives. He thinks about them every day. They were well behaved. As teens they were contemptuous of authority and convinced of their own superiority. His youngest son loved one 200 verse story so he sang it to him. He'd rather die than betray his wife even in spirit. He's incomplete without them. It's obvious through Tuvok that Vulcan life is not inherently devoid of pleasure, comfort, or love and thus Human life (I think) should not be portrayed as inherently having something greater, deeper, more meaningful. I'm not talking here of society but of...emotional life. Interiority. There's this sense that all Vulcans are the same and miserable for it. That they hold themselves back and are indistinguishable and antagonistic to the self, repressed and wrong. That to be Vulcan is to suffer endlessly and Humans are all about Freedom Man and I don't know, I like that Tuvok's existence sort of challenges this as much as I acknowledge that Vulcan society is in fact repressive and unwelcoming to those who don't fit neatly into it. I'm not saying Vulcan society is a utopia, I'm questioning the perception of Vulcan emotional control - that way of life - as being inherently bad, devoid, or lacking. That Vulcans walk around with 'empty cups' and are only deluding themselves that to be that way is good. If only, Humanity moans, they could taste how delicious life could be! Tuvok is an average Vulcan. He does not struggle with emotion, he is not mixed species, he was not raised atypically, and yet he has a family he cares about and a wife he's loyal to and friends he values and none of these things seem to be Un-Vulcan to him. If Vulcan life was truly devoid of love and care, Tuvok wouldn't think of his family. They're not here, so why bother? When his pon farr came, he'd be trying to find the most compatible mate rather than risking his life by trying to meditate through it out of loyalty to T'Pel. T'Pel would also have just given Tuvok up for dead instead of waiting and his children wouldn't have traveled all the way to the most holy temple on the planet to say prayers for his safe return. I think these things are interesting and I wish they'd been explored more. The fact that caring about your family, caring about your friends, is not Un-Vulcan. The fact that Tuvok at no point longs for Humanity, sees nothing better or of interest to him in it. (Even in his teenage rebellion he only says he's sorry he was born Vulcan which reads less as Vulcan v Human and more like 'I hate this goddamn family' ykwim?). I want to know more about how Vulcans interact with each other, how they care for one another, what it means and what it's like to be Vulcan in more of an everyday way rather than what it means to be Vulcan vs Human.

[himblebo]

She’s married she’s married she’s married she’s married (to a man to a man to a man to a man)

[rimouskis]

can I be so open and vulnerable with you guys. the card I was given from people at my old office was sincerely so nice and really validating but also I feel like the main impression I left other people with was "she's really nice" WHICH IS GOOD, I DO WANT TO BE KNOWN AS NICE but also part of me is like... should I maybe strive for "innovative" or "creative" or "a go-getter" because being The Nice One just feels a little mealy-mouthed of me y'know?

[simcardiac-arrested]

i don’t think we’re ever getting out of the “we’re just friends” “oh yeah those characters are such good friends (sarcasm)” “they’re not friends they’re gay” etc etc hole. we’re never getting out of that hole

[windupaidoneus]

this need for approval is a fucking disease it is absolutely mind boggling that i need feedback on what i say & post or my mind decides everyone takes a look at it & goes yep here goes this annoying freak again talking about his annoying freak things. & im not even like that with everyone. it literally does not fucking matter oh my goddd grow UP! im normal now. i understand my minds machinations. misto is nodding in approval at me

[themyscirah]

Started thinking about the Amanda Waller + Ben Turner relationship again.... fuck, I'm gonna need a minute

[ame-to-ame]

Life is weird as arospec asexual bc there's no good way to use words to describe what I feel and my experience that properly conveys it to allosexual alloromantic people

Even if I use vocabulary meant for this there's no way to grasp what it truly feels like, what the lived experience is like for me, because the allosexual doesn't experience it doesn't understand it

And so it's like trying to convey colors to someone with a different perception of color. They experience a reality different to mine. And maybe perception and sensation is the wrong allegory to use, even. Maybe the stimuli we experience is different in the first place. Maybe the sensation is different. But perception is definitely different. And it's hard to tell at which point do things start to differ.

But either way it's hard and I find it increasingly hard to explain myself or want to explain myself. It's so much easier to adopt that language and that culture aside from the gaping feeling that it's not exactly what you're experiencing. I can co-opt the term crush but what I feel. I know. Is not romantic attraction. Maybe some elements are the same but it's definitely diverged somewhere. But is there really a point in explaining the differences or clarifying that it's different? As long as the final goal is achieved does it really matter? Why am I doing this again.

[unproduciblesmackdown]

yeah speaking of the most personal instrument of death / brutal vengeful catharsis gay sex foil confrontation. the musician gets got by lo cocodrilo? respectively, give him a kiss

[kamitv]

Your best friend Sukuna is a complete slut.

Though you’d never say that aloud—albeit more than true. That's the only way to describe him because why else would he be in your bedroom, sitting on the edge of your bed, with his legs spread wide open, fingers wrapped around his thick cock, and groans of your name leaving his lips?

Because he’s a goddamn slut, that’s why. And normally when you interrupt his… sexual acts, you quietly apologize and rush off as quickly as possible.

Yet, here you were, being ordered by your best friend not to run away this time.

“I’m not gonna repeat myself,” Sukuna’s raspy and slightly husked voice drawls out to you, eyes boring into yours from across the room, “Bring your ass over here.”

Funny how he said he wasn’t going to repeat himself only to follow up with a literal repeat of his initial order-

“Now,” He hums, his voice sending a chill down your spine.

You stiffen up where you stand, trying your absolute best to keep your eyes anywhere and everywhere else except for the hand he had stroking his cock.

Gulping, “Sukuna-,” He shoots you a pointed glare and you start getting nervous. “You can’t just… j-jerk off in my room and expect me to… to help you.”

“Fuck,” He hisses, your eyes nearly falling on him again as the low noise makes you fidget, “Fine, then get out,” Sukuna tells you.

Your brows push together at the audacity of him, not that it really surprises you anymore, “But-“

“Out. I’ll be done soon,” He cuts off, sitting back and fisting his cock at a quicker pace, eyes drinking in every inch of your still figure.

You didn’t want to look at him. Nor did you want him jerking off in your bedroom. But, you also didn’t want to leave for some strange reason.

Hence why you just stand there and look around your room as if you don’t know the interior already. Sukuna can’t help but crack a smirk as you stand there, his breath growing heavy before he calls your name— watching the way you flinch at the sound.

“Kinda’ awkward if you just stand there, y’know,” He chuckles out to you, finding you oh so amusing.

You frown, “Kinda’ awkward if you just jerk off in my bedroom.”

“It wouldn’t be if you came over here,” He snaps back.

You hate how quick he always is with his responses, something you still haven’t gotten used to throughout all your years of friendship. Swallowing, you just barely glance at the man, “What?” You huff out.

Your eyes were on his and his were on yours. Tension was vexed into his gaze, desire pouring out of his maroon shaded eyes and making you so utterly nervous as you stood across the room from him.

All as he just sat there, shirtless, tattooed and chiseled chest very difficult not to gaze at, large thighs spread lewdly, and hard curved cock twitching within his grasp as precum oozed out his tip.

You couldn’t help the way your gaze dropped for a moment, catching sight of his cock and the way his plump tip glistened under your dim bedroom lighting. His hand movements got noticeable faster as you watched and you drew your thighs closer together.

Sukuna lets out a deep sigh, “Y’know,” The sound of his voice makes you flinch yet again and you lift your gaze as though you’d been caught doing something wrong, seeing the smirk on his face, “You can come get a closer look.”

You bat your lashes at him, “W-What?”

“Is that all you know how to say?” He chuckles, “Hah, just c’mere already,” He suddenly requests, voice softening ever so slightly. “I won’t bite.”

And that’s… roughly how you ended up on your knees in between his legs. With a mouthful of his cock, you don’t even remember what’d come over you after you listened to his request and came close to him.

One moment you started shyly teasing him about being a pervert who jerks off in your bedroom and the next you were curling your fingers around his shaft and making your way down to your knees. Sukuna had let out a long shaky sigh as he watched you settle in between his spread legs, his urge to tease you dying off as some other emotion swelled within his chest.

He’ll never admit it to you but, he was shy. How could he not be when your soft hand begins stroking his cock like he’s just some kinda toy for you to play with—what’d you expect him to do when you look up at him and lean forward to wrap your lips around his drooling cockhead? 

Unfortunately for him, his expression gave away everything and as soon as his dick began disappearing into the warm caverns of your mouth, he was a goner. A hand was now tightly gripped onto your scalp, his breathing unsteady as he watched you suck him off with that pretty ass mouth of yours.

He’ll never be able to forget the sight of drool spilling out from the corners of your mouth while you tried your best to take him all the way into your throat. And his mind just about blanks when you move your hands to his thighs, push them further apart, and then sink down completely—your lips meeting his base.

Now that was a sight to see. 

“F-Fuck,” Sukuna stammered, the sound alone leading you to choke a bit as a moan attempted to leave your throat. His darkened eyes were seconds away from rolling to the back of his skull with how sexy he found the sight of your lips bulging around his thick cock.

When you finally do pull your mouth off of him, he doesn’t even get a moment to breathe before your hands are wrapping around him. He goes from leaning back slightly to sitting up a bit straighter and moving his hands down to one of your wrists, his lips unknowingly quivering.

Then a pant escapes him and you’re bringing your eyes back up to look at him. “Slow, woman—fuck, go… hah, slow.” He says hoarsely.

Oh the desperation on his face was priceless. Why ever would you listen to him when using two hands to jerk him off is all it takes to receive a slightly pouted lip and furrowed brows from him. He probably doesn’t even realize the face he’s making at the moment, too grumpy trying to take control of the situation to feel his features faltering. 

You coo, “Aw, go slow? But, ‘Kuna, I thought this was what you wanted?” 

The nickname you just threw at him has to be evil in some way, shape, or form because the wild twitch it invokes is enough to have your hands tightening their grip around his thick cock. 

Sukuna grits his teeth and you can see a vein popping out in his forehead—he’s so annoyed with you now that the roles have reversed, it’s cute. “Fuck you,” He curses, as if that’ll help him avoid the embarrassment bubbling up within him right now.

“Oh, there he is,” You purr, removing one of your hands just to angle his cock back toward your lips and then tapping it against your skin gently. “S’kinda hard to be mean to me when I’m makin’ you feel so good, isn’t it?”

He swears you’ll be the death of him. He’s never experienced this side of you, nor was he aware it even existed. All he’s ever known you as was his shy roommate who’s so unintentionally attractive that it pains him to be around. Is this really the same woman who was stuttering moments ago when she walked in the room and caught him jerking off??

Sukuna huffs out an almost bratty breath of air, “Stop… talking.” Just as he’s never seen this side of you, you’ve never seen this side of him and fuck is it hot. He’s usually such a big intimidating man and yet here he is literally folding and gasping to your touch.

You completely strip your hands away from his cock and then open your mouth, staring right up into his eyes as you whisper, “Make me.”

All that embarrassment and temporary shyness is gone within the blink of an eye. Sukuna’s stumbling up slightly to his feet and grabbing a firm hold of the top of your head, letting out a gruff sigh while taking his dick into his hands and properly aligning himself with your mouth.

His chest is glistening in sweat and his head is pounding, he was all nervous seconds ago for what? Because of you? Oh please.

It only took those two words of yours for him to remember who the hell he is as he then thrusts his hips forward and quickly fucks himself into your mouth. “That’s more like it,” Sukuna grunts, giving your mouth some mean thrusts as he forces your head to move and meet each one of his motions. “Fuckin’ slut, m-makin me nervous,” He admits hoarsely, his tone aggravated with you. “Who do you think you are, huh?”

You’re obviously too busy getting your face fucked to answer that properly but the moan you let out that leads to drool filthily dribbling out your mouth is enough of a reply for him. Especially when he catches how it drips down onto your thighs. 

Sukuna releases a pretty groan out into the air at the mere sight of you. He thought he was losing his mind before but now it’s even worse. You don’t even have your hands on his thighs to try and brace yourself or control what’s happening—you just let him have his way with your throat, taking things a step further and moving your hands behind your slightly arched back.

Fuck, he needs a picture of this. He desperately needs this display of you burned into the forefront of his mind for the rest of his life. Especially as he starts hitting the back of your throat and you purposefully choke against him. Sukuna’s other hand lifts to cover his mouth because he swears he almost whined.

Your throats too fuckin’ tight, you’re holding eye contact with him for too damn long, and if he feels your tongue flick against that specific vein of his one more time—

“Hnngh—” Sukuna moans, his grip almost bruising as his head flies back and his cock presses right against the very depths of your mouth, hips stalling with the way his orgasm comes rudely rushing out of him. 

Then he feels you swallowing and even though he was trying to keep you head still, you begin to bob yourself back and forth on his cock while he’s cumming and that’s when a whimper is choked out from his lips. Sukuna’s whole body just clenches and he’s letting out all kinds of sounds as his hand, now shaky, holds onto your head for dear life.

Even when he stops cumming, you’re still sucking and his eyes roll back, voice coming out strained. “S-Shit, fuck—stop,” Sukuna moans again, “Please?” Never in all your years of living did you ever think you’d hear Sukuna Ryomen begging you for something and yet here you are.

You steadily pull your mouth off of him with a slick pop, sting after string of saliva hanging in between his tip and your glossy lips. He’s above you panting for a moment before stumbling back to sit down on the edge of your bed again.

A hand of yours moves to causally wipe your mouth off and you don’t even know if you wanna tease him now or later about what just happened. “So, that was—”

“Don’t speak,” He cuts off immediately, his voice surprisingly airy. “Ever. Never bring this up again.”

You snort, “Promise me you won’t jerk off in my room again, first.”

Sukuna scoffs. “Tch. Whatever.”

Like the vixen you are, you begin to lean toward him again and you don’t know if you image it but he flinches ever so slightly. “Promise me,” You say as your hands meet his knees and you begin to lift yourself up.

His eyes go wide and he internally panics at the sight of you moving. “Fucking fine. I promise.”

Smiling, you move to lean over his tensed body and plant a kiss on his cheek, “Good boy.”

…

Yeahhh, his brain just powered off.

pt. 2