⪩sakuhime⪨

ig: sakuu.hime

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 32

pairing: jungkook x f!reader | rating: 18+ | wc: 13,8k | warnings: here genre: roommates/e2l, fwb, fuck buddies, emotional slow burn, smut

“in the aisle”

"Why does this party feel like a thousand tiny disasters stitched together with gold chains, eyeliner, and bad decisions—and why does “can we talk?” somehow sound more threatening than a serial killer mask?"

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↪︎author's note : Okay, so before you all start frothing at the mouth over the RoNix scenes like the unwell little creatures I know you are, I need to say this first: Y/N’s thoughts about Medusa in that bathroom matter to me a lot. Not just as a costume moment, but as a character moment. The whole thing about not wanting to become the matching piece to someone else’s narrative, not wanting to dilute herself into something more digestible, more easily understood, more aesthetically cohesive for somebody else… yeah. That one was personal. So was the little monologue about falling on your face and still choosing your own bruises. I wanted her to sound like someone clawing her way toward herself in real time, even if she doesn’t have the language polished yet. Especially then, actually.

And, finally, we’re pulling the curtain back a little more on Jimin and what I’ve been quietly leaving in the margins for chapters now. Identity is weird. It’s messy and unfinished and sometimes painfully unlabeled. I think realism also means allowing characters not to know, not to have the perfect word, not to arrive at some neat little conclusion the second they start asking the question. And I don’t know, man, as a 26-year-old person myself, I can very confidently say I still do not know what the fuck I’m doing most of the time. So I think this is my way of taking Jimin’s hand, and maybe yours too, and going: it’s okay. You don’t have to buy anything from the aisle just because everyone else seems to know what shelf they belong on. We’ll get there. Wherever there even is.

ALSO. Yes. The spins. Jason asking for the twirl, Jungkook asking for the spin, and the emotional difference between those two moments? I need you all to look me in the eyes about that. One is admiration wrapped in safety, the other is attention so precise it feels like being read. And Y/N responds to them differently for a reason. I am, unfortunately, obsessed with parallels and doomed to make that everyone else’s problem.

Also because I am physically incapable of leaving anything alone: vanilla. Hahahaha. Yeah. I know. I am not subtle about scents and I never will be. Thank you for signing up for this deeply unserious fragrance agenda against your will. And do not even get me started on the comedy beats in this chapter because Yoongi as conceptual blonde-era Skrillex nearly took me out at the knees. Claire’s skull earrings. Be serious. I hate him so bad. And uhhh… yes. New character alert? Who exactly is Yoongi talking to in the alcove? (￣▽￣) You’ll just have to keep reading, I fear.

Enjoy the chapter, scream responsibly, and as always: if FMU!Jungkook has no haters left, I am dead.

The thing about dressing as a woman who turns men to stone is that you actually have to look at yourself first.

And you've been avoiding that.

The full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door has been catching you in fragments all evening—an elbow here, a hip there, the gold clasp of the snake cuff Irya wrestled onto your upper arm twenty minutes ago—but you haven't committed to the full picture yet.

Irya's got her phone propped on the counter, a YouTube tutorial frozen on a girl with a $400 highlight palette doing something architectural to her cheekbones.

She's been flitting between you and the screen for the last half hour, dabbing gold shimmer along your collarbones with a fan brush and narrating the process like a nature documentary. 

"Okay, hold still."

She tilts your chin up. Dusts something across the bridge of your nose. Steps back. Studies you like you’re some sort of painting in a museum.

"God, you're annoying."

"What?"

"Your bone structure. It's annoying. Like, medically." She waves the brush at your face. "Some of us have to contour for the aesthetic. You just—look pretty. Sitting there. Rent-free."

"Irya."

"I'm stating facts. Hold still."

More powder. A final sweep. Then she clicks the compact shut with satisfaction and drops it into the mess of products crowding the marble counter—lipstick tubes rolling into setting spray cans, a palette balanced on the edge of the sink, bobby pins scattered everywhere.

"Okay. Collarbone shimmer's done, base is set, lips need one more layer but that's after this coat sets."

She's already gathering her things—the curling iron she brought for Yeji's wig, three different hair clips, a ziplock bag of bobby pins that looks like it weighs a pound.

"I gotta go wrestle Yeji into her corset before she decides leather is 'too conformist' and shows up in a trash bag."

"She would absolutely show up in a trash bag."

"She has shown up in a trash bag. Sophomore year. She called it 'deconstructed capitalism.'"

Irya pauses at the door, arms full, and gives you a once-over.

Whatever she sees makes her smile—soft, private, the kind she saves for when she actually means it.

"You look really good. Like, crazy good. Jason's going to lose his entire mind."

The door clicks shut behind her and the bathroom goes quiet.

Just you and the mirror.

You finally turn to face it.

The skirt is—okay. It's not obscene. It's a draped Grecian thing, dark green, slit high on the left thigh, with a gold chain belt sitting low on your hips.

The top is a structured corset-style piece that Yeji found at some vintage shop in Bushwick and mailed to you with a note that just said ’WEAR THIS OR PERISH.’

You don’t want to perish.

It's tight. Tighter than you usually go.

You can see the dip of your waist and the press of your ribs when you breathe, and where your chest looks—well.

Present. Accounted for. Very much there.

The snake cuff wraps your left bicep. Gold snake earrings hang from your lobes, and Irya threaded smaller gold chains through your hair so they catch the light when you move.

You look like something out of a Caravaggio painting, if Caravaggio had access to Amazon Prime and a $30 costume budget.

You look good.

You think you look good?

You tug the skirt down half an inch, which accomplishes absolutely nothing because the fabric just slides back up.

The slit gapes. Your thigh is right there.

This is—it's a lot of skin.

More skin than you usually show when there are people around who aren't contractually obligated to find you attractive.

More skin than you showed at Pulse that night, and look how that turned out.

Don't think about Pulse.

You're adjusting the chain belt when the bathroom door swings open and Jimin appears in the frame, already half in costume—white button-down untucked over black slacks, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a smear of fake blood on his collar that he hasn't blended yet.

He stops when he sees you. Actually stops. Feet planted, lips parting, the whole thing.

"Oh my god."

"Don't."

"Oh my god."

He steps inside, closing the door behind him, and his face does something complicated and openly delighted.

"You look—girl. Seriously. That's so—the snakes in your hair? And the—is that a cuff?"

He reaches for your arm, turning it gently so the light catches the gold coils.

"This is incredible. Yeji picked this out, didn't she."

"She threatened my life if I didn't wear it."

"Correct response."

He lets go of your arm. Leans against the counter with his hip, crossing his ankles, and it strikes you again how Jimin occupies space—gently, without demand.

Even now, in a bathroom that isn't his, he's somehow not intruding.

"Medusa?"

"Medusa."

"The original 'I'll ruin your life if you look at me wrong.'"

"That's—yeah, actually. That's exactly what I was going for."

Jimin tilts his head, studying you the way he studies texts in the library—attentive, as if reading between lines you didn't know were there.

Then his gaze snags on your eyes and he frowns. Not a bad frown. An assessing one.

"Did Irya do your liner?"

"She was going to but she had to go deal with Yeji's corset situation."

"So you haven't done it yet."

"I was going to wing it." Beat. "No pun intended."

He's already scanning the counter, fingers drifting over the scattered products with the same familiarity you saw before Emma’s birthday party.

He picks up the liquid liner pen, uncaps it, checks the tip. Caps it again. Picks up a different one—the felt tip, the good one, Irya's—and holds it up.

"Can I?"

The question is so casual and so careful at the same time that it takes you a second.

"Please save me."

He chuckles, pulling a hand towel off the rack and drapes it over his shoulder—the move of someone who's done this enough to know about smudging.

"Close your eyes."

You close your eyes.

His fingers are feather-light on your jaw, tilting your face toward the overhead light.

The first stroke of the liner is precise—no wobble, no hesitation. A clean pull from the inner corner outward, measured and smooth, and you feel the little flick at the end that means he's going for a wing without even asking your preference.

Bold choice. Correct choice, but still.

"You're good at this," you say, eyes still closed.

"Yeah."

A pause, careful, like he's deciding how much to give.

The liner moves to the other eye. Another clean stroke.

"My sisters used to practice on me. Back in middle school. I was the—you know. The patient one. Sat still."

"That tracks."

"And then I just..." He trails off. You feel him angle the pen for the wing. "Kept doing it. On my own. Thought it was fun."

Another pause, and something shifts in his voice—gets quieter. Not ashamed, but conscious. Aware of the shape of what he's saying.

"…Nails too. I like nails. I'm good with color."

You think about the neon pink nail you grabbed in the car.

How fast he snatched his hand back.

The embarrassment that flickered across his face before he buried it under.

"The pink nail," you say softly. Eyes still closed.

He doesn't answer for a second. The liner pauses on your lid.

"Yeah." He resumes. Finishes the wing.

"It looked good," you tell him. "Really good. The color was perfect on you."

The liner lifts.

You open your eyes.

Jimin’s face is close—inches away—and he's looking at you with an expression that's hard to name. Grateful, maybe. Or something simpler than that.

Just seen.

"You think so?"

"I know so. You've got the hands for it."

You gesture at them—the slim fingers, the clean nail beds, the careful way he holds the pen like it's calligraphy and not drugstore liquid liner.

He looks down at his own hands. Turns them over slowly, like he's seeing them through your description instead of his own.

"My dad used to call them piano hands." A small exhale that's not quite a laugh. "Which was his way of saying they weren't—you know. Right. For a boy."

The liner pen rests between his index and middle fingers. He rolls it once. Twice.

"I don't talk to him anymore. Either of them, actually. My mom—she just kind of... agreed with whatever he said? So." A shrug that tries very hard to be casual and lands somewhere south of it. "My sisters, though. They're good. They get it. They got me the nail kit for my birthday last year. The real one, with the UV lamp and everything."

He says ’they get it’ like it's a complete sentence. Like there's a whole second half he trimmed off before it could reach the air.

You don't push. You know what trimmed sentences sound like—you've been editing your own since you were fifteen, snipping the parts that felt too raw to survive outside your own head.

"That's a good birthday present," you say instead.

"Best one I've gotten."

The bathroom is quiet for a second and Jimin looks at the liner pen in his hands like it contains some answer to a question he hasn't asked yet.

Then he asks it.

"Can I ask you something?"

He's chewing the inside of his cheek. There's a crease between his brows that wasn't there thirty seconds ago, and his thumb is rubbing the cap of the liner in small circles like a worry stone.

"Yeah. Of course."

"How did you know..."

He starts, stops.

Starts again. "How do you know—"

Another stop.

His jaw works around something that doesn't want to become language.

"That you're... what you're supposed to be?"

You almost deflect. Almost hit him with something sarcastic, something light—’I'm supposed to be a lot drunker right now’—because that's what you do when conversations tilt toward something more serious.

But Jimin's face is doing the thing. The still thing. Like he's bracing.

So you don't deflect.

"I don't."

He blinks.

"I don't know," you repeat, and it comes out quieter than you intended. More honest. "I have—literally no idea. About any of it. What I'm supposed to be, what I'm supposed to want, who I'm supposed to be doing it with—"

You catch yourself gesturing vaguely at the entirety of existence and drop your hand.

"My parents had this whole... blueprint. For me. For who I was. What I'd study, who I'd date, where I'd live, what kind of person I'd grow up into. And for a long time I just—followed it? Because it was easier than figuring out my own answers when I didn't even know what the questions were."

The marble counter is cold against your lower back. You lean into it. Let it ground you.

"And then I stopped following it, and it was like—okay, cool, now I have no map and no compass and I'm just... going. Everywhere. At once. Trying everything, saying yes to things I should say no to, saying no to things I probably should yes to, dating people who are categorically wrong for me, picking fights with my roommates, making choices that would give my mother a stroke—"

Jimin's mouth twitches.

"—and like, ninety percent of those choices blow up in my face. Genuinely. I'm not being self-deprecating, I am statistically terrible at decisions. I fall on my face so often I should just live down there. Set up a little apartment on the floor. Decorate."

A breath.

"But it's mine. The falling. Even when it's stupid and it hurts and I'm lying there thinking ’wow, you really did that, you lame ass bitch’—at least I chose it. At least I'm the one who tripped. Nobody pushed me. And that's..."

You search for the word. Can't find it. Settle for the feeling instead.

"That's worth more than never falling because someone else was always holding the railing for you. Even if you're bruised the whole time. Even if you look insane. It's better than being trapped."

And Jimin…

Jimin is watching you. Not with pity, not with that head-tilted therapy look people give you when you accidentally say something too real when there’s not enough alcohol in your system.

He's watching you like you just read aloud from a page he's been staring at for months, and some of the sentences matched.

Not all of them. But some.

"The falling is yours," he repeats softly.

"The falling is mine. The bruises are mine. The spectacular bad decisions are mine." You shrug. "I don't know what I'm supposed to be. I just know what I'm not. And I figure... I'll get there. Eventually. By process of elimination, if nothing else."

He's quiet for a long moment.

"Process of elimination," he murmurs. "Yeah. Yeah, that's—"

He doesn't finish. Just nods, slow, his jaw softening from whatever clench it had been holding.

And his eyes are bright in a way that might be the overhead lighting or might be something less explainable.

"What if you try everything and none of it fits?" he asks, and the question is so small.

Smaller than him, smaller than the bathroom, smaller than the bulb above you.

"What if there isn't a—a word for it? For what you are? What if you keep looking and nothing matches and everyone else seems to know exactly where they go and you're just..."

He trails off.

But you know what he means.

So you finish for him.

"Standing in the aisle."

His eyes snap to yours.

"At the store," you say. "Like when there's a wall of options and none of the labels match what you actually came in for, and everyone around you is just grabbing things off the shelf like it's obvious and easy and you're standing there reading the back of every single box thinking ‘why doesn't any of this sound like me.’"

Jimin's throat works. A swallow that takes longer than it should.

"...Yeah." Barely audible. "Exactly like that."

"Then you leave the store."

He frowns.

"You leave the store without buying anything. And that's fine. You don't owe the store a purchase. You don't have to grab something off the shelf just because everyone else did."

You pick up a stray bobby pin from the counter, turning it between your fingers.

"Maybe what you came in for doesn't have a label. Maybe it doesn't need one. Maybe it's just yours and it doesn't fit in a box because it wasn't supposed to."

You're talking about more than you understand.

But you know the aisle.

You've stood in it.

Different section, maybe, but the same fluorescent lighting.

Jimin sets the liner pen down on the counter with a small click. 

"My sisters would like you," he says, which is, you suspect, the highest compliment in his vocabulary.

"I'd like them back."

"They do makeup better than me."

"Impossible. I've seen your work."

That gets him. The corner of his mouth trembles, buckles, and then he's smiling—really smiling, the kind that rewrites his whole face, and the crease between his brows is gone like it was never there.

He glances down at his hands again and this time he doesn't turn them over, doesn't inspect them.

Just lets them be.

"Honestly? Your technique is better than Irya's and she would kill me for saying that, so if you tell her I said it I'll deny everything and also never speak to you again."

The laugh that comes out of him is startled and real—bright, nose-scrunching, his whole face folding up into it.

He presses the back of his hand to his mouth like he's trying to contain it but it keeps spilling through his fingers, and the sound is so warm and so Jimin that you're laughing too before you can help it, both of you cracking up in this marble bathroom surrounded by scattered beauty products and fake blood, and it feels—easy.

Uncomplicated.

The kind of friendship that doesn't need a history to feel solid, just a willingness to sit still and be honest for five minutes.

And then you turn and Jason is standing in the doorway.

In costume from the looks of it—dark slacks, a worn corduroy blazer over a white henley with the top button undone, a battered paperback stuffed into the breast pocket like an afterthought that was actually very much thought about. Hair pushed back, slightly disheveled in that way that takes effort to achieve.

Kerouac. Obviously.

His eyes move from you to Jimin, then back.

"Hey."

"Hey!" Jimin straightens, already moving—that fluid, instinctive thing he does where he creates space before anyone asks for it. "I was just—eyeliner. She needed eyeliner. I'm done though."

He shoots you a grin.

"You're welcome for the best wings of your life."

"Thank you, doctor."

He snorts as he passes Jason in the doorway—a quick nod, shoulder turned to slip through—and then he's gone.

You turn back to the mirror. Check the work.

The wings are, annoyingly, perfect. Bold, symmetrical, the exact angle you'd have chosen if your hands were a surgeon's and not, historically, the hands of someone who once tried to do her own eyeliner on the subway and ended up looking like someone had done your makeup during an earthquake for an entire Thursday.

You make a mental note to bribe Jimin into doing this at every future event forever.

Jason's reflection appears behind yours.

"Hi," you say to his reflection.

"Hi." He pushes off the frame. Moves closer—close enough that his voice drops without dropping, just gets quieter as a function of proximity. "You look—"

He stops. Reassesses, the way he does when his first draft isn't good enough.

"I was going to say it's a shame about Virginia Woolf."

You raise an eyebrow at him in the mirror. "Excuse me."

"Thematically." He picks up the thought carefully, like he's handling glass. "On paper, it would've been— you know. Kerouac and Woolf. The road and the stream of consciousness. There's an argument there."

"There's an English department argument there."

"That's—yes, fair, that's exactly what it is." He has the self-awareness to look mildly embarrassed. "But I want it on record that I was skeptical about Medusa at first."

Something tightens across your shoulders.

"At first," he continues. "And then I—"

He crosses the rest of the distance. His arms come around you from behind—loose, warm, not confining—and his chin finds the curve of your shoulder. Both of you looking at the same mirror.

"You're really pulling it off," he says, quiet. "I mean it. The whole thing. The snakes, the liner, the—"

He exhales.

"You look... Wow."

"Wow is not an adjective."

"Wow is absolutely an adjective when you look like that."

He turns you gently by the waist until you're facing him instead of the mirror. Studies you—the snakes, the gold, the liner, the bare shoulders.

"Give me a spin?"

"A spin?"

"A twirl. I want the full three-sixty."

You groan but you do it—skirt flaring with the movement so the slit opens and the chain belt catches the light and for one stupid second you feel like a kid at prom.

Self-conscious and a little ridiculous and hoping someone thinks you're pretty.

When you come back around, Jason's face confirms it.

He thinks you're pretty.

"The skirt's too short," you hear yourself say.

Because of course you do. Because you can't just take the compliment and let it sit there, can you.

Can't just let someone look at you like that without immediately offering them a reason not to.

"It's not too short."

"Jason. My entire thigh is out. Like—the whole thing. If I bend over, people are going to see my—"

"It's not too short." Firmer this time. "You look incredible. You look like you could turn every guy at that party to stone and not even feel bad about it."

A pause. Small smile.

"Which, given the costume, is kind of the point."

He spins you so you’re facing the mirror again, and he presses his lips to your shoulder. Stays there a beat.

Your eyes stay on the sink.

On the marble. The scattered bobby pins. The cap of Irya's liner.

Small things. Ground-level things.

He says your name.

Not babe, not Medusa, not anything playful. Just your name, and the way he says it has weight behind it—the careful weight of something he's been holding for a while and has finally decided to set down.

"I want to talk about something."

His reflection's looking at yours. Waiting.

You watch the small, private smile form at the corners of his mouth—patient, warm, the kind that doesn't ask for anything back.

And you're quiet for long enough that it becomes a statement.

Long enough that the word skeptical is still sitting in your sternum, lodged there, growing a little larger the way an inconvenient word does when you don't deal with it immediately.

Why did he need to include that.

Skeptical. Like it required convincing. Like Medusa was something he had to come around to, some compromise he generously decided to accept.

"Why skeptical?" you hear yourself say.

He blinks. Loosens slightly around you. "Sorry?"

"About Medusa." You keep your voice even. Even is good. Even is controlled. "You said you were skeptical. Why?"

"I just meant—costume-wise, it can be hard to—"

"It's a smart costume." The thread tightens. Just a little. "She's not a monster because she was one. She's a monster because someone decided her pain was inconvenient and turned it into a story about a pretty face that kills things. And then everyone dresses up as Perseus, the hero, like he didn't just—"

"I didn't mean it like—" He breathes out. Careful. "I'm sorry. I didn't think you cared that much."

The knot pulling at your throat goes tighter.

"It's not that I care that much, Jason," you say, forcing the anger to recede, picking words carefully.

Because you only get to say this once before it becomes A Thing, and you don't want it to become A Thing, you just want it to be true

"I just." A breath. "I didn't want to be Virginia Woolf. I know that's what we talked about and I know the pairing would've been cohesive and you would've looked great and everyone would've gotten it immediately. But Virginia Woolf is—she's yours. She fits your costume. And I would've just been the matching piece."

Your eyes finally lift to your own reflection.

To the snakes and the liner and the chain belt sitting low on your hips.

"I didn't want to dilute myself just to be a good mold to your costume."

Silence.

Jason's chest doesn't move for a second behind you.

He opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Your phone buzzes on the counter. Then again.

You glance down automatically—reflex that makes you check your phone when you're mid-conversation even though you know it's rude and you hate that about yourself.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚍𝚘 𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 7 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚜

Seven closets. He’s opened seven closets in a house that isn’t his, looking for towels, and his first instinct is to text you about it.

Can he be more bored. Seriously.

You type back before the thought finishes forming.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚐

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚍𝚘𝚐

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚗𝚒𝚡 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜

You almost send ’dogs don't have hooves that's literally the whole point’ but Jason's still standing behind you and you're being—rude.

You lock the phone. Set it face-down on the counter.

When you look up, Jason's eyes are on your wrist.

The bracelet.

It lasts maybe two seconds. Maybe less.

"Sorry," you say, turning to face him fully. "You were saying something?"

Jason blinks. The furrow between his brows flattens.

Whatever sentence he'd been running through internal quality control, whatever thought he'd carried into this bathroom with that careful look on his face, it folds itself up and slides neatly behind his smile.

"Nothing." He shakes his head. "It can wait. Should we head down?"

"Yeah."

You grab the lipstick Irya left—the dark berry one, last layer—and swipe it on without checking the mirror.

"Yeah, let's go before Yeji starts a revolution without us."

He holds out his hand.

You take it. His fingers are dry and warm and they close around yours as the tiny rain charm digs gently into the web of his thumb.

Jason doesn't mention it.

The party is louder than it has any right to be for a house that still has doilies on the armrests.

Tessa's grandparents' living room has been transformed into something between a haunted speakeasy and a Brooklyn warehouse rave, which shouldn't work but somehow does—string lights swapped for orange and purple, candles in jack-o-lanterns lining the mantle, a fog machine somebody smuggled in chugging away in the corner near the fireplace and making everything look like a cologne commercial directed by Tim Burton.

The furniture's been pushed to the walls to make a dance floor that nobody's really using yet because it's that stage of the night—too early to dance, too late to pretend you're not drinking.

You're three sips into something Hobi made that tastes like liquid Jolly Rancher and almost certainly has enough vodka to dissolve tooth enamel, and you're doing that thing where you stand near enough to a group to appear social without actually having to contribute to conversation.

It's an art form, really. You've perfected it.

Jason, on the other hand, doesn't need to fake it.

He's across the room with a cluster of Tessa's film friends—Dylan the Nolan disciple, a girl dressed as Mia Wallace who's been twirling her wig all night, and two guys whose names you immediately forgot because they introduced themselves at the same time and your brain just filed them both under ’beard.’

Jason's laughing at something one of them said, drink in hand, posture open, doing that thing where he touches people's arms when he talks.

Not in a sleazy way.

It’s rather a ‘I'm genuinely interested in what you're saying and I want you to know that’ way.

He's good at this. Effortlessly, irritatingly good.

Someone asks about his research and he gives an answer that's smart without being condescending, funny without trying too hard, and brief enough that it invites a follow-up instead of shutting the conversation down.

This is what a functional adult in a social setting looks like.

This is what it looks like when someone doesn't treat every group interaction like a hostage negotiation.

You should take notes.

He catches your eye from across the room and winks.

You know him enough to understand that’s his way of saying ‘I see you standing there alone and I think you're beautiful and I'll come rescue you in a minute.’

You half-smile back and take another sip of Hobi's chemical weapon.

The middle couch is where you end up twenty minutes later, wedged between Jason and the arm rest, his hand resting on your knee over the drape of your skirt. Hobi's holding court from the floor, cross-legged, telling a story about a Broadway choreographer who threw a shoe at him during tech rehearsal.

"—and I'm standing there, holding the pose, and this man—this grown, adult, Tony-nominated man—just hurls a Capezio at my head—"

"Did it hit you?" Mia Wallace asks, riveted.

"It hit the mirror. Behind me. Seven years bad luck. Which, honestly, explains my entire 2022."

Laughter ripples around the group.

You're smiling too—Hobi's delivery is genuinely good, theatrical in a way that knows it's theatrical, which is the difference between annoying and magnetic.

And that's when you notice it.

Across the room. The other couch. The smaller one, the loveseat tucked into the alcove by the bookshelf where the lighting is dimmer because the nearest jack-o-lantern burned out an hour ago and nobody replaced it.

Yoongi's sitting there.

Which isn't unusual—Yoongi gravitates toward the darkest, quietest corner of any room like it's a biological imperative.

What is unusual is that he's sitting there with Jimin, and they're not just near each other, they're—close.

Jimin's angled toward him, one leg tucked underneath him on the cushion, and his knee is touching Yoongi's thigh. Just resting there. Casual. Like it landed and neither of them bothered to move it.

Yoongi's talking.

Yoongi is talking.

Not in his usual three-word-maximum, energy-conservation style. He's actually saying something—mouth moving, gestures happening, and whatever it is has Jimin leaning in closer with that soft focus he gets, the one where his whole face goes quiet and attentive like everything else in the room has been muted.

Yoongi says something and Jimin laughs—not loud, not the bright startled one from the bathroom earlier. A different one. Low and warm and aimed downward, like he's trying to keep it between them. His hand comes up and lands on Yoongi's knee, a brief pressure, and stays there for a beat too long to be nothing before lifting.

Yoongi doesn't react.

Which, if you know Yoongi—and you're starting to—is itself a reaction.

Because Yoongi reacts to being touched the way most people react to being handed a live fish.

He flinches. He shifts. He creates distance with the efficiency of someone who's been practicing it for years.

He doesn't flinch.

He keeps talking.

Huh.

"—and then he sent me an edible arrangement the next day," Hobi finishes, throwing his hands up. "With a card. 'Sorry about the shoe. You were flat on the eight-count.' I was not flat on the eight-count—"

"You were a little flat," Yoongi calls from the alcove without looking up.

Hobi gasps with his entire torso. "Min Yoongi. From the peanut gallery."

"You’ve told me this story already, and you ended up admitting you were flat."

"I was expressive."

"You were a half-beat behind and your hip alignment was off. You literally told me."

Jimin bites his lip. Tries not to smile. Fails.

The conversation then drifts—costumes, classes, someone's roommate horror story that makes your living situation look downright idyllic—and at some point Dylan brings up a film festival submission deadline that loops in half the room.

Jason's arm stretches along the back of the couch behind you, not quite around your shoulders but present, and you settle into the warmth of it without thinking.

"What about you?" Dylan points his beer at you. Scooby-Doo villain energy, this guy, at all times. "You're an English major, right? You got any thoughts on adaptation? Like, book-to-film—when does it work, when does it fall apart?"

You open your mouth.

"Oh, she's big on fidelity to source material," Jason says, squeezing your knee.

He turns to Dylan with that easy, confident delivery—the one that works so well in seminar rooms and networking events and everywhere else where knowing the answer before you're asked is an asset.

"She thinks most adaptations fail because directors prioritize their own vision over the author's intent. Right, babe?"

Babe.

The word lands weird. Not bad, just—new. He's never called you that in front of people before.

But also—

"That's not exactly—"

"No, I get it," Dylan says, nodding like Jason just delivered a TED Talk. "The auteur problem. The director overwrites the text."

"I mean, it's more complicated than that." You shift forward slightly, Jason's hand sliding to your lower back with the movement. "Fidelity isn't really the point. A slavishly faithful adaptation can still be a bad movie. It's more about—understanding what the source is actually doing. What it's exploring emotionally, structurally. And then finding the cinematic equivalent of that. Not copying the plot. Translating the experience."

You pause. Feel the room's attention, which you didn't ask for and don't love.

"Like, ’No Country for Old Men’ isn't great because it followed the McCarthy novel beat for beat. It's great because the Coens understood what the book felt like—that dread, that silence, the sense that violence is arbitrary and meaningless—and they found a way to put that feeling on screen. The adaptation is faithful to the mood, not the manuscript."

Silence. Dylan blinks.

"Shit. Yeah, okay, that's actually—yeah."

Jason's thumb strokes your back. "That's what I meant," he says lightly.

It wasn't.

It wasn't what he meant, because what he said was fidelity to source material and what you said was the opposite of that, and the difference matters—it matters to you, at least, in the way that precision always matters to someone who chose a career built on the exact right word in the exact right place.

But nobody else caught the discrepancy, and Jason's already nodding like your answer was a more eloquent extension of his, and correcting him further would make you look petty, would make you look like the girl who can't let things go, and so you—

Let it go.

Sip your drink. Lean back. Feel his hand warm and steady on your spine.

It's fine.

He was trying to include you. Trying to make you look good.

It came from a kind place, even if it landed in a wrong one, and you're being—you're being oversensitive. 

You know this.

You're premenstrual and overcaffeinated and you've been on edge since the shower and the orange and the pool and the towel texts and the bracelet pressing into Jason's thumb, and you're looking for reasons to be irritated because irritation is easier than whatever the alternative is.

So you let it go. Take a deep breath.

Jason kisses your temple.

"You're the smartest person in this room," he murmurs against your hair.

Then he should let you finish your own sentences.

The thought surfaces fast and mean and you drown it in Jolly Rancher vodka before it can take root.

Jason's hand slides to your waist, and you let yourself be pulled into the shape of him—shoulder against chest, hip against hip, the cedar warmth of his cologne settling over you like a second layer of clothing.

And it's—good.

It's warm and solid and the room's too loud and your cramps are creeping back and there's something genuinely, uncomplicated nice about being held by someone who runs warm when you run cold.

He laughs at something Hobi says and the vibration travels through his ribcage into your spine, and you let your eyes close for half a second. Just long enough to take inventory.

Safe.

That's the word. Not fireworks, not a defibrillator to the chest, just—safe.

Predictable in the way that the good things are supposed to be predictable, like sunrise, like your coffee order, like gravity.

Nothing's going to lurch sideways. Nobody's pulling a rug.

You can work with safe.

You open your eyes. Do the room scan—automatic, compulsive, the background app your brain refuses to close.

Hobi on the floor mid-anecdote. Dylan nodding too hard. Taehyung gesturing with a full drink, which means somebody's getting baptized in vodka before the hour's up. Yoongi and Jimin still in the alcove.

No Yeji.

You frown. Scan again. No Irya either, but Irya follows Yeji the way weather follows the jet stream, so locating one solves both.

"Hey." You tilt your head back against Jason's shoulder. "Have you seen Yeji?"

"The one with the—"

"Combat boots. Permanent scowl. Weaponized eyeliner."

He scans. Shakes his head. "Not since she came downstairs. Maybe outside?"

You should find her.

A Yeji without a check-in is a Yeji who's either having the best night of her life or about to commit a felony, and the probability split on that is genuinely fifty-fifty.

"I'm gonna go look." You peel yourself from his side, which requires actual effort because he doesn't let go immediately—fingers pressing into your hip for one more beat, a gentle parenthesis, before releasing.

"Want company?"

"No, stay. I'll be quick."

He catches your hand. Brings it to his mouth. Presses his lips to your knuckles like he's in a Brontë novel and not a fog-machine-haunted living room in Greenwich Village.

"Hurry back, Medusa."

Okay. Charming. Fully charming. No notes.

You weave through the living room, sidestep the fog machine's overzealous output and a Joker whose purple coattails are a legitimate trip hazard, and check the kitchen (empty except for two people arguing about whether Aperol Spritz counts as a cocktail), the back porch (smokers, no Yeji), and the bathroom (locked, muffled giggling, not touching that).

Which leaves upstairs.

The staircase swallows the party noise in increments—each step trades bass for silence until you're on the second-floor landing and the music's just a pulse in the floorboards.

The lighting situation up here is borderline criminal: one wall sconce, two guttering electric candles, and the fog machine's runoff creeping along the baseboard like something from a Hammer horror film.

And when you turn, suddenly, you see Ghostface.

Tall. Dark robe. Hood up. That white mask with its long, warped scream tilted toward you in the dim corridor, standing in the doorway of the study like the house generated him. Hands loose at his sides. Still as furniture.

Your pulse bumps. Once. Involuntary.

You know it's him.

The bump is because of the mask.

Because your body has a whole filing system for the mask thing that operates independently of your prefrontal cortex, and the file is labeled with a conversation you should never have had on a warehouse with Mr. Stupid over here.

Mr. Stupid who’s currently standing in a dark hallway wearing the exact thing you told him about.

The mask tilts. Slow. That measured Ghostface head-cock, curious and considering, and the precision of it tells you he's been waiting for someone to walk by.

Probably specifically you.

Probably for longer than is psychologically normal.

"What took you so long?" you say, crossing your arms. "I expected this ambush like twenty minutes ago."

A beat. The mask stares.

"Couldn't find a dark enough hallway?" You gesture at the sconce behind him. "This one's actually pretty well-lit, Ro. By your standards."

His hand comes up. Pushes the mask over his forehead.

Flushed. Sweaty at the hairline. Hair wrecked from the hood—pushed back and falling forward simultaneously, a physics anomaly that should look stupid and does not. Dark eyes already mid-laugh before his mouth catches up.

"I've been up here for twelve minutes," he says, and he sounds genuinely aggrieved about it. "Tae walked by and didn't even flinch. Hobi waved."

"Devastating. Truly. Your career in psychological terror is off to a flying start."

"I had a whole routine planned. The slow walk. The head tilt. The hand trailing along the wall."

"And you wasted it on an empty hallway."

"I wasted it on Taehyung, who asked me if I'd seen the bathroom." He leans against the doorframe, arms folded across the black robe. "I blame the mask. Hard to hide my recognizable handsomeness behind it."

"Wouldn't have thought that'd be the hard part." You make a show of looking him up and down—the robe, the boots, the whole ensemble. "Given your ego, I mean. That one’s impossible to hide."

"Funny." He's grinning now. "That's funny, Nix. You're funny."

"I know."

"I do have a bigger thing that needed hiding, for the record, but the robe's actually pretty accommodating—"

"Oh, god—"

"—surprisingly roomy in the front, good ventilation—"

"That is the weakest thing you've ever said to me and you once called coffee a 'warrior's drink' with a straight face."

"Coffee is a warrior's drink. That's objective." He points at you. "You're a tea person. Your opinion on this is constitutionally invalid."

"My opinion on your dick joke is constitutionally invalid because I drink tea?"

"See, you said dick joke, which means you understood the reference, which means it wasn't weak, so I kinda win."

You press your lips together. Hard.

Because the laugh trying to escape is not going to make it out.

It's not.

You refuse to give him the satisfaction of landing a joke that was, at best, a C-minus on the execution scale, even if the delivery had that specific deadpan energy he does where his face stays almost serious and only his eyes give it away—bright, pleased, watching you fight yourself.

He sees it. Obviously he sees it.

"You're holding it in."

"I'm not holding anything in."

"Your jaw is doing the thing."

"I don't have a thing—"

"The thing where you bite the inside of your cheek because you'd rather die than let me see you laugh. That thing. It's happening right now."

You make a sound that is categorically not a laugh. It's a scoff. An exhale. A brief, involuntary release of air that happens to travel through your nose in a way that sounds adjacent to amusement but is, in fact, disdain.

His grin widens. "Knew it."

"Shut up."

"Never."

You roll your eyes—full rotation, the kind that strains the actual muscle—and you're about to turn and walk away, leave him to his empty hallway and his failed Ghostface career, when you notice him putting the mask back on.

It’s crooked in an angle that's making him look less ‘iconic horror villain’ and more ‘drunk frat guy who forgot which way the visor goes.’

The elastic strap is caught on his ear in a way that probably itches but he hasn't fixed because he's too busy being pleased with himself to notice he looks ridiculous.

You step forward.

Close the distance before the thought fully forms—two steps, maybe three, until you're right there, in front of him.

Your fingers find the edge of the mask. Adjust the strap where it's snagged on the cartilage of his ear—gentle, careful, a small correction that takes maybe four seconds and requires you to be close.

"There." Your voice comes out quieter than you planned. "You were crooked."

He hasn't moved. That's the thing. He hasn't moved at all. Hasn't leaned back, hasn't turned his head, hasn't done any of the things a normal human does when someone gets into their space uninvited.

He's just—still. Looking down at you with an expression that's lost the grin but kept the heat behind it.

"You got awfully close for that, Nix," said in that shit-eating smug tone of his. "That necessary?"

You drop your hand. Step back.

Smack stupid his shoulder—firm, open-palmed, the kind of hit that's more punctuation than violence.

"Don't be weird about it."

"I'm not being weird. You're being weird. You came to me."

"Your mask was crooked. I fixed it. That's called being a decent person."

"That's called finding an excuse to touch me."

"I will end your life."

"Promises, promises."

He pushes off the doorframe, unfolding himself to full height, and his gaze drops.

Not to your face. Lower. To the slit of the skirt, the length of your thigh, the gold chain belt sitting low on your hips.

He takes his time about it—not leering, not predatory, but thorough in a way that makes your skin heat.

The grin returns, but different. Sharper at the edges.

Knowing.

"That's a lotta leg for a house party, Phee."

And normally—normally—you'd volley this back.

But.

Something about the fact that you already had this exact anxiety in the bathroom mirror an hour ago and Jason's reassurance helped but didn't fix it…

"I know," you hear yourself say. Quieter than you meant to. "It's—a bit short, right?"

His grin flattens. Something else takes its place—attention. The sudden, focused kind, like a lens snapping into resolution.

He looks at you. Really looks, in a way that's different from the look three seconds ago.

"Hold on." His voice drops the tease entirely, levels out to something almost gentle. "Seriously?"

"It's fine. It's not—"

"Give me your hand."

"What?"

"Hand. Give it."

You give it. Automatic.

His fingers close around yours—warm, dry, the silver ring cool against your knuckle—and he lifts your arm, stepping back to create space between you.

"Turn."

"I'm not—"

"Nix. Spin."

You spin. Slowly, because the hallway's narrow and because his hand is guiding you at a pace that's measured—not the playful twirl Jason asked for downstairs.

This feels… different.

He's looking at the hemline, the fall of the fabric, the way the slit moves when you turn. Checking where it hits, how high it rides, what shows and what doesn't.

You come back around. He's still holding your hand.

"You're safe."

"You're—"

"It's short. But it's short in a completely accurate way." He says this with the conviction of someone delivering a professional opinion. "The slit opens when you walk but it falls back. Nothing's showing that you don't want showing. The chain keeps the drape in place. And the corset balances out the leg—it reads intentional, not accidental."

You blink.

He notices your reaction—or lack of one—and he shrugs.

"I'm a film major. I know how costumes read on camera. And in person."

A beat.

"You look good. Don't fuck with it."

Something in your chest loosens. Not all the way. But enough.

"Since when do you know anything about women's hemlines?"

"Since I spent three semesters studying costume design as visual narrative." He crosses his arms, leaning back against the wall. "Also, I have eyes, Nix."

"Debatable."

"Fully functional, twenty-twenty, and currently appreciating the commitment to the Medusa bit."

He nods toward your hair—the gold chains threaded through it, the snake earrings.

"The detail work's good. Yeji?"

"Yeji and Irya."

"Figures."

His gaze lingers on the snake cuff wrapped around your bicep. Then moves to the corset. Then—for a beat too long—to your face. The eyeliner Jimin did. The dark berry lip.

He's quiet for a second.

"It's a very interesting costume," he says finally. Slow. Choosing each word like he's placing stones across a river. "Especially the part where Medusa’s whole power is that men can't stop looking at her."

His eyes don't leave yours.

"Even though they know it'll destroy them."

The hallway shrinks.

"Even though they've been warned."

Don't react. Do not react.

"That's—" You swallow. "That's not really the feminist reading of the myth."

"Wasn't going for feminist."

His grin comes back. Slow. One side first, then the other, like it's uncurling.

Something behind your ribcage does a thing you refuse to name.

It has syllables. It has a shape. It sits in the space between your lungs like a word you swallowed before it made it to your mouth and now it's just lodged there, taking up room, refusing to dissolve.

He pushes off the wall. Steps forward—directly toward you, directly through the space you're occupying, because Jungkook doesn't take the available path when the unavailable one runs through you.

And the smell. That smell. Cutting through the fog machine haze and the lingering cedar of Jason's cologne that's still on your skin from being held—

Rain.

Clean, specific, impossible rain, the kind that doesn't come from a bottle, it only exists as him—and it hits your bloodstream like a door opening in a room you thought was sealed.

He's past you. Three steps. Five.

And right before he rounds the corner, just before the dark and the fog fold over him completely—

"Was going for accurate."

By the time you make it back downstairs, the house has gone feral.

There’s a guy in a Roman centurion costume doing a body shot off somebody dressed like a Playboy bunny near the dining table, beer pong has taken over one whole corner of the living room, and Hobi is standing on the hearth in a white tank top with fake chest hair yelling rules at people like he’s the glitter-coated cruise director of hell.

Everything is louder than before. It feels like the whole place tipped over while you were upstairs and just kept rolling.

And okay. Maybe you’re a little fuzzy too. Pleasantly blurred around the edges.

Three—no, four—of Hobi’s homicidal Jolly Rancher concoctions sitting warm in your bloodstream, enough that the staircase feels a little softer under your feet and everyone’s costumes look half a shade more ridiculous than they did an hour ago.

Ridiculous includes Yeji and Irya, who choose that exact moment to stumble in through the open french doors from the courtyard looking like the world’s hottest antique disaster.

You stop dead.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

They both look up. Freeze. Exchange one of those guilty little glances that immediately answers the question before either of them opens their mouth.

Yeji’s in a black frock coat, lace at the throat, sole sort of corset (so Irya managed to get it on her after all), dark hair slicked back, mouth stained a theatrical wine-red that has definitely migrated past the lip line because Irya was probably the one applying it and then got distracted by being horny in a courtyard.

Irya, meanwhile, is all pale silk and velvet and luminous blonde curls, fake blood at the corner of her mouth, eyes glassy with delight.

Louis and Lestat. Obviously.

Of course they would pick the sluttiest possible interpretation of Interview with the Vampire and then look smug about it.

“Where the fuck were you?” you ask, intercepting them before they can drift past. “I’ve been looking for you two.”

“Shhhh,” Irya says immediately, pressing a finger to her lips, then bursting into laughter at her own shushing.

Yeji squints at you with exaggerated concentration. “Why are you so loud.”

“Oh my god. You two are high.”

Another shared glance. Another collapse into giggles.

“Jesus,” you say, because wow. “You are actually high.”

“Dylan made brownies,” Irya says.

Yeji hums. “They’re in the kitchen, by the way. Left side of the island. On the ugly orange plate.”

“The one shaped like a leaf,” Irya clarifies helpfully.

“You left me alone with film bros and Jason’s terrifying ability to make eye contact with strangers,” you tell them. “As friends, I don’t think that was very feminist of you.”

Yeji pats your shoulder with immense gravity. “As a feminist, I believe in your resilience.”

“As your actual friend,” Irya says, leaning in with a grin too wide to be trusted, “you look insanely hot.”

“Insanely,” Yeji echoes.

Then, because the night enjoys making a mockery of stability, they drift off again toward the living room like two beautifully stoned lesbians returning to sea, and you’re left standing there watching them go.

High. Great. Perfect. Incredible support system.

Still, brownies.

You cut through the crowd, past beer pong and a Frankenstein making out with Cleopatra against the bookshelf, and make your way to the island.

Ugly orange plate. Leaf-shaped.

There it is.

The brownies look offensively normal. Just little square chunks of domestic treachery sitting beside mixers, solo cups, a bowl of limes, and—randomly—a tiny bottle of vanilla extract someone must’ve dragged out while raiding Tessa’s baking supplies for god knows what reason.

You reach for a brownie.

“Boo.”

You jump so hard your hand smacks the counter.

“Oh, fuck you—”

Jungkook’s laugh comes warm and low, right by your ear, and then you realize why your pulse just shot into your throat: he’s got both hands planted on the counter on either side of your hips, boxing you in without actually touching you, leaning down just enough that his voice lands against the shell of your ear instead of in the room where it belongs.

Seriously. Personal space means nothing to him tonight.

You turn around and there he is, too close and very obviously enjoying himself.

Ghostface robe, hood down now. Mask gone, and you don’t even wanna ask where the fuck he left it. Hair a mess. Eyes a little glassy. Mouth curled up at one corner like he cannot believe he got that reaction out of you.

“Seriously now I scared you?” he says. “Phoenix. C’mon.”

“I wasn’t expecting to get ambushed in a kitchen.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“That sounds like you’re insufferable.”

“Only because it works.”

It does. Which is deeply irritating.

He doesn’t move back. Doesn’t seem interested in moving back. Just stays there braced around you, heat pouring off him in lazy waves of whatever weed does to his usual edges.

Softer, maybe. Looser.

Not less cocky, though. If anything, worse.

Because sober Jungkook is already a menace.

Baked Jungkook apparently comes with reduced respect for linear thought and increased interest in hovering.

You open your mouth to tell him exactly that and then notice his focus slipping.

Not far. Just over your shoulder.

His gaze goes past you, unfocused for a second, snagging on something on the counter.

You follow it automatically and—

Vanilla.

The stupid little bottle of extract sitting there with the cap on.

When you look back at him, his eyes are on your mouth.

Not your eyes. Your mouth.

Dilated, dazed a little, like his brain took a scenic detour and he’s still making the trip back. His throat moves when he swallows.

And okay. Great. Great, actually. Because your body, which has never once in its life chosen dignity, immediately clocks the look and reacts accordingly.

You fold your arms just so you have something to do with them. “You stalking the baking supplies now?”

His mouth twitches.

“Maybe.”

“Take a brownie like a normal drug user.”

“Already had one.”

“That explains a lot.”

“Does it?” His gaze flicks down slowly, then back up. “Thought I was being pretty subtle.”

“You’re incapable of subtlety.”

He bites his lip for half a second, trying—and failing—to hide the smile threatening at the edges.

It makes him look modest and filthier at the same time, which really shouldn’t be possible but seems to be one of his more annoying talents.

Your eyes flick, traitorous, to his mouth.

He catches that too. Obviously. Obviously, Jungkook catches it.

His head tips slightly toward the tiny bottle on the counter.

“Dunno,” he says, voice gone a little rough now. “Craving cookies.”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

Cookie.

Is he serious.

The fucking nerve of this man.

“You’re unbearable when you’re sober,” you tell him. “This is worse.”

“And you’re prettier when you’re pissed off,” he says, immediate and easy, like it isn’t even a line. “So I guess we both came out ahead.”

Your brain does not so much short-circuit as flare out in little blue sparks.

Because there’s no room to recover from that when he says it like that.

Not smooth or rehearsed or remotely thought-out.

Simply dropped between you like he reached into the air and set it down.

You scoff because what else are you supposed to do.

“Did the brownie make you stupid?”

“Made me honest.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“For you maybe.”

“For you, actually. You’re the one talking like a horny baker.”

That gets him. His tongue presses briefly into his cheek and the smile he was holding back wins, slow and mean and stupidly gorgeous.

“Yeah?” he says. “And what’re you doing standing here smelling like dessert if not trying to start a problem?”

You hate him.

You hate that you know exactly what he means.

“It’s called soap, Ro.”

“Mhm.”

“It’s called basic hygiene.”

“Mhm,” again, but distracted this time, because his eyes drop to your mouth one more time and linger there long enough that it feels less like a glance and more like a hand.

There’s music thudding ten feet away. People yelling over pong balls and shots and somebody in a devil mask chanting “chug, chug, chug!”

The whole room is one big flashing idiot machine and somehow this little patch of counter feels cut out from it.

Just you, and him, and a brownie and that stupid bottle of vanilla extract sitting ominously.

A series of terrible, terrible life choices queuing politely in the wings.

“What,” you say, because your voice has come out thinner than you’d like and you resent that. “You gonna write me a shopping list now? Flour, eggs, one functioning brain cell?”

He leans in a fraction—not much, but it makes his grin gain a private edge.

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether I get the cookie.”

You hold his gaze for a beat too long.

Two beats.

Three.

Then you reach behind you, snag a brownie off the ugly leaf plate, and shove it directly into his mouth.

His eyes go wide with genuine surprise before his teeth close reflexively around the edge and your fingers come back dusted with cocoa and crumbs.

"There," you say. "Cookie."

He chews, slowly, looking at you like you just performed a magic trick he's still trying to reverse-engineer.

"'At was a brownie," he says, mouth full, barely intelligible.

"Congratulations. You've been promoted from horny baker to food critic."

He swallows. Licks a crumb off his lower lip. Grins.

"Not the cookie I meant, Nix."

"Yeah, well. That's the cookie you got. Consider it a gift."

"A gift."

"A charitable donation. From me to you. Because you looked hungry and sad."

"I looked hungry and sad."

"Standing in a kitchen at a party with a Ghostface robe and no mask. That's textbook hungry and sad."

He huffs out a laugh—half through his nose, half through his chest—and finally, finally pushes off the counter. Moves back enough that you can breathe without inhaling petrichor, though his warmth lingers in the space he vacated like a stain on the air.

You grab your own brownie. Bite into it. It's dense, fudgy, and hits the chocolate craving your uterus has been screaming about for the last forty-eight hours with the precision of a guided missile.

Also, it is absolutely laced.

You take another bite anyway.

"Real question," you say, chewing, gesturing at the living room behind you where the noise has reached a pitch that suggests property damage. "Why are you lurking in the kitchen? Shouldn't you be out there doing shots with the centurion or whatever?"

He leans his hip against the counter beside you. Arms crossed. Casual. The robe hangs open over a black t-shirt that's doing things to his chest that no cotton-polyester blend should be legally allowed to do.

"Already did." He holds up three fingers. Counts them off. "Tequila, something Hobi poured that I think was Midori, and a Jell-O shot from the Playboy bunny."

"Three shots and a brownie."

"Four shots. There was one earlier that I'm counting separately because Tae dared me to take it without hands."

"Without—how do you take a shot without hands?"

"With difficulty and zero dignity." He mimes something with his head that looks like a chicken drinking water. "The centurion filmed it. It's on like four people's stories."

You snort. Actually snort, which you will deny under oath.

"So you've peaked already. That's what you're saying."

"Peaked, plateaued, entered my reflective era. I'm in the kitchen now. This is where the intellectuals gather."

"The intellectuals and the brownies."

"Same thing after enough THC."

You finish the first brownie. The chocolate is still thick on your tongue and the cramps are a dull throb behind your navel and you already know you're going to eat a second one because your willpower around edibles is roughly equivalent to your willpower around—

Nope. Not finishing that thought.

You grab another brownie. He watches you do it with his eyebrows slightly raised.

"That's your second."

"Astute observation."

"Those are—you know those aren't regular brownies, right?"

"I'm aware."

"Two of those, plus whatever Hobi put in your cup—"

"Is this a lecture? Are you lecturing me right now? In that robe? I know you’re not lecturing me in a robe."

"What’s wrong with my—anyway, I'm just saying. Those hit different than smoking. There's a delay."

"I've had edibles before, Ro."

"When?"

"Sometimes? Like a normal person?"

"Mhm." He looks unconvinced but doesn't push it, which is mature of him.

Almost suspiciously mature.

You bite into the second brownie. Let the chocolate do its work.

A beat passes. The bass thumps from the other room. Somebody shrieks with laughter—high, delighted, the sound of someone having the kind of fun you're supposed to be having instead of eating your horniness in a kitchen with a man dressed like a serial killer.

"Honestly though," you say, quieter now, because the sugar's settling and the question's been sitting there since you found him in the hallway. "You okay? You've been lurking all night. The hallway thing. Now this."

He doesn't answer immediately.

His jaw works around something that isn't food.

"Yeah." A shrug. "Yeah, I'm fine. Parties are just—"

He trails off. Picks at the seam of his robe's sleeve. Rolls it between his thumb and forefinger in a way that looks idle but isn't—you've seen him do this before, back at the apartment, with guitar picks and pen caps and the cuff of whatever hoodie he's wearing.

"Parties are just what?"

He exhales. Quiet. Through his nose.

"Last big party I was at didn't end great."

The sentence comes out flattened. Ironed down to nothing, all the wrinkles pressed out until it's smooth and small and sounds like it costs him exactly zero to say, which means it costs him everything.

You wait.

He doesn't elaborate. Just keeps rolling the seam between his fingers, eyes on the counter, on the leaf-shaped plate, on nothing.

"My birthday, actually." A sound that wants to be a laugh. Doesn't make it. "Twenty-first. Big one, right? Supposed to be this whole—thing."

He gestures vaguely.

The gesture contains a birthday party, a thing that went wrong, and an entire universe of context he's not giving you.

"Wasn't."

Two syllables. That's all he gives it.

You set the half-eaten brownie down.

"Do you wanna talk about it?"

You watch movement travel the length of his throat—slow, visible, Adam's apple dipping and rising beneath the mole on the left side of his neck.

His eyes drop to the floor.

He stays there for what feels like a long time. Looking at the tile. At his boots. At the space between his feet where something's sitting that he can't or won't name, and you can see him deciding—frame by frame, like one of his film edits—how much of himself to put in this cut.

His tongue slides across his lower lip. Unconscious.

"Maybe later,” is said to the floor.

Then he lifts his head and the grin is back—thinner, working harder, held up by less scaffolding than usual—but it's there.

"I'll put it on the agenda. Right after 'bully Dylan about aspect ratios' and before 'steal Yoongi’s aux cord.'"

"That's a packed schedule."

"I'm a busy man, Nix."

You want to push. You want to ask. You’re feeling the same exact urge that makes you crack open a book's spine too far.

You don't push.

Because you know what it sounds like when someone says ’maybe later’ and means ’not here, not yet, not with this many people and this much noise and this little distance between the version of me that can talk about it and the version that's standing in a kitchen trying to be funny.’

You know because you speak the same dialect.

"Your agenda should also include finding a better costume," you say instead, mild. "Ghostface without the mask is just a guy in a bath robe."

"Okay, seriously?" His jaw drops in absolute offense. "A guy in a bath robe?"

"A guy at a Marriott. Heading to the continental breakfast."

"Take that back."

"I will not."

"This robe cost forty dollars."

"From the Marriott gift shop?"

"From the warehouse we bought the costumes from, you absolute—"

You take another bite. Smaller this time, savoring it, because this brownie is doing more for your emotional wellbeing than three years of therapy and a Lexapro prescription combined.

Jungkook’s eyes track the movement.

“Give me a bite.”

“Get your own.”

“You’re literally standing in front of the plate.”

“So extend your arm.” You gesture at the counter behind you, where the ugly leaf plate sits with at least four brownies still on it. “They’re right there. Use your limbs. You have two of them.”

“I want that one.”

“This one is mine. I picked it up. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

“That’s for property.”

“Brownies are property.”

He makes a grab for it and you yank it back, holding it behind your hip, and he’s doing that thing where he leans into your space instead of going around you because apparently the concept of a detour doesn’t exist in his spatial vocabulary—

And then.

Fast.

He ducks forward and licks a broad stripe right across the top of the brownie. Tongue flat. Maintaining eye contact the entire time like a feral animal marking territory at the dinner table.

“Ew—”

“I licked it.” He pulls back, satisfied, the corner of his mouth shining with chocolate. “So it’s mine.”

You look at the brownie.

You look at him.

His tongue is still slightly out, the tip resting against his lower lip, and he’s waiting. Waiting for you to flinch, to drop it, to concede the territory like any reasonable person would when someone has just deposited their saliva on your dessert.

You hold eye contact.

Bring the brownie to your mouth.

Bite.

Slowly.

Right over the wet streak his tongue left.

Chew. Swallow. Don’t blink.

His throat bobs on a swallow that has nothing to do with food and his teeth catch his bottom lip, pressing down in a way that blanches the skin white for half a second before releasing.

You tilt your head. Innocent. Mild.

“Hm?”

His nostrils flare.

And then his hand—

It happens so fast you don’t process it as a sequence. Just a blur of warm fingers closing around your wrist and then pain—sharp, sudden, startling—his teeth sinking into the hand junction, right below the thumb, hard enough to dent.

“OW—what the f—”

Not a nibble. Not playful. An actual bite, the flat of his front teeth pressing into the soft flesh, jaw clenched for one pulsing second before releasing, and your brain is still buffering—still running the input through quality control—

Did that just happen, did he just BITE you in a KITCHEN at a PARTY—

You shove him. Both hands, flat against his chest, and he staggers—actually staggers, catching himself against the counter with one hand, the robe swinging with the momentum, and he’s laughing. Low, rough, that THC-loosened sound that comes from the depths of his lungs, eyes half-lidded and bright with the specific delight of someone who has zero impulse control and even less remorse.

“You bit me!”

“You started it.”

“I started—by eating a brownie?!”

“By eating it like that.”

He’s still braced on the counter, still grinning, and he looks—

He looks like someone who just acted on a thought he should’ve kept inside his skull and knows it and does not care even slightly.

“Consider us even.”

“We are not even! I’m going to have a bruise—”

You hold up your palm. There’s an actual indentation. A crescent of teeth marks pressed into the fleshy part below your thumb, stinging, very much real.

He glances at it. His grin doesn’t falter. If anything it gets worse.

“Looks good on you.”

Your palm throbs. Your face is hot. Your brain is running seven diagnostics simultaneously and none of them are returning coherent results because what the fuck just happened.

You’re still staring at him—at the chocolate still smudged at the corner of his mouth, at the lazy tilt of his head, at the way he’s looking at you like he’d do it again in a heartbeat and isn’t even pretending otherwise—

And that’s when your gaze drifts.

Jason.

Jason, who is looking at you.

At you.

Standing at the kitchen counter with Jungkook, both of you leaning on the same surface, body angled toward his, chocolate on your fingers and a grin you didn't authorize still fading from your face.

Fuck.

Okay.

Okay, is this—does this look like something?

From over there, with the fog machine and the low lighting and the way you're standing together, does this look like two roommates grabbing brownies, or does this look like what it used to be?

Does Jason know what it used to be?

No. He doesn't. He can't. There's no way, because you have never told him, and Jungkook sure as fuck hasn't told him, and nobody knows so this is fine. This is objectively fine.

It’s just. Two people. At a counter. Eating brownies and being friendly and platonic.

Just two roommates at a party.

Jason tips his glass at you from across the room. Tiny smile. Warm.

You return it. Wave with fingers that are definitely not shaking.

Then you push off the counter.

"I gotta go," you say. Bright. Too bright.

You can hear the overcorrection in your own voice and pray the THC in his system is doing enough damage to his perception that he misses it.

"Gotta go where?" He frowns. "We were just—"

"Places. Many places. People to see, Rogue. Parties to attend."

"You're at the party."

"Different part of the party. The part that's not this counter."

He stares at you. The frown deepens. Then smooths.

"Okay," he says. Easy. Too easy. "Go mingle. Turn some men to stone. It's what Medusa would want."

"Exactly."

"Try not to miss me."

"That has literally never been a risk."

You're already walking. Moving through the gap between the island and the stove with the focused momentum of someone who is very normal and not fleeing at all—

"Nix."

You half-turn.

He's still leaning on the counter, robe hanging open, brownie crumbs on his fingers, and looking at you with that expression.

The one that's nine-tenths grin and one-tenth something else entirely, the fraction he never lets anyone see for long enough to name.

"Circles."

One word. Tossed across the kitchen like a coin.

Your face goes hot so fast it's a medical event.

He turns back to the plate of brownies like that was nothing.

You are going to kill him.

Later. Right now you have somewhere to be that isn't here.

The living room is a blur of fog and noise and costumes and you cut through it on autopilot, scanning for an anchor—something to attach yourself to that isn't the counter you just left or the couch where Jason is probably still watching, still running his literary analysis on the body language of a girl who just stood too fucking close to her roommate.

And then you see them.

Jimin and Yoongi. Sitting on a loveseat.

Jimin's leaning in—really in, forehead practically at Yoongi's jaw—and he's saying something that makes Yoongi go very still.

Yoongi says something short. Jimin pulls back. Nods once.

Then Yoongi stands.

It's fluid (as usual, because everything Yoongi does is unhurried, the man refuses to grant any situation the courtesy of urgency) and he picks up his drink, says one more thing to Jimin that makes Jimin's mouth twitch, and then he's walking. Past you without acknowledgment because Yoongi doesn't do transitional greetings when he's mid-route. He's a man of efficiency.

Which leaves Jimin.

Alone on the loveseat.

In the dim alcove.

Looking at his hands.

You adjust your trajectory.

Swing wide around Tessa and the Mia Wallace girl (who apparently has mastered the slide movement), duck under Irika’s gesticulating arm—she's mid-story, wine sloshing dangerously—and come up behind the loveseat at an angle that puts you directly behind Jimin's unsuspecting shoulders.

You throw your arms around him from behind—full drape, both arms hooking over his shoulders, chin dropping onto the top of his head—and squeeze.

"BOO."

Jimin yelps—a short, high, full-body jolt that makes his drink almost go off the edge—and his free hand flies up to grab your forearm where it's crossed over his chest.

"Oh my GOD—"

"Gotcha."

"You—I almost—" He twists, craning his neck to look up at you, and his face is caught between genuine shock and the kind of outrage that's already dissolving into a laugh. "I almost spilled everywhere, you psycho—"

"Blame your boyfriend's friend," you say, squeezing tighter. "He scared me upstairs and I had nowhere to put the adrenaline."

"He's not my—" A strangled noise. "He is not my boyfriend."

"Mm."

"He's not."

"Sure."

“I mean it.”

“I believe you completely.”

“You don’t.”

“Mm, I do.”

He gives you a look over his shoulder that says ‘you are the worst liar I have ever met’ and opens his mouth—

“Speaking of believing things,” he says, deceptively mild, “do you want to explain the pool?”

You blink. “What pool.”

“The pool. The one you and Jungkook were in. Together. When I found you.”

“We were looking for clues.”

“You—” He twists to stare at you. “Both of you? Simultaneously? Into a heated pool?”

“Tessa’s thorough”

“His hands were on your—”

“What are you drinking?” You lean forward and grab his cup before he can finish that sentence. Bring it to your lips. It’s something sweet and tropical and probably Hobi’s doing. “Oh, this is good.”

“That’s mine—”

“It’s really good, actually. What is this?”

“Give that back—” He huffs.

But he just gives up, smart man. Tips his head back into the hollow of your collarbone again, skull warm and heavy against you, and his hand resettles on your wrist. Staying.

"You look really good, by the way," you tell the top of his head, leaving the cup in one of the nearby tables.

"Yeah?" He tilts to glance up at you, mouth doing that pleased little downturn it does when he's trying not to smile. "The blood was Irya's idea. She said Poe needed more 'visual tragedy.'"

"She was right. You look like a beautiful man who's about to die of tuberculosis in a gutter."

"That's... the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me?"

"You're welcome."

Jimin is nice to hold onto. He runs warm and stays still and doesn't make it weird, which is a vanishingly rare quality in a human being.

Your chin settles on his head. You do the room scan—automatic, compulsive—and it lands on Yoongi.

He’s across the room talking to someone you don’t recognize. Short, beanie pulled low, a citrus-colored drink in one hand. Easy posture. Expressive eyes. Gorgeous in a way that reads immediately even from across a fog-machined living room. Laughing at something Yoongi said, which is already notable because Yoongi isn’t funny. He’s dry and occasionally cutting and sometimes accidentally hilarious, but he doesn’t perform. Doesn’t work for a laugh.

He’s working right now.

Or—not working exactly. More like open. Relaxed in a way that’s different from his usual economy-of-movement stillness. His hands are actually moving when he talks.

“Who’s Yoongi talking to?”

A beat.

You feel it before you see it—the slight shift in Jimin’s shoulders under your arms. Like he needed a second to decide how to hold the question.

“Alex,” he says. “Yoongi’s friend from the industry circuit. Sound design.”

“She’s really pretty.”

“They.”

You blink. “Sorry?”

“They.” Jimin’s voice stays mild. “Alex uses they/them.”

“Oh.” A beat. Heat creeps up your neck, quiet and stupid. “I’m sorry. They’re really pretty.”

“They are,” Jimin says.

And then says nothing else, which is somehow louder than anything he could’ve added.

You look back at Yoongi. At the way he’s leaning in slightly—is he leaning in? Yoongi doesn’t lean. Yoongi stands at a fixed, calculated distance from all living things and dares them to close it.

…He’s definitely leaning.

Then you look at Jimin.

Jimin, who is looking at his drink.

Huh.

You narrow your eyes back at Yoongi.

And you decide it’s time to change the topic because you don’t like it when Jimin goes small like this.

So you play Jungkook’s card.

Make light of the conversation.

“Okay. Important question.” You adjust your chin on his head. "What the fuck is Yoongi supposed to be?"

Jimin's chest starts shaking before the sound comes out.

"Don't—" he manages, but the laugh is already breaking through, hiccupy and barely contained. "Don't make me—"

"Is he in costume? Was that his costume? Because it looks like he just... came as himself. In a black t-shirt. Which would actually be very on brand—"

"He's Skrillex."

You blink.

"I'm sorry?"

"Skrillex." Jimin is vibrating with it now, that full-body silent laughter where nothing comes out because the sound got stuck somewhere between his lungs and his throat. "He—he shaved one side."

"He did not."

"He didn't. He pushed it back with gel. And he has—" Jimin loses it. Actually loses it, shoulders heaving, voice cracking into a wheeze. "He has—clip-on—clip-on earrings. From Claire's."

"You are fucking joking."

"I am not. I watched him put them on." Jimin tips forward, both hands pressing against his mouth like he can physically hold the laughter in. "He stood in front of the bathroom mirror for twenty minutes doing the hair and then clipped on these—these dangly skull earrings from the teen section at Claire's and said 'this is fine' with a completely straight face—"

"Min Yoongi went to a Claire's."

"He went to a Claire's!"

"Min Yoongi—who once told me he doesn't believe in accessories as a concept—went to Claire's."

"To buy SKULL EARRINGS." Jimin wheezes so hard he coughs. His eyes are wet. His whole face is crumpled with the force of it. "From the rotating display. The one next to the friendship bracelets—”

“But wait—wait wait wait.” You hold up a hand. “That doesn’t even make sense! Skrillex has long black hair, it’s like his whole thing. Yoongi is blond. He’s literally bleached. How is that Skrillex?”

“He said—” Jimin takes a shuddering breath. Loses it. Tries again. “He said the hair was ‘conceptual.’”

“CONCEPTUAL?”

“He said he’s doing a ‘blonde era Skrillex’ and when I pointed out that Skrillex doesn’t have a blonde era he told me to—and I’m quoting—‘google it harder.’”

“I’m going to pass away.”

“I can't—you can't tell him I told you, he thinks he nailed it—"

"He thinks he nailed it?!"

"He literally turned to me with the most serious face I have ever seen on a human being and asked if it was ‘accurate’.”

“And you said?”

“I said it looked great!”

“Jimin.”

“What was I supposed to do?! He was making the face—the focused face—and I couldn’t tell him he wasn’t pulling this off!”

“He’s pulling off ‘guy who owns one black t-shirt and found earrings.’ That’s what he’s pulling off.”

“That is—” Jimin snorts. “That is exactly—oh my god, that’s exactly what he looks like—“

You're both gone. Completely, irretrievably gone. You've collapsed forward over his shoulders, forehead pressed to the back of his neck, and you're shaking with the kind of laughter that makes no noise because all the air's been used up.

Every time one of you starts to recover, the other says ‘Claire's’ and it starts again.

Your ribs ache. Your cramps ache. Your face aches.

It's the best you've felt all night.

"Okay," you say finally, wiping your eye with the heel of your hand, careful not to smudge Jimin's liner work. "Okay. I have a follow-up."

"I can't take a follow-up."

"Why Skrillex?"

Jimin takes a shuddering breath. Composes himself. Fails. Tries again.

“He said—” Another breath. “He said it was the costume with the least amount of effort that still technically counted as a specific person.”

"That's the most Yoongi thing I've ever heard."

"He ran a cost-benefit analysis. Out loud. To me. While eating cereal."

"Was the cereal part of the analysis?"

"The cereal was the baseline. He said anything that required more effort than eating cereal wasn't worth it."

You bury your face in his shoulder and scream a little bit. Quietly. Into the cardigan.

Then, finally, after what feels like forever, the laughter ebbs.

The mental image of Yoongi standing in a Claire’s examining skull earrings is going to sustain you through the winter, though.

Jimin relaxes back against you again.

"I'm glad you came," he says after a while, soft. "To this whole thing. The retreat."

"Yeah?"

"Mm. I was kind of dreading it? Five days is a lot of people for a lot of time." His thumb traces a small arc on your wrist. "But it's better. With people who—you know."

He doesn't finish the sentence.

He doesn't need to.

"Right back at you, Poe."

His head turns slightly. You catch the edge of his smile in profile—soft, real, a little raw around the edges in a way that makes you think he's still carrying whatever was happening in this alcove before Yoongi stood up and walked away.

You don't ask.

You're getting good at that tonight. Not asking. Holding the space without prying the lid off.

"For the record," you murmur against his hair, "whatever's going on with—whatever. You don't have to have it figured out. You're allowed to be in the aisle."

His thumb stops on your wrist.

Starts again. Slower.

"The aisle," he repeats. Like he's putting it somewhere safe.

"The aisle."

A breath.

Then his hand squeezes your forearm—brief, tight, a pressure that says more than the sentence he doesn't build around it—and releases.

You feel calm like this. Draped over him, chin on his head, watching the party happen from a safe distance.

Hobi's moved on from the shoe story and is now trying to teach the Roman centurion a two-step. Taehyung and Irika are slow-dancing to a song that isn't slow, Yeji and Irya have resurfaced and are sharing a chair, Irya's legs across Yeji's lap, Yeji's hand absently trailing up and down her calf while she argues with someone about something you can't hear but can tell is political by the angle of her jaw.

It's good. All of it.

The noise and the fog and the warmth of Jimin's shoulders under your arms and the brownie starting to soften the edges of the room in a way that feels like putting on glasses that make everything slightly kinder.

You’re going to be very high in about twenty minutes.

Suddenly, against all peaceful odds, you hear your name from Jason’s voice.

“Can we talk?”

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© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[jungkoode]

fmu!jungkook’s letterboxd

disclaimer: i made these just for funsies and because MJ (fellow kikizen, loved gremlin) suggested creating a letterboxd for fmu!jungkook and a goodreads for fmu!y/n—and you know what i thought that was a brilliant idea. these in NO WAY SHAPE OR FORM represent my actual beliefs or opinions, i am merely reviewing this as fmu!jungkook would given his backstory and characterization. put the pitchforks down. 👹 mwah <3

film reviews + comment section

Psycho (1960)

The Godfather (1972)

Drive (2011)

Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)

Twilight (2008)

Fight Club (1999)

to be updated as i get inspired by ro’s hot takes <3

[hyu-skh]

This reminds me of Jungkook from FMU

😭😭

@jungkoode