#Not alter centric

[kaleiidoskope]

HEY SO LIKE turns out i’m a system… osdd…

here’s everyone (sorta… there’s like 3 missing but i didn’t wanna bother making the canvas any larger at that point </3)

tumblr will destroy the quality of this…

[shulkerbullets]

I'm just me.

[ectonurites]

Uhhhh very late miwip wednesday? it is thursday.

I've had this au—Will as Robin, El as Batgirl, Mike as Spoiler + a few more Hawkins characters as Bats but I'll leave the rest a mystery for now—rattling around in my brain for like a week, and I don't know if I'll ever actually write out the full longfic idea I have for it, but I'll at least post snippets and some doodles 👍

Text under the cut if the images are hard to read hehe:

—

“I know I did it to you when we first met,” the sound of boots hitting the rooftop echoes behind him, “But it’s really not proper vigilante etiquette to take off someone else’s mask.” 

Mike whips around to face him—Robin, The Boy Wonder. While he’s figured out who the new Batgirl is, he hasn’t got a clue about this guy. Unless maybe it’s not just El—maybe all the Bats are connected to the lab? Robin could be a number, too.

He stares at the other boy, lost in thought, not sure what to say. 

When it must fully register that his comment isn’t getting a response, Robin shrugs and retracts his grapple, clicking it into place on his utility belt as he steps closer out of the shadows.

Mike quickly puts his mask back on, just for something to do with his hands, something to interrupt his gawking at least for a second. When he looks again, there’s now a layer between them—flimsy blue fabric that makes it a little less clear that he’s still staring. 

But how could he not? The two of them have only really met twice—when Robin had tackled him not realizing The Spoiler is a new hero not a villain, and when Robin had come to his window the following night telling him to hang up his cape. So really, this is the first time Mike can stop and take him in without some sense of urgency bleeding into the situation. The first time he can just… look.

His mask is a deep green leather molded into a sort of beak, and despite leaving a decent amount of his face uncovered, it conceals what could really be identifying—his eyes, his nose, parts of his cheeks. His warm smile is visible though, and Mike can’t help that his eyes are drawn to it. It’s just the part of his face I can see, he tells himself, but maybe that’s not the only reason. 

Robin runs a gloved hand through his gelled-back hair, a chestnut brown that Mike bets would glisten in sunlight. But Robin isn’t someone you see during the day. Bats only come out at night in Hawkins, even ones who wear bright colors. Red, yellow, and green—he’s like a traffic light.

Only now while glancing up and down as he crosses the rooftop, does Mike really register how small a guy Robin is, noticeably shorter than Mike himself. But regardless, he still moves with confidence, it makes his presence seem larger somehow—wise beyond his years.

[chiimeramanticore]

severance isn't really a show about being plural but also there are parts of this show that are like, the best plural representation I've ever seen

[kissagii]

i love fantasy aus so much eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

[sunthroughtherust]

tell me more about blame! bc i tried ten chapters and struggled to get into it but your take on it in the tags have made me curious to try it again

It's a manga about stairs

Ok that’s (kind of not really) a joke, but seriously don’t read it expecting a character or plot heavy story. The characters are basically just vehicles for the readers to experience the world and the plot exists…. Sometimes….. In its own way….. On its own schedule…….

The main draw for most readers (including myself) is the gigantic megastructure. In story humans created the megastructure and controlled it in the netsphere with their net terminal gene, a gene only humans had, but something happened and the gene began disappearing and humans started being hunted by the safeguards of the megastructure. Most of the places kyrii walks through are enormous but empty and ragged and old every room is so old and run down, but fun and interesting in a way. someone on tumblr once described the megastructure as like a forbidden playground not built for humans and i have to agree, every panel i see i just want to climb inside and explore. that’s kind of the fantasy for me, being able to walk around with no one else around me as i explore a long ago--maybe never even lived in-- abandoned city.

I will admit the plot leaves a lot to be desired especially whenever nihei writes like…. Explicit worldbuilding, at some point alternate dimensions came up so a character could body-hop into their own body again and it was…. Confusing. So much of the plot and miniplots and arcs are very confusing which can lose the gravity the series tries to go for, but honestly i find it funny in a very engaging way.

As much as i said the characters are just vehicles for the world, it would be better to say that nihei simply doesn’t want the story to be character-focused because he cares more about the architecture. the characters are plenty interesting but the story just doesn't make a habit of caring for their emotions. For example cibo once had to come face to face with an atrocity she caused and then it was never brought up again (but we stand an unethical girlboss scientist). Sanakan had a very in-the-background arc about becoming more human and essentially learning to love. Honestly love is such an important aspect to all of the characters in the series even if it doesn’t seem obvious at first and it's so human in so many ways despite only a few ‘real’ humans appearing in the series. Anyway im just rambling now, but basically nihei just writers things and it's up to the reader to accidentally stumble upon an obsession

ok that was a lot and i don’t know if i even explained the draw of the series, but if you really want to try and get into blame! i’d really watch the 2017 movie before attempting to read the manga again. It's a pretty watered down version of the actual story (since it actually went for a plot rather than just focusing on architecture lol) and it follows one of the arcs with people in them. Also you get a better understanding of the backstory which will give you more of a reason to stay with the manga. At least that was my experience with watching the movie without any prior knowledge of the manga and immediately being like MOAR!!

The only thing i have to say is that the 3d animated movie ‘cutiefied’ the characters too much in a way that i felt took away from the grittiness of the setting, but that’s personal opinion. Another personal opinion is that you should watch the movie simply for cibo’s introduction sequence because holograms being mistaken for ghosts fucking rock

[moonpersonalter]

Lipstick

Fandom: Fate/Grand Order Rating: T [in case] Warnings: N/A A/N: very self indulgent fic I wrote because I've been thinking about a certain Berserker hehe. Please note that the Master here has a name but is not mentioned.

Today, the Master wore purple lipstick.

The dark shade was reminiscent of amethysts untouched by light. It clashed with her eyes more than complimenting it, the bright yellow hue of her eyes being overshadowed by her own makeup.

Cu Alter didn't knew when she decided to wear such a terrible shade. Then again, he didn't knew exactly what idea floated in that head of hers that drove her to wearing lipstick. It just... happened. On one boring day, she showed up, with lips full of the color of pink roses.

It didn't match her skin at all, too light to even be called make up. Others seem to think otherwise, sending compliments her way. She looked happy though, thanking each one for the kind words, but her eyes kept fluttering his way, as if expecting something from him. The quiver of her lips, pulled back slightly into a tense bite. The kind master, however, was too kind to ask the Berserker and kept her mouth closed instead.

The day after that, it was a bright yellow hue similar to her eyes. Cute but once again, the way the shade awkwardly sits on her lips didn't compliment her that well. She looked his way again, expectation flashing in her eyes before turning her head the other way, her shoulders sagging in disappointment at the lack of reaction.

And the day after that? A new color, the shade of red that reminded him of strawberries. It... fits her. The way her lips move as she speaks, it draws his eyes in, focuses more on the subtle movements. The way they purse or pout, making it look plumper than usual was... sort of adorable. If his Master knew what he'd think, she might feel more inclined to wear it often.

Sadly, with how she read his straight face when her eyes glanced his way, it disappointed her once again, leaving her to change it to the color it is today. It was a downgrade for sure. Or it was a downgrade to him. Most Servants continued to compliment her color choices, some more over the other, but complimented her still. And as usual, her eyes kept fluttering back his way, disappointed at his lack of reaction.

This... was where his last bit of wondering broke.

Approaching his Master once every person had gone off someplace else, the poor girl yelps as she noticed his shadow casting over her. Turning around to greet him, she was instead met with his face already close to hers, glaring at her with an unreadable expression.

She gulps, a blush beginning to color her cheeks. "Yes... Cu—"

"What do you want?" He immediately cut her off. She responded with a weak 'Pardon?', rolling his eyes as he rephrased his question. "Why were you looking my way so much?"

Her blushing cheeks grew brighter, head turning the other way again. "I... it's because...," she fidgets, trying to find the proper words.

It took her a moment.

Two moments.

A glance and then another.

She took all the time in the world to come up with something, anything decent, coherent, or even believable enough to convince him that— "I wanted to know... which color you liked?"

A moment of silence. The Master, too afraid to look his way, remained glued to staring at someplace else while the Berserker before her continued to glare at her. Not out of impatience nor frustration. Far from it.

If she had simply asked him the question before, he'd have answered in kind. Instead of going through this cat and mouse chase of catching which color he'd react to most, he'd have made his choice already so long ago. But knowing her, she didn't want to overstep her boundaries with someone as stern as him, didn't want to inconvenience him with something as trivial as makeup.

"You overthink too much," he said, breaking the silence that lingered longer than she wanted. Opening her mouth as if to apologize, was quickly shut by his lips locking with hers, his tongue already slipping past her open mouth.

She let out a small yelp, throwing her arms around his shoulders as she held onto him tightly, her legs giving way as his arms wrap around her petite form, pulling her closer to his. His hand, the same one that held tightly around his spear, carefully tangled into her hair, making sure she didn't turn and escape from their kiss.

Once he was satisfied, he leans his head back, the string of saliva still connecting their lips. He stared down at her face, that half-lidded look in her eyes and flushed face, paired with her lipstick smudged. He forgot for a moment that she wore that horrendous shade of purple. "You look better with red lipstick."

Her face deepens red, "O-oh... okay."

He didn't bother letting her speak after that, leaning in again for another kiss.

The next day, she wore red lipstick again.

[mad-as-a-box-of-frogs]

.

[tea-with-a-side-of-f]

The mouse is gonna be unavalible for a while, as a certain yellow scaled someone had shown up well before we even started her route. So cureently Margaret and Felicia are otherwise occupied~

[maked-art]

So, I saw this image on Facebook, and it was supposedly showing what Queen Nefertiti would have looked like in real life:

Now, I thought this AI generated garbage was just truly terrible on a number of levels; first off, she looks wayyyyyy too modern - her makeup is very “Hollywood glamour”, she looks airbrushed and de-aged, and as far as I’m aware, Ancient Egyptians didn’t have mascara, glitter-based eyeshadows and lip gloss. Secondly, her features are exceptionally whitewashed in every sense - this is pretty standard for AI as racial bias is prevalent in feeding AI algorithms, but I genuinely thought a depiction of such a known individual would not exhibit such euro-centric features. Thirdly, the outfit was massively desaturated and didn’t take pigment loss into consideration, and while I *do* like the look of the neck attire, it's not at all accurate (plus, again, AI confusion on the detailing is evident).

So, this inspired me to alter the image on the left to be more accurate based off the sculpture’s features. I looked into Ancient Egyptian makeup and looked at references for kohl eyeliner and clay-based facial pigment (rouge was used on cheeks, charcoal-based powder/paste was used to darken and elongate eyebrows), and I looked at pre-existing images of Nefertiti (namely other reconstructions). While doing this, I found photos of a 3D scanned sculpture made by scientists at the University of Bristol and chose to collage the neck jewellery over the painting (and edited the lighting and shadows as best as I could).

Something I see a lot of in facial recreations of mummies is maintaining the elongated and skinny facial features as seen on preserved bodies - however, fat, muscle and cartilage shrink/disappear post mortem, regardless of preservation quality; Queen Nefertiti had art created of her in life, and these pieces are invaluable to developing an accurate portrayal of her, whether stylistic or realistic in nature.

And hey, while I don't think my adjustments are perfect (especially the neck area), I *do* believe it is a huge improvement to the original image I chose to work on top of.

I really liked working on this project for the last few days, and I think I may continue to work on it further to perfect it. But, until then, I hope you enjoy!

Remember, likes don't help artists but reblogs do!

[ace-shenanigans]

Thinkin about another sj-centric scum villain au...

Thinking about a pre-binghe sqq, tired of always being under constant scrutiny and over feeling unsafe and ostracized despite all his efforts, deciding to leave cqms to track down an artifact rumored to allow someone the power to basically alter reality to an extent. He tells no one where hes going because soon its not going to matter anyway.

Thinking about him finding and using the artifact to remove himself from history, erasing everyone's memory of him until he is no more than a ghost haunting the narrative. Shen Qingqiu, and by extension Shen Jiu, has never existed.

Thinking about the consequences of this action... Sure he' achieved a true blank slate, free to walk around as he pleases, be whoever he wants to be rather than pretend to appease the small minds of others, but his newfound anonymity comes at a cost.

The brothel jiejie's at the warm red pavilion still greet him as an old friend, but they no longer know him. They do not remember him, his struggles, his achievements even as he remembers all of theirs. What was once a safe haven now feels fake; to them he's just another man paying for a service. He no longer visits the warm red pavilion.

He'll never get his answers from Yue Qingyuan. He'll never know why the other abandoned him, nor why he refused to explain himself to Shen Qingqiu. He'll get over it he tells himself, he'd already accepted Yue Qi's death many years ago, and Yue Qingyuan is just another one of them anyways. He doesn't get over it.

Of course the artifact has its limits, and so those with the closest connections to Shen Qingqiu are left feeling strangely like they're missing something, something just on the tip of their tongue that they can taste but not name. Yue Qingyuan especially is left in a constant state of confusion and loss, missing something he cant place, unable to even remember the reason why he made many of the choices he did. On his desk sits an ornate fan with a crane painted on it that hed purchase for... odd, he couldnt remember why he'd bought the item, or why it made him feel so sad.

Liu Qingge too is left feeling somewhat off kilter for no apparent reason, his eyes drifting towards the bamboo groves of Qing Jing peak every so often for reasons he cant name. He's able to shrug it off for the most part, too focused on his own training to really pay it much mind, but theres always a sense of... wrongness? Frustration?- that settles in his chest whenever he spars with others, like they cant match him the way... the way what? He can't remember the last time he sparred with someone who could keep up with him, but he can almost picture the occasional flash of green, a hidden blade, leaves sharpened by qi with deadly accuracy....

[cavegirlpoems]

You know, on the topic of 'can you be meaningfully queer in this game', I'm going to say that the game doesn't have to be a romance-centric game (eg Monsterhearts) to meet that threshold.

I'm going to take a slightly left-field example: Paranoia. In this (black humour dystopia) game, everybody is a clone grown in a vat, and fed a steady diet of mood-altering pills to keep them complient that - among other things - suppresses your libedo, to ensure there won't be non-vat-grown humans, and further the society strongly discourages romance in general.

This isn't the focus of the game, but it still means that the game presents us with a hegemonic standard for sexuality and relationships (they don't happen), and ways to be non-normative, and the decision to do so is meaningful.

An entirely heterosexual couple holding hands in Paranoia is - because their relationship is so non-normative the the game's scope, and will have serious consequences for them - a more queer story than any gay tiefling found families in D&D.

In Paranoia, the decision to engage in a sexual or romantic relationship is a meaningful one, in a way it isn't in D&D.

(You will note that romance is not mechanised in Paranoia, nor is it going to be a common mode of play, but the game does mention 'forbidden romance' as a potential plot hook).

[orbch]

another stupid sasi mv but its short and. and… well not sweet.

anyways im gonna talk about it more so pop this bad boy open ⬇️⬇️⬇️

okay yeah this is creativitwins and patton centric. NO SHOCKER. i kinda wanted to show how i think that roman and remus were split purely on the basis that there needed to be a “good” creativity, meant to be put on a pedestal, and a “bad” creativity, meant to be hidden and locked away forever. like thats the entire reason they exist.

and i do also believe patton was responsible for the split, but absolutely NOT out of malicious intent. not even close. listen, when outside influences are telling you that “bad thoughts” are going to land you into eternal damnation, and ALSO you’re like 7 years old, it’s completely understandable to react such a way. not excused, but understandable. i think patton, in a state of complete emotional and mental distress, TRULY believed that splitting creativity would keep c!thomas safe.

and naturally everyone came out of it a littleeee fucked up. i hc that logan and king creativity had been very close before the split, and as you might expect, seeing someone you are the closest with split in half and permanently altered would make you kinda apathetic (especially on the topic of others emotions and your own bonds). and janus, having just watched someone die because of just being themself and living their truth unabashedly, kicked his ass into full “self defense via deceit” mode. and virgil (who at this point represents every kind of fear, rational and irrational) just watched someone get split into subjective “good” and “bad” halves and thought, in no better words, “holy shit I’m next”

shoutout to @heartwitchhouse for inspiring a part of this pmv!!! it was the cross blade thing btw LOLLOL

okay now for the stills because capcut turned my art into mashed potatoes (that was pissing me off btw. sigh. sorry about the sandpaper quality) (its also only letting me add 8. so im doing my faves 030)

[sarahghetti]

blood on your lies; m.s.

pairing: marc spector x reader centric, steven grant x reader, jake lockley x reader

summary: after an argument with marc, you go missing. he tears himself apart trying to find you.

warnings: a dive into the mind of marc spector, angst, hurt with some comfort (i.e. jake and steven), kidnapping, vague descriptions of violence.

word count: 3.0k

notes: kind of a continuation of all the echoes in my mind, but can be read as a standalone. written as part of the @moonknight-events bingo! prompt: "insecure", I promise that not all my entries will be this sad lol

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

You’re not home yet.

It’s nearly been three hours. Marc paces the apartment like a caged animal, likely wearing the hardwood underneath his feet. Steven and Jake have run their course about how stupid he is, how he shouldn’t have said what he said, how he should’ve run after you the second you stepped out the door—

But jokes on them. There can be no harsher critic of Marc than Marc himself.

He checks his phone again in case you’ve responded to his many texts and calls, but there’s nothing. As far as he knows, you haven’t even seen any of it.

His temper still lingers under their skin, and he holds it tight with both hands; anger is easy. It’s easier than admitting that the peaks in his heartrate and the sweat on his brow is from anything other than his own self-flagellation.

Anger is familiar.

This, however? The waiting for you to walk through the door, or to give them any sign of life—so much of his sanity rests in the comfort of you being safe. Marc didn’t realize how lucky he was to not know what this was like. Now, he doesn’t know if he can ever forget it.

Jake’s voice is clipped. “Check again.”

They’re all on edge, and it’s terrible. Most of the time, at least one of them manages to keep a level head during stressful situations—usually Marc. Jake is prone to anger, Steven to anxiousness.

“Marc!” Steven yanks him out of his head, and his phone is in his hand without any memory of having taken it out of his pocket. He does a dutiful look through his notifications—nothing.

Three sets of disappointment and concern pile on top of one another and drags them all down so much further.

“Do…” Steven’s voice is quiet. Unsure. “Do you think something might’ve happened to her?”

There is no dissenting opinion, no devil’s advocate. Marc doesn’t try to calm his alters down, and only clenches his jaw.

You’ve never gone quiet on them like this. They’ve never let you leave the flat at night like this. They always opted to be the one to go take a walk because even in the middle of an argument, they wouldn’t risk your safety.

The lingering silence is Steven’s answer.

When the suit wraps itself around his body, the accompanying burst of power in his veins is suffocating. His wounds begin to numb over, but Marc barely notices. He hasn’t spared them a thought since you left.

The cool air does nothing to assuage him. Clouds blot out the sky, leaving nothing but a murky backdrop as he scales up the nearest building for a vantage point. A quick scan over the horizon—nothing. Not a hint of your silhouette under the streetlights, and a lump forms in his throat.

“Khonshu!”

A gust of wind signals the god’s arrival, who, even with a bird’s skull for a head, looks remarkably bored as Marc is clinging to any semblance of sanity. He must already know what’s going on but frustratingly just spreads out his hands, a silent question—what?

Marc grits his teeth. “Where is she?”

“Who?”

“Khonshu.” The name is a snarl on his lips.

He simply scoffs. “You have the gall to make demands? As if I need to be involved with your lover’s spat?”

“She’s not answering her phone.”

A lingering pause.

“She might be in danger,” Marc snaps, trying to get the god to understand even a fraction of the severity of the situation. They might bloody their hands night after night, staining London’s streets each time they go out on patrol, but it’s never enough. There are always more monsters to take their place, and the thought that you might have run into one of them—

Khonshu cocks his head. “Maybe she’s just finally had enough of you.”

Marc hates how that’s a possibility. Still, desperation crawls out of his throat. “Can you find her?”

Khonshu turns to look over the city, the silence stretching out between them. Whatever divinity he’s channeling, Marc isn’t privy to; all he can do is stand there like a useless dumbass and wait for some hint of you to show up on the god’s radar. Even if you had had enough and never want to see him again—he’ll swallow down that fate in stride as long as he knows that you’re safe.

When Khonshu finally breaks from searching, his head cocks slightly to the side. “Interesting.”

This is hardly the time for theatrics. “Do not—”

“I cannot find her,” the god admits. Not apologetic or ashamed, but—awed. “Where she is right now, her footsteps through the city—there is nothing, Marc Spector. There’s not even a trace of her in your own home.”

The blood rushes in his ears. His chest constricts until he can barely breathe at all. Marc barely manages to wrap his head around the information before Jake and Steven come roaring back again, shocked and confused.

“Stupid fucking bird—”

“She was right here!

“Let me out, pendejo, I swear—”

“What the bloody hell does he mean—”

“How?” Is all Marc manages to get out, every one of his senses on overload.

“Something is hiding her from me; whatever took your lover is very powerful indeed.”

Took. Not a single doubt about it now: something took you. Kidnapped you because Marc couldn’t keep it together for ten-fucking-minutes. Jake and Steven can prattle all they want in the background—his mission is clear.

“Where do we start?”

-

The flat seems even bleaker when they return, your absence all the more chilling. Steven clamours to take the reins with the obvious assumption that research is the first step they need to take, but that’s quickly dashed away when Khonshu returns with a name.

“Apep.” God of darkness and disorder, Steven supplies from their head. “He’s been cast away for eons, but there have always been those trying to get him to return.”

“It’s another cult?”

Jake swears under his breath. “Figures.”

Ignoring them, Marc presses on. “Who are we dealing with now?”

“If it were easy to find them, I would’ve done it already,” Khonshu bristles. “Apep is helping them—hiding them as they work. I will continue to do what I can.”

“Fine.”

The god disappears in a whirlwind of loose papers, and Marc switches gears. Steven might have the advantage in research, but tracking? The skills he’s honed as a Marine and as a mercenary wait for him like an old pair of shoes; the others can’t help but let him work in peace.

He finds some old tourist map that spans over the city and unfolds it across the dining table. There are only so many places you would’ve gone, so many routes you could’ve taken. London doesn’t become deserted at night and barring any divine intervention, kidnapping someone would cause a scene—you would have caused a scene, he thinks, imagining you fighting tooth and nail against your assailants, screaming for someone to help—

Marc closes his eyes, clenches his jaw. A wave of pain washes over him, and he languishes in it for a minute, not a moment more.

His eyes reopen, spots dancing across his vision as he analyzes the map again. The feeling has been sealed shut into a box, shoved into a corner of his mind. Steve would throw a fit about his mental state if it were any other time, lecturing him on coping mechanisms and compartmentalization, but there’s no time for him to feel sorry for himself.

He grits his teeth and refocuses his train of thought. If they’re up against a cult, then they probably would’ve sent multiple people to grab you. Would’ve had to lure you somewhere quiet if it was by force, or they could have convinced you to go with them somehow. Or threatened you. Or…

The more he gets into it, the more he feels himself detaching from the situation, piece-by-piece. The memory of you is like a minefield; it’s a testament to his will that he can recall anything about you without breaking down. What you were wearing—and not the look on your face—when you left. Your favourite park—and not how your hand fits perfectly into his as you walked down the paths—that you might have passed through.

He reduces you to intel, just another folder on his desk. It’s not unfamiliar to him. He wouldn’t have made it this far if he couldn’t take an objective approach to his work. But it’s different because it’s you, because the stakes include you, and when he looks up to try to ground himself again, he spots your favourite mug on the coffee table. Half-empty.

-

If Layla were here.

The words bounce around his head as Marc stares up at the ceiling. He didn’t mean it. Steven and Jake are both better with words than Marc, but he’s never loved you any less—he’s never wanted you to be anyone but yourself.

It’s been almost two days since you left, and it’s only now that he’s allowed himself to be corralled into bed. His grip of the hot seat is ironclad, however, which means that the body isn’t getting any sleep tonight. The sun will rise soon, and he’ll pick up his work right where he left off.

Quietly, from the back of his head: “Marc?”

“Could’ve taken the victim anywhere,” Marc murmurs, mind still whirring in the dark.

“’Victim’?” Steven’s voice shifts to be full of indignance. “How could you possibly call her that?”

“Ay, easy on him,” Jake pipes up. For Jake to immediately to jump to his defence means that Marc must be worse off than he thought, but he can’t bring himself to care. “How’s it going, hombre?”

“No sightings on any security cameras. Nothing reported to the cops.” Hours of his time—your time—summarized in a breath. His face remains blank. “I’m going to sweep the remaining areas tomorrow. Find some people who might’ve seen something.”

He’s been doing nothing but cross possibilities off his list. It’s barely any progress and his remaining leads are weak, but his resolve is as strong as ever.

“Nothing from Khonshu?”

“No.” Marc has no idea what the god is doing.

They lay in silence for a bit, listening to the maddening tick-tick-tick of the clock on the wall. Anger is unsustainable, but Marc wishes that they’d return to yelling at him again. At least he knows what to do with that.

Instead, all he gets is Steven’s restrained tone: “Something has to change, you know.”

“Are you really telling me to go to therapy right now?”

“Can’t do much else.” For a moment, Steven’s bitterness resonates. There’s another conversation to be had here—one about their individual capabilities and protective natures—but Marc lets it rest for the night. He knows he’d be driven up the wall if their situation was reversed, if you were in danger and he had to rely on someone else to save you.

He still deflects. “Not the time for this.”

“Maybe not,” Steven concedes, “but you need help, Marc.”

Distantly, Marc recognizes that he’s always needed help. Even after reconciling with Steven and Jake, even after meeting you—the wounds are still there, despite how hard he’s tried to ignore them. He’s stubborn and self-destructive, not stupid.

“We’re with you, always,” Jake adds. Discomfort crawls under Marc’s skin from the supportive words, and he knows that his alters are well aware of it. It’s never stopped them, of course.

“We can talk about this after—after we save her.”

A general murmur of consensus. Marc quickly regains his footing, eager to move on from this line of conversation.

“I’ll find something. Or Khonshu will.” Steady and reassured—trying to convince them and himself. “We’ll get her back.”

Steven’s voice is small, even in the confines of their head. “But why would they take her in the first place?”

-

“He needs an avatar?” The body hasn’t slept in days. That void of feeling pulses with anger, desperation, fear—it simmers low in their gut, a torch passed along between them.

“Apep will need a vessel once they release him.”

“Here I thought one of his cultists would volunteer.”

Khonshu taps his staff against the ground thoughtfully. “They knew we would come after them, and we’re not the only ones.”

For the briefest of moments, Marc feels hopeful, like the odds aren’t as stacked against them as they thought. It disappears just as fast—Khonshu doesn’t deliver hope. The blood drains out of his face as he actually starts to consider the god’s words.

“If Apep possesses your precious lover, would you really be able to stop her? To take up arms against her?”

Khonshu leans in close then, hollowed eyes burrowing into him.

“Would you let others do the same?”

-

Over the next week, things begin to look up.

Someone’s girlfriend’s cousin says that they saw someone who looked like you walking down The Mall. There’s a fuzzy image of a car with no license plates. Khonshu catches the briefest hint of you on Westminster Bridge and follows you far, far east—it’s a mere grain of information that’s slipped through Apep’s power, but it’s enough for Marc.

They find the car abandoned in Dover, near the water. It rules out France—driving through the Eurochannel would’ve been the fastest route there, after all. Trying to take a public ferry would’ve been stupid with a captive, which means that they probably chartered or owned a boat.

The remaining pieces fall into place, and he can feel the anticipation from the others build in the background. Marc has led the charge so far with very few breaks to let Steven and Jake breathe a little. Steven misses you so much, he cries whenever he fronts. Jake has gone eerily quiet, and Marc knows what’s simmering underneath the surface; when the fighting starts, Jake will be called to action. His excitement is brutal.

It's all coming to an end soon. Laying on some dirt in the Norwegian countryside, shrouded in darkness, Marc’s never seen more stars in his life. If he’s right—and he is right—they’ll be bringing you to a nearby compound for the final step of their ritual. He couldn’t care less about the how or why. Come the morning, you’ll be here. Marc will get them inside. Jake will get to you. And then…

Marc will probably never be the partner that you deserve, and you never should’ve been subjected to his life. To sleepless nights and patching up his injuries and comforting him after nightmares that has him thrashing in the sheets—

But he can’t survive without you. It’s a simple little fact that gives him the power to move mountains; there are none bigger than the mess of his own head.

Exhaustion creeps up on him, and he can’t help but struggle against it. Fighting to keep his eyes open, his thoughts spill into the air. “Need to take care of her first.”

“Taking care of yourself is taking care of her,” Steven says gently. Have they had this conversation already? Marc’s been so singled in on this mission that everything else has fallen by the wayside. He can’t remember the last thing he ate, or what he’s wearing under the suit. The ground is the softest thing he’s ever felt.

If there’s any comparison to be made between you and Layla, it’s that he’s failed both of you. Maybe he could be different this time. Even if you decide that you want nothing to do with him after all this, he could still get help. He’ll have Steven and Jake. He’ll have himself and his scrappy resolve and the memories of this heart-aching pain, and maybe he’ll finally get better.

Marc lets his eyes close; the body needs rest for what’s to come. You don’t deserve any less than their best.

Just a few more hours.

-

Marc watches the fight from their headspace. Jake doesn’t miss a single shot and never so much as falters when one of them manages to land a hit. This is the longest break Marc’s gotten from fronting in a while, but he can’t bring himself to look away.

Jake loops their arm around the neck of cultist unlucky enough to be nearby, gripping his hair so hard Marc can nearly feel the strands through his fingers, feel it when Jake jerks their arm to the side and twists—

-

Your handlers left you alone in another room with nothing but a hard cot to curl into as you waited for them to retrieve you again. Locked inside but unbound—Marc hates how you startle when he breaks through the door.

Eyes wide, your mouth opens and closes multiple times without success. “You—you came.”

Marc wishes there weren’t so much surprise in your tone. Of course he came for you, it was never a choice for him—for any of them.

But clearly there was a part of you that thought he wouldn’t, wasn’t there? That he might just leave you in the clutches of some power-hungry cult because—because what, you’re not his ex-wife? Because you think he doesn’t love you?

The need to rectify that pierces his heart. He pulls you close, knuckles white in your shirt. “I love you.”

You shake in his arms. “Marc—”

“I love you.”

The words don’t stop; they fall from his lips like a prayer. Even as you weep, soaking the suit with your tears, he says it. I love you. I love you. I love you. In every variation, in every way—he’ll never let you believe otherwise again. He’ll say it over and over, work tirelessly to become the man you both deserve. For the rest of your lives. For the rest of time.

However long you’ll give him.

[mechncheese]

I’m thinking of making a fanfiction focusing on Thundercracker through his life, and mostly inspired by your Au!

Would you read the fic if I finish it?

I wanted to know if you could tell me more of the fallout of Thundercracker with the decepticons?

YES ABSOLUTELY I WOULD LOVE TO READ A THUNDERCRACKER-CENTRIC FIC !

Here's more about my Science AU TC and his fallout with the Decepticons, it's basically the rundown of what I had in mind for him but you're free to alter or change it as you please !

It's no secret to any of the Decepticons that Thundercracker wasn't really fitting in. He did his job well enough but between him, Starscream and Skywarp, he was the weakest link. He never socialized well with the others and he usually kept to himself or within his trine. The trick to surviving in the Decepticons was not drawing attention to yourself and remaining as small as possible. When talking, it always seems like his mind wandered elsewhere and when the war was escalating, the reality was setting in for Thundercracker that this was his life. To cope, Thundercracker would sneak away during routine patrols to look for datapads in abandoned buildings or in rubble. He started a collection and he invested himself in reading whenever he had the free time. Eventually, he also started writing, inspired by the contents of what he's read. It started as diary entries at first but his writing gradually became works of fiction, fantasies of running away, or a world where his life didn't revolve around destruction and bloodshed. That's when he started getting bolder and speaking up against his given orders when he would usually be complacent. Starscream lashed out at him a couple times for it and Skywarp warned him that this kind of behavior is how bots get killed. This was war after all, not some fairytale, and they needed soldiers not dreamers. During a meeting with the seekers and Megatron, Thundercracker had refused Megatron's orders and even challenged his ideas. This escalated from arguing, to shouting, to violence. Thundercracker and Megatron fought against each other and it quickly drew an audience. Of course, Thundercracker lost but not without doing some decent damage to Megatron. Thundercracker ended up losing an arm from the fight and ran off, defecting from the Decepticons entirely.

[chrrybbmb]

INTERLACE

STARRING ... SPIDEY!J. JUNGKOOK X READER

WORD COUNT ... 10.5K

SUMMARY ... at what point do crossing paths become one in the same?

NOTES/WARNINGS ... slow burn. reader and jungkook are both awkward losers. reader is in mega denial abt her feelings. is it a love triangle if it's technically only two people? fighting and mentions of blood. very spidey centric this chapter.

playlist : head over heels (tears for fears). glue song (beabadoobee). some (steve lacy). a new kind of love (frou frou). i want you to love me (fiona apple). my kind of woman (mac de marco). telephones (vacations). blondie (current joys). fade into you (mazzy star). waiting room (phoebe bridgers).

taglist. prev. next.

you don’t know why this is making you this nervous.

it’s not like jungkook is scary. he’s quiet, sure—keeps to himself, doesn’t talk much in class. but he’s nice. normal. a perfectly reasonable person to ask for help.

so why the hell are your palms sweating?

you take a slow breath, forcing your legs to move, weaving through the crowd of students packing up their things. by the time you reach his desk, most of the lecture hall has emptied, and jungkook is still sitting there, hunched slightly over his bag like he’s in no rush to leave.

he glances up when you stop beside him.

his eyes are huge. it throws you off for half a second, but you shake it off, adjusting your bag strap and clearing your throat.

“hey,” you say, voice coming out a little softer than you mean it to.

jungkook stares.

and stares.

for a second, you think he might actually be buffering. then, finally, “uh. hey,” he says, blinking like he just remembered how to function.

you shift, rolling your shoulders. okay. normal. this is normal.

“so, um.” you glance around, suddenly hyper-aware of how empty the room is. “this might be kind of random, but… do you, uh. know anyone who tutors?”

jungkook blinks again, like he wasn’t expecting that question. “tutors?”

you nod, shifting on your feet. “yeah. for chemistry.”

god, why does this feel so awkward?

jungkook doesn’t answer right away.

his expression shifts—just a flicker of something unreadable—but you don’t have time to dwell on it before he clears his throat.

“uh. yeah. i mean, i—” he rubs the back of his neck, voice slightly strained. “i can ask around.”

you try not to let your disappointment show, but you must not be very good at it, because jungkook’s brows twitch slightly.

“oh,” you say, nodding. “cool. yeah, that would be great.”

you hesitate.

because this—standing here, watching him watch you, feeling like there’s some kind of weird, invisible weight between you—feels off. like the conversation should be longer, like there’s something else you should say, even though you don’t know what.

but you don’t want to drag this out.

so you clear your throat, shifting your bag strap higher. “and, um… if you hear of anyone good, could you maybe… let me know?”

jungkook nods so fast it almost startles you. “yeah. of course.”

his voice is weirdly serious.

but you brush it off, offering a small smile. “thanks, jungkook.”

for a second, his breath catches—like you just said something completely life-altering instead of just his name.

you tilt your head, but before you can think too hard about it, you wave and turn toward the door.

you don’t look back.

but as you step into the hallway, something about the whole thing still lingers. like you missed something important.

jungkook had rehearsed for this exact situation. he thought the hard part was over—he'd actually acted semi-normal when he'd approached you, managed to hold eye contact while offering to be your tutor. he'd even left the exchange having obtained your number (sweet!!).

he'd spent countless nights revising content, practicing formulas and memorising equations and theories so that he could at least seem like he knew what he was doing.

this was it. his moment. he was finally just going to interact with you like a normal fucking human being.

it was all good in theory, but in practice? jungkook was royally fucked.

because now you're sitting next to him, completely oblivious to the fact that he's barely holding it together.

you're chewing on the end of your pen, eyes narrowed at your notebook, looking way too focused for someone who has no idea how much damage they're doing to his concentration.

"so," you say, tapping the paper. "balancing equations. i kind of get it, but also, i really, really don't."

jungkook blinks. right. chemistry. that's what they're here for.

he clears his throat, forcing himself to focus. "uh, yeah. it's not too bad once you get the hang of it."

you shoot him a deadpan look. "strongly disagree."

he huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. "okay, so—" he grabs his pen and flips to a clean page. "the key thing is that both sides need to have the same number of atoms. like, if you start with four hydrogens on this side, you need four on the other too."

you nod slowly. "okay. that… makes sense."

"yeah, so let’s try this one." he writes out a basic equation, sliding the notebook toward you. "give it a shot."

you stare at it like it's personally offended you.

jungkook bites back a grin. "it’s not a trick question."

"it feels like a trick question," you mutter. but you pick up your pen, hesitating before writing a number down.

jungkook watches as you pause, lips pressing together, brows furrowing in concentration.

he looks away quickly.

he should be focusing on the chemistry. the equations, the tutoring.

not the fact that he’s definitely in trouble.

because the moment you put pen to paper, jungkook knows—just knows—you’re about to get it wrong.

and sure enough, when you slide the notebook back toward him, there it is.

wrong.

not completely wrong, but wrong enough that jungkook exhales through his nose and shakes his head.

you groan, dragging a hand down your face. “god, this is so dumb.”

“it’s not dumb,” jungkook says, flipping his pen between his fingers. “you’re just thinking about it the wrong way.”

“okay, smart guy.” you tilt your head, challenging. “explain it to me in a way that actually makes sense.”

jungkook leans back, tapping the pen against the page. “okay, think of it like this. say you’re making a fruit salad—”

you blink. “a what?”

“a fruit salad,” he repeats, undeterred. “and say you start with four oranges.”

you eye him warily. “...okay.”

“so no matter what you do—peel them, slice them, throw them in a bowl with other fruit—at the end of the day, you still have four oranges.”

your brows furrow, lips pressing together like you don’t want to admit that makes sense.

jungkook grins. “balancing equations is the same thing. no matter how you rearrange the elements, the total amount of each one has to stay the same on both sides.”

you stare at him for a long moment.

then, finally, you sigh. “...that’s actually a good analogy.”

he smirks. “i know.”

you roll your eyes, but there’s a small smile tugging at your lips now. “okay, hotshot, let’s see if you can explain something harder.”

jungkook arches a brow. “oh, so now you want me to tutor you?”

you shove his arm lightly. “shut up and give me another problem.”

he chuckles, flipping to a fresh page. “alright. let’s try the haber process.”

he writes it down, leaving it unbalanced:

N₂ + H₂ → NH₃

“alright,” he says, capping his pen. “same rule as before. everything on the left has to match everything on the right.”

you narrow your eyes, twirling your pen between your fingers before jotting something down.

jungkook watches as you hesitate, erasing and rewriting numbers, brows furrowed in concentration.

it’s weirdly endearing.

and then you groan, pushing the notebook back. “i give up.”

jungkook scans your work. “you were close.”

“i hate that phrase.”

he grins, nudging the notebook back toward himself. “watch.”

he adjusts the numbers as he explains. “so, nitrogen. you start with two on this side, but only one on this side. so we fix that by making this a two—” he scribbles down the coefficient.

“okay…” you say slowly, watching his pen move.

“now hydrogen,” he continues. “we start with two here, but six here. so we add a three here to balance it out—”

N₂ + 3H₂ → 2NH₃

he slides the notebook back to you with a triumphant smile.

you stare at it, expression unreadable. “i swear to god,” you say, shaking your head, “if you had explained it like that from the start, i wouldn’t have struggled.”

jungkook laughs. “so what i’m hearing is, i’m a great tutor.”

“what you’re hearing is, you could’ve been a great tutor.”

“eh. still counts.”

you roll your eyes, but this time, you’re actually smiling.

and jungkook—despite everything, despite his initial panic, despite the fact that he’s sitting way too close to you for his own sanity—finds himself smiling too.

you stretch your arms over your head, letting out a quiet sigh. “y’know, i almost asked namjoon for tutoring.”

jungkook stills for a second before forcing himself to look casual. “oh, yeah?”

you nod, scribbling absently in the corner of your notebook. “yeah. figured he’d be a good choice, since he’s, like… stupidly smart.”

jungkook huffs a small laugh, but something about that digs at him a little. because you’re right. namjoon would be the better choice.

namjoon is a teacher’s aide. namjoon is literally enrolled in biomedical engineering, which is, like, a hundred times more impressive than whatever jungkook is doing. namjoon probably understands this stuff instead of just memorizing enough to fake his way through a tutoring session.

jungkook shifts slightly in his seat, tapping his pen against the table. “so why didn’t you?”

you blink at him.

then, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, you shrug. “because you offered.”

jungkook's brain goes blank.

because what?

you say it so easily, like it’s obvious, like there wasn’t even a question. like you actually wanted to study with him.

his grip tightens around his pen as he watches you absently flip through your notes, completely unaware of the absolute chaos you've just thrown him into.

for a second, neither of you say anything.

your eyes flick up to his, and suddenly, he’s stuck.

there’s a small pause—just a beat, just long enough for jungkook to forget how to breathe.

you hold his gaze like it’s nothing, like he’s not sitting here actively trying not to combust.

his mouth goes dry. his heart is way too loud.

and then, just as quickly, you glance back down at your notes, tapping your pen against the paper. “okay, next question. impress me, tutor boy.”

jungkook clears his throat, blinking hard, trying to snap himself out of whatever the hell that was (he is so fucking done for).

he shifts in his seat, flipping through the textbook like he actually knows what he’s looking for. “uh. yeah. next question. right.”

you smirk, tilting your head. “you good?”

“yeah.” his voice comes out too fast, too stiff. he forces a casual shrug. “just, uh—thinking of a good one.”

(thinking about how you looked at me like that. thinking about how you chose me instead of namjoon. thinking about how—fuck.)

you hum, resting your chin in your palm. “hope it’s a hard one.”

jungkook exhales sharply, scanning the page like it has the answers to any of the things he’s struggling with right now.

finally, he lands on a problem that looks complicated enough to distract both of you.

“alright,” he says, tapping the book. “let’s see what you got.”

you lean in slightly, eyes flicking over the question, and jungkook tells himself to focus—on the tutoring, on the problem, on literally anything except the way your shoulder brushes his when you move. but he feels it anyway. and he knows this is so much worse than he thought.

time passes.

the tutoring session slowly shifts—somewhere between balancing equations and half-scribbled notes, the conversation drifts, drifting away from chemistry, away from anything remotely academic.

at first, it’s small things.

you ask jungkook how he even ended up offering to tutor you in the first place (he very smoothly dodges the part where jimin bullied him into it). he asks you if chemistry is your worst subject (it is, followed closely by calculus, which makes him wince in secondhand pain).

but then, when the notes are mostly abandoned and the textbooks sit open but unread between you, jungkook asks, “so, the mural.”

you pause, pen tapping against the table. “what about it?”

jungkook shrugs, keeping his tone casual. “just wondering how it’s going.”

you blink. “how do you know about the mural?”

fuck.

jungkook freezes.

because—right. right. he’s not supposed to know about that. not as jungkook.

he clears his throat, scrambling for a non-suspicious answer. “uh—i mean, it’s kind of hard to miss, right? huge wall, lots of paint?” he forces a laugh. “not exactly subtle.”

you tilt your head, watching him.

for a second, he panics. does she know? is she suspicious?

but then, your lips curve into a small smile. “guess that’s true.”

he lets out a breath, relieved.

you shift slightly, leaning back in your chair. “it’s going okay. slow, but i like how it’s turning out.”

jungkook nods, relaxing a little. “still just ‘feeling it out’?”

you grin. “always.”

jungkook exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

you lean forward, resting your chin on your hand, watching him curiously. “you actually care, or are you just trying to distract me from chemistry?”

he scoffs. “i do care.”

you raise an eyebrow.

“okay, and i’m trying to distract you.”

you laugh, shaking your head. “appreciate the honesty, tutor boy.”

jungkook rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.

and as the conversation drifts even further from chemistry, as the minutes slip by unnoticed, he realizes he doesn’t actually mind that they haven’t gotten much studying done.

because sitting here, just talking to you? that might be his favorite part.

you stretch your arms over your head, letting out a slow sigh. “you know, this is giving me serious deja vu.”

jungkook raises an eyebrow. “deja vu?”

“yeah,” you say, twirling your pen between your fingers. “feels like our first library date all over again.”

jungkook chokes.

his throat closes up, his brain slams into a brick wall, and he spends a solid three seconds trying to remember how to breathe.

because—date??

DATE??

“what—” he coughs, scrambling to recover. “what?”

your eyes widen, like you just realized what you said. “oh my god.” you sit up straighter, waving your hands frantically. “no, wait, not like—i didn’t mean—i just meant, like—”

you groan, squeezing your eyes shut for a second before trying again. “i meant ‘date’ in, like, a casual, non-romantic way. like a—like a study date. not a date-date.”

jungkook is still stuck on the first part.

you clear your throat, shifting uncomfortably. “obviously, right? because that wasn’t—i mean, it’s not like we were—”

jungkook nods way too fast. “right. yeah. totally.”

silence.

the air is suddenly so much thicker than it was two seconds ago and neither of you are looking at each other anymore.

you tap your fingers against the notebook. jungkook fiddles with the cap of his pen.

somewhere in the distance, a clock ticks.

and then you really make it worse. you shake your head, then sigh dramatically. “god, i haven’t been on a date in ages.”

jungkook short-circuits.

you seem to realize it the second it leaves your mouth because your face burns hot immediately.

“i mean—not that you needed to know that,” you add quickly.

jungkook stares, not sure if he needed to know that either, but now he does and it’s definitely doing something weird to his brain.

you groan again, dropping your head onto the table, muffled voice full of suffering. “why am i still talking?”

jungkook has no idea.

no idea why you’re telling him this. no idea why his face is getting warm at the thought of you not having been on a date in ages.

he should say something. should defuse the tension, get this conversation back on track before either of you combust.

but his brain is a useless pile of mush.

so instead, he just blurts, “really?”

you lift your head just enough to squint at him. “why do you sound so surprised?”

he freezes. “i—uh. i don’t? sound surprised?”

you narrow your eyes, clearly not buying it.

jungkook panics. “i just mean—like, i figured you probably—” he waves his hand vaguely, trying to will the words to make sense, “—go on dates?”

you groan, dropping your forehead back onto the table. “oh my god.”

jungkook wants to crawl into a hole. “that’s not what i meant.”

your voice comes out muffled against the wood. “please stop talking.”

“yeah. okay.” he nods, gripping the edge of the table like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. “i can do that.”

silence. horribly awkward, suffocating silence.

you peek up at him, resting your chin on your arms, and jungkook almost forgets how to function when you pout dramatically.

“i don’t know why i said any of that,” you whine, shaking your head.

jungkook exhales a laugh, the tension breaking just a little. “honestly? same.”

you squint at him. “you barely said anything.”

he shrugs. “felt like i did.”

you stare at him for a second. then, slowly, a smile tugs at the corner of your lips.

and just like that, the weirdness settles into something… easier.

you groan, stretching your arms over your head. “okay. chemistry. let’s focus. no more personal life crises.”

jungkook snorts, flipping the textbook back open. “you started it.”

“and i regret it immensely.”

“noted.”

you shake your head, grinning. and jungkook can't help but mirror your grin.

after a few minutes more, the library announcement chimes overhead, signaling that closing time is in fifteen minutes. you sigh, stretching your arms before starting to pack up your things.

“guess that’s our cue,” you say, slipping your notebook into your bag.

jungkook watches, debating something for a second before finally just going for it. “want me to walk you home?”

you pause, blinking up at him.

for a second, he wonders if that was too forward, if he made it weird, if he—

but then, you just smile, shaking your head. “that’s sweet, but i’ll be fine. i live pretty close.”

jungkook nods, trying to ignore the slight disappointment in his chest. “got it.”

you sling your bag over your shoulder and flash him a grateful look. “but seriously, thanks for tutoring me. i know you probably have better things to do.”

jungkook shrugs. “it’s not a big deal.”

you tilt your head, amused. “well, i’ll still say thanks. so, when are you free next?”

“whenever,” he answers immediately.

you raise an eyebrow. “wow. must be nice having unlimited free time.”

jungkook panics for a second because, yeah, it is nice when you don’t technically have a set schedule outside of being a vigilante and school.

he clears his throat, scrambling for a normal answer. “uh, yeah, i mean… i just study and play video games, so.”

your expression brightens at that. “oh? what games?”

he exhales, relieved at the topic change. “mostly overwatch. jimin and i play together a lot.”

you snort. “i suck at overwatch.”

jungkook scoffs. “you can’t be that bad.”

“no, i promise you, i’m that bad.”

he smirks, tilting his head. “so prove it.”

you blink. “what?”

“play with me sometime,” he says casually, shoving his books into his bag. “i’ll carry you.”

you shake your head, laughing. “you say that now, but wait till you actually see me play.”

“still worth it.”

you roll your eyes, but there’s a fondness in it. “nah, i usually play stuff like stardew valley.”

jungkook nods, pretending he hasn’t dumped way too many hours into that game himself. “yeah? how’s your farm?”

you grin, eyes bright. “thriving. absolute empire. perfect livestock, peak efficiency.”

he chuckles. “that so?”

“mhm.” you start heading for the door, throwing a glance over your shoulder. “i’ll show you sometime if you want.”

jungkook hesitates for half a second, then nods. “yeah. i’d like that.”

you smile. “cool.”

and just like that, you push open the library doors and step into the hall, calling out a quick, “see you later, tutor boy!” before disappearing into the crowd.

jungkook watches you go, standing there in the doorway for a moment longer than he probably should.

then, finally, he exhales, running a hand through his hair.

he’s so, so fucked.

it’s been a few days since your first tutoring session with jungkook, and somehow, your brain still won’t let go of that one stupid moment.

the part where you, for absolutely no reason, volunteered the information that you haven’t been on a date in ages.

why did you say that? what compelled you to just throw that out there like it was relevant to anything?

it wasn’t even that big of a deal—jungkook didn’t react weirdly, didn’t press you about it—but now you can’t stop wondering if he has gone on any dates recently. if he’s been out with someone, if there’s someone else who gets to sit across from him and hear him talk about things that aren’t chemistry equations.

you frown, shaking your head. it doesn’t matter.

because you don’t care. obviously.

it was just an awkward slip-up, that’s all. no reason to read into it, no reason to wonder about things that don’t concern you.

you don’t care.

really.

“you look like you’re thinking way too hard about something,” taehyung’s voice snaps you out of your daze.

you blink, barely registering that you’ve been staring at the sidewalk for the past minute instead of watching where you’re going.

taehyung, your seatmate in one of your other classes and the only person who seems to struggle with chemistry as much as you do, raises an eyebrow. “are you planning to confess to the pavement or…?”

you groan, adjusting your bag strap. “shut up.”

he laughs, shoving his hands into his pockets as the two of you walk across campus.

“so,” he says, shooting you a knowing look. “you finally got a tutor?”

you hum in confirmation. “yup.”

he grins. “about time. i was starting to think you were just accepting your fate.”

you groan again. “trust me, i was.”

taehyung laughs, shaking his head. “well, at least namjoon’s helping you out now. you couldn’t have picked a better tutor.”

you blink. “wait, what?”

he gives you a confused look. “your tutor. namjoon?”

you snort. “oh. no, not namjoon.”

taehyung frowns. “not namjoon?”

you shake your head.

he blinks. “then… who?”

you glance away, suddenly feeling a little awkward. “…jungkook.”

there’s a pause, and taehyung stops walking.

you take a few more steps before realizing he isn’t next to you anymore. when you turn back, he’s just staring at you, brows furrowed in disbelief.

“wait. jeon jungkook?”

you sigh. “how many jungkooks do we know?”

he ignores that, eyes narrowing. “the same jungkook who spends half of lecture spacing out and scribbling in his notebook?”

you roll your eyes. “he’s doing fine so far.”

taehyung still looks unconvinced. “so… you asked him?”

“no, he offered.”

his eyebrows shoot up. “he offered?”

you nod, and he really squints this time. “okay,” he says slowly. “what exactly did he say? word for word.”

you groan. “why does it matter?”

“because.” he leans in, smirking. “i need to know if this is just tutoring, or if tutor boy is lowkey flirting with you.”

your face heats immediately. “taehyung.”

he grins. “yes?”

you shake your head aggressively. “it’s not like that.”

he shrugs, but there’s mischief in his expression. “if you say so.” but the look on his face definitely says he doesn’t believe you.

you groan, tightening your grip on your bag. “seriously, it’s not like that.”

taehyung gives you a look. “mmm. still skeptical.”

you roll your eyes. “look, i originally just asked him if he knew any tutors, okay? like, if he could ask around or whatever.”

taehyung hums, intrigued. “and?”

“and i guess he just figured tutoring me himself was easier than actually hunting for one.”

taehyung stops walking again. you turn to see him staring at you, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“…what?” you ask.

he tilts his head. “so, instead of just looking for a tutor, which would have taken him a single day and it would be over with, he just… decided to be one? to take time out of his day to tutor you?”

you nod. “yeah?”

he squints. “even though he definitely didn’t have to?”

you frown. “i mean, yeah, but—”

“even though he probably had other things to do?”

you groan, dragging a hand down your face. “oh my god, taehyung.”

he grins. “i’m just saying. interesting.”

you glare. “it’s not like that.”

he shrugs, falling back into step beside you. “if you say so.”

as you walk, taehyung hums, still smirking like he knows something you don’t. “so, when’s your next study date?”

you trip over your own feet. “it’s not a date,” you sputter, spinning to glare at him.

his smirk widens. “you sure?”

“it’s not a date,” you repeat, scowling. “me and jungkook never been on a date. ever. and he can go on as many dates as he wants and it doesn’t bother me because it’s not like i wanted to go out with him in the first place so there.”

silence.

taehyung blinks at you, completely unimpressed. “…okay?”

your brain finally catches up with your mouth, and horror creeps in as you replay the absolute disaster that just came out of your own lips.

taehyung just watches, waiting, smug as hell.

you groan, smacking a hand over your face. “i don’t know why i said all of that.”

“oh, i do,” he says, all too pleased with himself.

you refuse to dignify that with a response. instead, you storm ahead, fully ready to throw yourself into oncoming traffic.

taehyung, the menace, just follows along, whistling smugly. “you and jungkook, sitting in a tree—” you immediately smack him on the back of the head.

“ow!” he yelps, rubbing the spot dramatically. “violence? over a silly little song?”

you shoot him a glare so sharp it could cut glass, and taehyung shuts up immediately. he falls right into line, walking beside you like a perfectly normal, well-behaved person. not even humming.

you narrow your eyes at him suspiciously. “…that easy?”

he lifts his hands in surrender, lips twitching. “what can I say? i know when i’ve pushed my luck.”

you huff, shaking your head. “good. keep it that way.”

taehyung nods sagely. “oh, for sure.”

but the second you glance away, you catch him grinning out of the corner of your eye.

taehyung, very much not knowing when to not push his luck, mutters under his breath, “you are so whipped.”

without hesitation, you smack him again.

“ow—!”

“i am so not whipped,” you hiss, jabbing a finger at him.

taehyung rubs the back of his head, grinning despite the repeated assault. “denial is a river in egypt, my friend.”

you glare at him. “taehyung, i swear to god—”

“okay!” he lifts his hands in surrender, still grinning. “i’ll stop. for now.”

you narrow your eyes. “good.”

but as the two of you keep walking, taehyung just smiles to himself, smug as hell. and you hate that, for some reason, it feels like he already knows something you don’t.

“bro, you are so whipped. president of whipped city. honorary mayor. full-time resident.”

jungkook sighs, staring blankly at the game screen. “…yeah.”

jimin nearly drops his controller. “wait, what?”

jungkook exhales, running a hand through his hair. “i said yeah.”

jimin gapes at him, like jungkook just admitted to something earth-shattering. “hold on. hold on. you’re actually agreeing with me? no pushback? no pathetic attempts to deny it?”

jungkook groans, shoving a handful of chips into his mouth. “dude, what’s the point? we both know it’s true.”

jimin flops dramatically against the couch. “oh my god. my best friend—self-aware?”

“shut up.”

“no, no, this is huge.” jimin tosses his controller onto the coffee table and gestures wildly. “this is, like, character development.”

jungkook scowls, shoving him with his foot. “dude, play the game.”

jimin smirks, picking up his controller again. “so what’s got you suddenly admitting defeat? did she do something cute again?”

jungkook grits his teeth, staring too hard at the screen. “she exists. that’s enough.”

jimin cackles. “oh, you are so gone.” jungkook groans, slumping deeper into the couch, because yeah. yeah. he really, really is. he’s been gone from the moment you smiled at him for the first time.

not just a polite, passing smile, not the kind you give to strangers in the hall, but a real one—bright and effortless, the kind that made his brain short-circuit and his stomach flip all at once.

it was over for him before he even realized it.

jimin side-eyes him, a slow grin creeping onto his face. “you’re thinking about her right now, aren’t you?”

jungkook scoffs. “shut up.”

“you are.” jimin points at him. “you’re sitting here, pretending to focus on the game, but in reality? your brain is running a full highlight reel of every time she’s ever laughed in your direction.”

jungkook’s eye twitches. “…so what if it is?”

jimin gasps, clutching his chest like he’s moved. “holy shit. you’ve evolved. you’re finally embracing the downfall.”

jungkook sighs, pausing the game and rubbing his face. “god, i hate you.”

“no, you love me,” jimin corrects, slinging an arm around jungkook’s shoulders and shaking him lightly. “but not as much as you love—”

jungkook slaps a hand over his mouth, and jimin laughs against his palm, completely unbothered.

jungkook sighs, pulling his hand away. “bro, what do i do?”

jimin leans back, smug. “depends. what’s the goal here? do you just wanna keep suffering in silence? or do you actually wanna do something about it?”

jungkook exhales sharply, staring at the game screen. “i don’t know.”

“well,” jimin grins, “i do.”

jungkook groans, already regretting asking. “oh god.”

jimin smacks his knee. “dude. date. her.”

jungkook freezes.

jimin raises an eyebrow. “what? too much?”

jungkook stares at the screen, heart pounding.

because—fuck.

date her. just two simple words. but now that they’re out there, he can’t stop thinking about them.

obviously he's had the idea in passing, but he's never fully entertained it. he'd imagined it every now and then, wondered what it would feel like to hold your hand and keep you by his side, and then dismissed the idea entirely.

but now it was somewhat tangible.

it wasn’t just a passing thought anymore. it was real enough to put a name to, real enough that jimin could say it out loud, real enough that jungkook’s chest tightened at the very idea of it.

he swallows hard, gripping his controller like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

jimin watches him closely, the smirk on his face slowly morphing into something less teasing, more knowing.

“…you wanna,” he says, voice softer now. not a question.

jungkook exhales, pressing his lips together.

does he?

he thinks about it. really thinks about it.

about you, sitting across from him in the library, chewing on your pen as you furrowed your brows at a chemistry problem. about you standing in front of that mural, streaks of paint on your fingers, looking so focused, so alive. about you looking at him—at spider-man—and telling him you thought he was a good guy.

his stomach flips. yeah. he wants.

“…yeah,” jungkook mutters, barely above a whisper. “i wanna.”

jimin beams.

“okay, lover boy,” he says, stretching his arms behind his head. “so what’s the move?”

jungkook groans, dragging a hand down his face. “god, i don’t know.”

jimin hums, fake-pensive. “well, you could just ask her out.”

jungkook levels him with a deadpan stare. “oh, genius. brilliant. why didn’t i think of that?”

jimin grins. “i know, right?”

jungkook shoves him, and jimin cackles.

but underneath all of jimin’s antics, all the teasing and the prodding and the smugness, jungkook knows he’s right. if he wants this—if he really, actually wants this—he can’t just sit around waiting for fate to keep throwing you in his path.

he has to do something about it.

…except he won’t.

because the thought alone is enough to send him into a full-blown spiral, and if he actually tried to do something about it? he’d probably self-destruct on the spot.

he’s not ready for that. so instead, he just leans back into the couch, stretching his legs out and letting out a slow breath. “yeah, no. not happening.”

jimin groans dramatically. “dude.”

“nope.” jungkook shakes his head, staring at the game screen like it holds all the answers. “happy to keep things exactly the way they are.”

jimin rolls his eyes. “oh, because that’s going so great for you.”

jungkook shrugs. “could be worse.”

“bro, you are suffering.”

“debatable.”

jimin makes a frustrated noise, flopping back against the cushions. “this is painful to witness.”

jungkook snorts, nudging jimin’s foot with his own. “so stop witnessing.”

“oh, no. i’m invested now,” jimin says, pointing at him. “one of these days, you’re gonna slip. you’re gonna do something so disgustingly obvious that she has to notice, and when that day comes? i will be there to say ‘i told you so.’”

jungkook shakes his head, amused. “cool. let’s cross that bridge when we get there.”

jimin just grins, looking way too smug. “oh, we will.”

jungkook rolls his eyes and unpauses the game, diving back into their match.

he tells himself not to think about it anymore.

not about you, not about the way his chest tightened when he admitted he wanted this, not about the fact that jimin is probably right and it’s only a matter of time before he screws up big time.

for now, it’s easier to just keep things the way they are.

you step back, wiping your hands against your hoodie, smudging more paint onto the already-stained fabric. the mural is starting to take shape.

sort of.

it’s different from what you originally planned. when you first started, it was going to be full of blues—deep, rich shades, like the night sky stretched across the wall. but somewhere along the way, the reds started creeping in.

now, there’s more red than blue.

you tilt your head, studying it under the dim glow of the streetlamp. you didn’t plan it this way, but somehow, the colors look familiar.

warm undertones mixed with the shadows. the way the red bleeds into the dark, streaks of white cutting through the mess, as if something—or someone—is moving through it.

it looks like—

no.

you shake your head, dipping your brush into more red.

you don’t know what it looks like yet. it’s still forming. still coming together. you’ll figure it out later.

you just keep painting.

the streetlamp flickers, casting a dull glow over your workspace, your shadow stretching long against the wall. the night is quiet—just the occasional sound of passing cars, the distant murmur of the city still alive somewhere beyond this little pocket of stillness.

your brush glides across the concrete, the red blending deeper, warmer, more intense.

you tell yourself you’re not thinking about it.

not thinking about why your strokes keep forming those streaks, those sharp angles that almost resemble the shape of someone in motion.

not thinking about why you keep gravitating toward these colors, why the contrast between red and blue feels so familiar, like you’ve seen it a thousand times before, flashing across the city skyline.

you sigh, stepping back again, arms crossed.

maybe you’re imagining things. maybe it’s nothing. maybe your subconscious just decided on this without consulting you first.

but still, the mural is starting to look like something. or someone.

you press your lips together, debating whether to add more or leave it for the night.

before you can decide, a noise from above catches your attention.

a faint thump—barely noticeable, but enough to pull your focus upward.

your eyes flick toward the rooftops.

the city stretches above you, dark windows, empty fire escapes, towering buildings. nothing unusual. nothing there.

but something in your gut says otherwise.

you linger for a second longer, staring at the skyline, before finally shaking your head.

it’s just your imagination. probably.

you turn back to your mural, reaching for your brush again. because whatever it is—whoever it reminds you of—you’ll figure it out later.

right now, you just want to paint.

just as you’re about to dip your brush back into the paint, a commotion erupts in the distance. loud, sharp—people screaming. your head snaps toward the street. you hesitate for only a second before stepping away from the wall, peering out from the alleyway.

“oh, what the fuck.”

there’s something big—way too big—moving down the street. cars veer off, tires screeching. people sprint in every direction, desperate to get out of its path. streetlights flicker, casting broken shadows over the chaos.

you blink hard, trying to process what you’re seeing. because whatever that thing is, it’s huge.

bulky, armored, stomping through the street like it owns the place.

“is that—” you squint, taking a step forward. 

it lets out a roar. an actual, earth-shaking roar. you flinch, gripping the edge of the wall. "fucking godzilla junior,” you mutter, heart hammering.

the thing—creature? metal suit? angry science experiment?—swings an arm, knocking over a lamppost like it’s nothing. it crashes onto the sidewalk, sending sparks flying. this is so not your problem. this is, in fact, the exact opposite of your problem. this is a spider-man problem.

your fingers tighten on the strap of your bag as you scan the street, looking for any sign of red and blue.

because if there’s one thing you do know, he’ll show up. he always does.

the creature stomps past your alley, the ground shaking with every step.

you hold your breath, pressing yourself against the wall as it moves further into the city, tearing its way through the streets like a walking natural disaster.

you should leave. should turn around, pack up, go home. but instead, you wait, because you know what’s coming next.

and sure enough, not even a full minute later, you spot him. a blur of red and blue swings into view, flipping between the buildings, fast and precise, headed straight for the chaos.

you grin. “go get ‘em, spider-man!” you call out, cupping your hands around your mouth.

he falters. mid-swing, his momentum glitches, his body twisting at the sound of your voice.

“whoa—shit—”

he just barely corrects himself before landing, almost colliding with a very confused pedestrian.

you giggle, pressing a hand to your mouth.

he whips around, scanning the area, but you’re already retreating back into the alley, out of sight.

you laugh under your breath, shaking your head as you dip your brush back into the paint. the shouts and sirens from the street feel distant now, like background noise to your own little world.

the colors on the wall bleed together beneath your touch, slow and deliberate. you swipe through the wet paint with practiced ease, dragging the deep reds across the surface, blending them into darker shades, cutting through them with streaks of white and blue.

it’s instinctual, the way your wrist moves, the way the brush strokes form something you recognize but don’t question. it’s coming together on its own—shapes forming out of muscle memory, lines shifting into movement, colors layering until they feel right.

you don’t mind how familiar it’s turning out to be.

even if there's no red string, even if fate doesn’t work the way the stories say it does—if the universe keeps bringing two people together, again and again, through coincidence or chaos or sheer, dumb luck���

isn’t that the same thing?

your fingers pause against the wall.

the thought lingers, curling into your chest like something warm, something you don’t want to name yet.

so you don’t.

instead, you pick up your brush again and keep painting.

jungkook is getting his ass beat.

not, like, fatally—he’s had worse, honestly—but this? this is definitely not great.

he barely dodges another swing from godzilla junior, flipping backward onto a car hood before launching himself into the air. his chest aches from where he took a hit earlier, and his reflexes are just a little slower than usual, which is definitely not ideal when fighting something that could probably fold him in half.

and the worst part?

he’s still thinking about you.

because, of course, of course the second he swings in, you have to be there—cheering him on, all cute and distracting—and now his brain is all messed up, and that’s why he nearly wiped out in front of a whole crowd of people.

(seriously, who does that? what kind of idiot almost faceplants mid-swing just because a girl said his name?)

(oh, right. him.)

“hey, focus, dumbass!” he mutters to himself, shooting out a web and flipping just in time to avoid another direct hit.

the creature—or, more accurately, the massive asshole in a mechanical exo-suit—lets out a roar of frustration, swinging wildly at nothing as jungkook zips between buildings.

jungkook lands against a wall, crouching low, trying to catch his breath. he really needs to find an opening, but all he can think about is the way you giggled before disappearing back into that alley. his stomach does a weird little flip, and that’s when it hits him.

not a realization. an actual hit. because apparently, while he was busy being an idiot, godzilla junior decided to throw an entire street sign at him.

the impact knocks the air from his lungs, sending him crashing into a dumpster with a loud, painful clang. jungkook groans, peeling himself out of the metal. 

okay, focus. no more thinking about you.

jungkook barely has time to roll out of the way before the dumpster caves in on itself, the metal screeching as godzilla junior storms toward him. “okay, rude,” jungkook wheezes, flipping onto his feet. “you ever heard of talking things out? no? just straight to throwing street signs, huh?”

the guy inside the exo-suit growls, voice crackling through the speakers. “shut up and fight me.”

jungkook sighs, shaking out his limbs. “see, that’s the problem. i am fighting you, and yet, somehow, i’m still getting my ass handed to me.”

before he can brace himself, the guy lunges, fast—way too fast for something that big. jungkook dodges just in time to avoid a direct hit, twisting mid-air and landing on the creature’s back. “whoa, big guy,” he grins, gripping onto the metal. “you ever think about cutting back on the protein powder?”

he barely gets the words out before he’s violently shaken off, his body whipping through the air like a ragdoll before he slams into the pavement.

pain explodes through his ribs.

“ow.” he groans, rolling onto his side. “okay. that was fair.”

the guy doesn’t let up, stomping forward, metal plating glinting under the streetlights. jungkook forces himself to move, to breathe, flipping backward as the exo-suit’s arm smashes into the ground where he was just laying. concrete shatters beneath the force.

“man,” jungkook huffs, shaking out his wrist as he shoots a web, swinging around to land on a streetlight. “you are really committed to the whole mindless destruction thing, huh?”

“stand still and maybe i’ll stop.”

“ohhh, see, that sounds like a trap.”

the guy lunges again, swiping at the post with a massive, mechanical arm. jungkook jumps—barely clearing it—but he’s not fast enough this time. the impact sends shockwaves through the ground, knocking him off balance mid-air.

before he can recover, a fist, full force, collides with his chest, folding him in half.

he flies.

his vision tilts—buildings blur—his body crashes straight through a bus stop sign before slamming into the pavement, rolling several feet before finally coming to a stop against the side of a parked car.

his mask sticks to his face from the sheer amount of sweat, his ribs are screaming, and he’s definitely going to have a new collection of bruises tomorrow.

“ow,” he mutters again, blinking up at the sky. “ow, ow, ow.”

people are still screaming in the background, sirens wailing in the distance. he needs to get up. needs to get back in the fight before the guy starts tearing apart more of the city.

but—

yeah. no.

he needs, like, two seconds.

dragging himself up onto shaking legs, he stumbles into a nearby alleyway, pressing his back against the brick wall, gasping for breath. his vision swims and his hands tremble as he braces them on his knees.

okay. just a second. just a second to breathe.

then he’ll get back out there.

jungkook tugs off his mask, sucking in a shaky breath as the cool night air hits his sweat-damp skin.

his lungs burn. his ribs ache like they’ve been put through a meat grinder.

he spits onto the pavement—dark red against the concrete.

great. awesome. love that.

he wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, grimacing. his knuckles sting, his fingers are twitching from exertion, and every single breath reminds him that he definitely got his ribs cracked somewhere in the process of getting bodied.

“okay,” he mutters, rolling his shoulders, trying to will the pain away. “not dead. not dead. still good.”

he’s had worse.

he leans his head back against the brick wall, shutting his eyes for half a second.

the distant sounds of destruction still echo down the street—sirens, screaming, metal crunching under massive weight.

he should be out there. but instead, he’s here—hiding in an alley, gulping down breaths, trying to ignore the way his body is begging for a break.

“just a second,” he mutters to himself, hands curling into fists. he can’t afford to stop for long. the fight isn’t over yet.

jungkook forces himself to stand up straight. his body protests—every muscle screaming, every breath a sharp reminder of how hard he just got his ass handed to him—but he has to move.

because outside the alley, chaos is still unfolding.

the ground shakes again, a distant explosion rattling through the streets. people are still running, still screaming.

he can’t afford to sit this one out.

with a deep inhale, he wipes the sweat from his forehead, then rolls his shoulders, trying to shake off the ache. his fingers fumble as he tugs his mask back down, adjusting it into place.

alright.

jungkook cracks his neck, flexes his hands, forces himself to take another step. he ignores the way his ribs protest. ignores the way his legs feel like lead.

he’s been through worse.

probably.

gritting his teeth, he fires a web toward the nearest fire escape and yanks himself up, flipping onto the rooftop with a grunt. the moment he clears the edge, he sees it. godzilla junior, still rampaging down the street, tossing cars out of its way like they’re made of styrofoam.

jungkook exhales through his nose. “round two, big guy.” and then he swings.

jungkook swings, using the momentum to propel himself forward, ignoring the sharp pull in his ribs as he twists mid-air.

he needs a new strategy.

because going at this guy head-on? clearly not working.

he lands on the side of a building, clinging to the glass as he assesses the scene. godzilla junior is still tearing through the street, metal limbs glinting under the streetlights, hydraulics hissing as it stomps forward.

jungkook exhales sharply. okay. think. what does he know?

the exo-suit is heavy, super heavy, which means it’s slow to recover after a big move. it definitely has enhanced strength, so getting close is a one-way ticket to another ass-kicking. and it has hydraulics, which means it can break.

jungkook’s lips curve into a grin.

“alright, big guy,” he mutters, rolling out his shoulders. “let’s see what happens when you stop moving.”

with that, he shoots a web at a nearby streetlight and swings hard, aiming straight for the thing’s back.

it hears him at the last second, turning just as he lands feet-first onto its shoulder.

“miss me?” jungkook quips, driving his web-shooters straight into the crevices of the exo-suit’s joints.

before the guy inside can respond, jungkook fires.

thick webs burst from his shooters, jamming themselves into the gears and hinges, clogging up the hydraulics in a mess of reinforced webbing.

the exo-suit whirs, sputters, tries to move, but the entire left arm locks up. jungkook grins.

“aw, what’s wrong?” he taunts, flipping over the creature’s head before landing on a nearby car. “can’t throw me across the city anymore?”

the guy inside snarls, trying to yank the arm free. jungkook doesn’t give him the chance. he dives, rolling under the thing’s legs before webbing the back of its knees, pulling tight.

another loud hiss—another joint jammed.

the suit stumbles.

jungkook flips backward, landing a safe distance away as the mechanical beast groans under its own weight.

“y’know, buddy,” he calls, panting, “maybe you should’ve invested in better hinges.”

the exo-suit lurches forward, trying to force itself free, but the joints are already straining. jungkook doesn’t wait. he fires two more webs at a nearby light post, swings himself high into the air, then comes down fast, both feet colliding directly with the already-weakened left knee.

the suit collapses.

metal crashes against the pavement, sparks flying as the massive frame finally buckles under its own weight. jungkook lands on the ground a few feet away, chest heaving. the guy inside groans, struggling, but he’s stuck, and just like that the fight is over.

jungkook stands there, catching his breath as the riot of noise around him settles into something more distant. sirens wail as cop cars pull up, officers pouring onto the street with their guns drawn—not that they’re needed anymore.

the exo-suit guy is down, tangled in a mess of metal and reinforced webbing, completely immobilized.

one of the officers approaches, cautious at first. “nice work, spider-man.”

jungkook nods, barely hearing him.

because right now, all he can think about is you.

the way you had cheered him on earlier, loud and carefree, like you knew he’d win. like you had never doubted that he would.

he wonders, would you be proud of him?

he hopes so.

because right now, standing in the aftermath of another near-death experience, barely holding himself together, that thought makes it feel worth it.

jungkook exhales, rolls out his aching shoulders, then fires a web at the nearest building.

the cops can handle the rest, he needs to get out of here.

his muscles scream as he swings off into the night, his grip weaker than usual, his head pounding. every movement feels slower, every pull of his body through the air making his ribs throb in protest. by the time he lands on an abandoned rooftop, his knees buckle on impact. he barely catches himself, arms shaking, breaths coming in sharp and uneven.

his body feels like it’s about to cave in.

his ribs burn, his limbs feel like they’re filled with lead, and he’s pretty sure if he takes his mask off, there’s at least one nasty cut hidden underneath.

but for now, he just lays back against the rooftop, stares up at the stars, and lets himself breathe.

you sigh, rolling your shoulders as you walk home, the scent of fresh paint still lingering on your hands. today had been a good day—no interruptions, no chaos—save for the slight hiccup. well, a little bit more than slight, but for once you'd been left entirely unaffected. just you and your mural, slowly coming to life. but as you round the corner near your building, something catches your eye.

or rather, someone.

spider-man is there, hanging upside down from a web attached to a nearby fire escape. you slow your steps, noticing he’s not moving much. the thought makes your stomach twist. “hey,” you call out, stopping just below him.

his head tilts slightly, like he’s only just noticed you. “oh. hey.” his voice is off—lower, a little rougher than usual.

you narrow your eyes. “are you… okay?”

he waves a hand. “yeah, yeah. just—” he makes a vague gesture, “—taking a breather.”

you cross your arms. “uh-huh. taking a breather by hanging upside down?”

he shrugs, but the motion looks lazy, like he’s conserving energy. your eyes scan him quickly, and that’s when you notice the way his suit is ripped just slightly at his side, the dark material stained a little darker.

your stomach drops. “you’re bleeding.”

he sighs. “technically, yeah, but it’s—”

“not a big deal?” you finish for him, unimpressed.

he pauses. “...yeah.”

you glare.

he sighs, like he already knows what’s coming.

“look,” he says, still hanging there, voice lighter now, “i appreciate the concern, really, but i’ll be fine. i just—”

“come inside.”

he stops.

“what?”

you nod toward the entrance of your building. “my apartment is literally right here. you need to clean that before it gets worse.”

spider-man hesitates. it’s subtle, but you see it—the way his shoulders tense just slightly, the way his fingers twitch where they grip the web. “i’m good,” he says. “really.”

you cross your arms. “you don’t look good.”

“charming,” he mutters.

you huff. “i’m serious. that looks bad. and if you just leave it, it’ll get worse.”

he’s still quiet.

you narrow your eyes. “what, scared of my decor?”

“no,” he says quickly, then pauses. “should i be?”

“depends on your taste,” you say, shrugging. “but i do have a first aid kit, so. your call.”

he still doesn’t move.

you sigh. “look. if it makes you feel better, you don’t have to stay long. just long enough to patch that up so you don’t pass out mid-swing and eat pavement.”

he exhales a small laugh, but you can tell it’s just for show. still, after a second, he sighs again—deeper this time, more resigned. “…okay.”

you nod, ignoring the way your stomach flips a little.

“good,” you say, turning toward the door. “then quit hanging around and come on.”

he groans. “oh my god, was that a pun?”

“it absolutely was.”

“i regret this already.”

you grin. “no takebacks, spidey.”

spider-man lets out an exaggerated sigh, rolling his shoulders before finally reaching up and releasing the web holding him in place. the second his feet hit the ground, his knees buckle. he stumbles forward, the world tilting around him, and he barely has time to process it before your hands are on him.

one gripping his arm, the other pressing against his chest, steadying him before he can completely collapse.

“whoa—okay, nope,” you say, tightening your grip, voice sharp with concern. “you are so not okay.”

“i—” he starts, but his ribs scream when he tries to straighten up, and his vision tilts again.

he would have gone down if you weren’t already half-carrying him.

“jesus, spider-man,” you mutter, struggling under his weight. “could’ve warned me before you almost ate the pavement.”

he exhales a laugh, but it’s weak, winded. “wasn’t—planning on it.”

you scoff, shifting your stance to better support him. “yeah, well, you’re not walking on your own, so just—don’t fight me on this.”

he wants to protest, but he can’t.

because as much as he hates to admit it—his legs are barely holding him up, his ribs are fucked, and right now? he needs you. so instead, he just sighs. “…fine.”

you huff. “good choice.”

with slow, careful steps, you guide him toward your building, your grip firm, your touch warm even through the material of his suit.

the trip up to your apartment is hell.

for him, probably because he’s in pain.

for you, because he is heavy as shit.

you’re practically dragging him by the time you reach your door, his arm slung over your shoulders, his weight leaning into you more and more with every step.

“you know,” you mutter, shifting him against you as you fumble with your keys, “for a guy who moves like a damn gymnast, you’re really bad at this whole walking thing.”

he lets out a breathless laugh. “sorry—not my best day.”

you huff but don’t respond, finally unlocking the door and shoving it open.

the second you step inside, you aim for the couch, and as carefully as you can—which, at this point, isn’t much—you practically toss him onto it.

he lands with a sharp, pained exhale, body sinking into the cushions.

you wince. “whoops.”

he lets out a weak, breathy chuckle, but his whole frame tenses as he shifts, a clear sign that he’s not doing great.

you step back, hands on your hips, trying to catch your breath.

“alright.” you clap your hands together. “stay put.”

he huffs, tilting his head toward you. “yeah, not a problem.”

you roll your eyes but don’t argue, already turning on your heel and heading toward the bathroom. you need your first aid kit. and maybe a lot of patience.

because if this guy even tries to act tough about how messed up he is, you’re not going to let him hear the end of it.

you return a minute later, first aid kit in one hand and a wet washcloth in the other. he’s still slumped against the couch, head tilted back, chest rising and falling in slow, uneven breaths.

“alright, sit up,” you say, kneeling beside him.

he groans but obeys, shifting just enough to let you get closer. “the suit stays on,” he mutters, voice rough.

you snort. “wasn’t planning on stripping you down, spider-boy. don’t flatter yourself.”

he huffs a quiet laugh but doesn’t say anything else. you reach for his mask, fingers brushing the material lightly. “just gonna move this up a little, okay?”

he nods, barely perceptible.

you pull it up slowly, stopping just above the bridge of his nose.

…huh.

your brows furrow slightly as you take in the lower half of his face. it’s… weirdly familiar.

not in a striking way, not in a this is someone i definitely know way, but in a nagging at the back of your mind kind of way. like maybe you’ve seen him before.

but that’s ridiculous.

you shake the thought away and press the cool washcloth to his face, wiping gently at the blood and dirt smeared along his nose and cheeks.

he flinches slightly at first but then relaxes, letting you work in silence. his lips are dry, slightly cracked, and there’s a faint bruise forming along his cheekbone.

“you look like hell,” you murmur.

he exhales a soft chuckle. “feel like it, too.”

you shake your head, dabbing at the last of the blood before sitting back.

“stay put,” you say again, standing up.

“not going anywhere,” he mutters, eyes already half-lidded.

you walk into the kitchen, open the freezer, and grab the first thing you can find—frozen peas. good enough. when you return he peeks one eye open, and you toss the bag onto his chest.

he grunts. “ow.”

“don’t be dramatic.” you plop down onto the armrest of the couch, watching as he begrudgingly lifts the bag and presses it to his ribs. “you need ice, and that’s all i’ve got.”

he shifts, adjusting the peas against his chest. “…thanks.”

you shrug, playing it off. “don’t mention it.”

you linger for a second too long, eyes flicking over his face once more—his bruised cheekbone, the faint cut near his lip, the way the mask rests just above his nose. you don’t know why you keep staring, so you shake it off and push yourself to your feet.

“stay here,” you say, as if he’s in any condition to go anywhere.

he grunts in response, now holding the frozen peas to his face.

you head to the kitchen again, pulling open a cabinet and grabbing a bottle of painkillers. you pop two tablets into your palm, then fill a glass of water before making your way back to the couch. he looks up as you sit beside him, shifting slightly to make room—not that there’s much room to be made.

you hold up the painkillers. “open.”

he blinks. “what?”

“your mouth,” you clarify, tilting your head.

his lips part slightly, like he’s about to say something, maybe protest, but instead, he just sighs and does as he’s told. you drop the tablets onto his tongue, then lift the glass of water to his lips.

he hesitates, just for a second, before wrapping his fingers loosely around yours, steadying the glass as he drinks.

it’s quiet. too quiet.

your pulse jumps, suddenly hyper-aware of how close you are—of the way your knees are touching, of the warmth radiating from his body, of the way his throat moves as he swallows. it’s… uncomfortably intimate.

you know you should pull away, but for some reason, you don’t.

his fingers brush yours as you lower the glass, his breath warm when he exhales. he shifts a little, glancing at you. “i could’ve done that myself.”

“could you?” you quip, tilting your head, aiming for smug.

but it falls flat.

because your voice is quieter than you meant for it to be, and you’re still too close, and your brain is suddenly too caught up on the details—on the little things, like how soft his lips looked when they parted, or how his jaw tensed just slightly when you touched him, or how his presence alone feels weirdly overwhelming in your tiny apartment.

he stares at you for a beat, and your breath catches.

he holds your gaze for a second longer—just long enough to make your pulse stutter, just long enough for something to settle thick in the air between you. then, finally, he exhales.

“you should head to bed.” 

his voice is rough, softer than before, like he’s trying to gently remind you that it’s late, that you’ve done enough, that you don’t need to be sitting here looking at him like that.

you hesitate. “what about you?”

he shifts slightly, adjusting the ice pack against his cheek. “i’ll go when i’m ready.”

you frown. you could argue, could tell him to rest, could insist that he shouldn’t be running off anywhere in his condition—but something about the way he says it makes you pause. because you get the feeling that whatever ‘ready’ means for him, it’s not something you can change. so instead, you sigh.

“fine,” you say, pushing yourself to your feet. “but don’t be an idiot, okay? if you still feel like crap, don’t leave.”

he huffs out something between a laugh and a breath. “i’ll be fine.”

you shoot him a look. “i mean it.”

he grunts in acknowledgment, but you don’t know if it’s a promise or just a way to get you to drop it. still, you let it go. you linger for a second longer, but then you force yourself to turn away, padding toward your room.

you push the door open, step inside, fingers curling around the handle.

just before you close it, you hear him say;

“…thank you.”

quiet, rough, almost like he wasn’t planning on saying it but couldn’t stop himself. you pause. your throat feels tight for a reason you don’t want to think about.

but you don’t turn around.

you just nod, even though he can’t see it, and gently close the door behind you.

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