#i think this is too short to be writing tagged

[jungkoode]

Strings Attached (to my heart)

→ PAIRING : Spider-Man!Jungkook x F!Reader

→ RATING: Explicit, 18+.

→ DATE POSTED: January 20, 2025.

→ SUMMARY : You were a journalist at Yonsei University when you started noticing the strange coincidences between your favorite bumbling freshman and Seoul's newest superhero. The way Spider-Man's voice cracks on 'noona' exactly like Jungkook's does. The way they both bring you the same snacks, have the same nervous energy, the same tendency to ramble when flustered. You tell yourself it's just a coincidence, because the alternative means admitting something you're absolutely not ready to deal with.

→ TAGS : second person perspective used, female pronouns used, college au, spider-man au, noona kink, slight age gap (he’s 21, she’s 24ish), dry humping, virgin jungkook, first time, inexperienced jk, creaming his pants, sexual content, explicit content, library smut, clothed getting off, breast play, grinding, praise kink, crying during sex, crying after sex, embarrassment kink, humiliation kink, slight dom reader x sub jungkook, size difference, pining, jungkook has a big fat crush on you, secret identity, touch starved, protective jungkook, closet sexual activities, desperate jungkook, gentle domming, aftercare, emotional intimacy, fluff and smut, Korean setting, university setting.

→ PLAYLIST: set the vibes.

→ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQUEST | WORDCOUNT: 11.8k

→ A/N: Hi everyone! Welcome to my first attempt at a Spidey!JK AU, where he somehow manages to be an even bigger mess than Peter Parker 😭. This story is very close to my heart because it dives into the dynamic between a confident noona and her adorably flustered freshman��who just so happens to be Seoul’s clumsy new superhero. To be honest, this Spiderkook oneshot was heavily inspired by Tangie, aka @rpwprpwprpwprw (love you bb!!!). I’d been lowkey daydreaming about Spiderkook for ages but thought, “Nah, that’s too silly.” Then I discovered there’s an entire community sharing the same brain cell as me??? Like, you’re welcome for my service, I guess?? Originally, this was supposed to be a short, smutty 5k romp. But do you think I can write smut without plot? I CAN’T. IT’S A MEDICAL CONDITION. Now it’s a 12k beast with feelings, webs, and chaos. Sorry (but not really). If you enjoy this, I might turn it into a mini-series because, let’s be honest, spider powers in… certain scenarios… sound very intriguing. Hihihi. Hope you enjoy this mess I’ve unleashed on the world! 🕸️

Edit: also, yeah. Tae is older than Jimin and Jungkook here because my sleep deprived brain slapped a ‘hyung’ on Jimin’s mouth and I’m not editing again. (≖͞_≖̥)

The thing about Spider-Man is that he reminds you too much of a certain freshman.

A freshman named Jeon Jungkook who keeps hovering around the journalism building with his messy hair and his wide eyes and his endless supply of convenience store snacks.

You've been telling yourself it's just a coincidence. The way Spider-Man's voice cracks on 'noona' exactly like Jungkook's does. The way they both bring you the same snacks, have the same nervous energy, the same tendency to ramble when they're flustered. It's just a coincidence, because the alternative means admitting something you're absolutely not ready to deal with.

Maybe that's why you're hiding in August Coffee, your usual spot tucked away in one of Sinchon's winding side streets.

The late autumn breeze carries the scent of roasted coffee beans through the open window, and your laptop screen glows with half-finished articles and interview transcripts. Your notebook lies open beside a rapidly cooling americano while the café's jazz playlist provides a gentle backdrop to your furious typing. You're on a deadline for tomorrow's paper, and the last thing you need is—

A flash of red and blue swings past the window.

You pretend not to notice. Maybe if you focus hard enough on your screen, he'll take the hint and—

"Noona!"

—of course he doesn't.

There he is, hanging upside down outside the second-floor window, the eyes of his mask wide and eager. A plastic convenience store bag dangles from his hand, swaying in the autumn wind. Several patrons are already pulling out their phones, and you can feel your carefully cultivated productivity slipping away.

"No," you say firmly, not looking up from your laptop.

"But noona—" His voice cracks on the honorific, and you absolutely refuse to find it endearing. "I haven't even said anything yet!"

"I'm working." You take a pointed sip of your americano, grimacing when you realize it's gone cold. Perfect. "Some of us have actual responsibilities, Spider-Boy."

"I brought you snacks!" He awkwardly maneuvers through the window—you're not sure if the owner keeps it open for him specifically or if he's just that persistent. "You know, the ones you like with the matcha filling? The new ones from that fancy Japanese brand?"

You pause, fingers hovering over your keyboard. "How do you know I like the ones with matcha filling?"

"Uh—" Even through the mask, you can tell he's flustered. His hands fidget with the plastic bag. "Lucky guess? Not that I know you, noona. Uh, I mean, you look like a noona. Not that I know for a fact you're a noona—"

"Stop talking." You pinch the bridge of your nose, painfully aware of the phones still recording this interaction. This will definitely end up on some university Instagram page later. Again. "You're making it worse."

He deflates slightly, shoulders hunching in that familiar way that reminds you too much of a certain someone who keeps "accidentally" running into you at the journalism building. The same one who somehow always knows your coffee order and brings you snacks you oh so casually mention fancying—

No. You're not going there. You're not connecting those dots, because connecting those dots leads to complications you absolutely don't need in your final year.

"I can leave if you want," he offers, but he's already approaching, placing the snacks on your table with careful precision. "But you've been here for four hours, and you always forget to eat when you're working on a big story."

You stare at him. "How do you know how long I've been here?"

"I, uh—" His mask's eyes widen comically. "Spider-sense?"

"That's not how spider-sense works."

"You don't know how my spider-sense works! Maybe it's... hungry-noona-sense?"

A laugh escapes before you can stop it, and you quickly cover it with a cough. "That's the worst excuse you've come up with yet."

"Yet!" He perks up. "So you're keeping track?"

"Go away." You open the snack bag anyway, pretending not to notice how he straightens up eagerly when you do. "Don't you have a city to protect or something?"

"Seoul can handle itself for ten minutes while I make sure my favorite n—while I make sure hardworking journalists eat properly."

You raise an eyebrow at the slip, and he fidgets under your gaze. "Your favorite what?"

"Nothing! No one! Just, you know, doing my friendly neighborhood Spider-Man duties. Very friendly. Very neighborly. Nothing specific or personal about it at all."

You bite into one of the matcha-filled snacks—they're fresh, which means he must have bought them recently. Specifically for you. Just like how a certain freshman keeps bringing you fresh triangle kimbap from the convenience store near your morning lecture hall...

No. Stop it. You're not doing this.

"Sit down," you sigh, pushing the chair across from you out with your foot. "And stay quiet, or I’ll kick you out."

He practically collapses into the chair, bag already placed on the table. You notice his hands shaking slightly, and something in your chest tightens.

You shouldn't find it endearing. You really, really shouldn't.

But then again, you probably shouldn't find anything about this situation endearing — a masked vigilante bringing you sweets in the middle of your favorite cafe, stammering through excuses that sound exactly like the ones Jungkook uses when you catch him "accidentally" walking the same way as you after class.

You really need to stop noticing these things.

You try to refocus on your notes after that, but it's hard—mostly because Spider-Man is still sitting there. Quietly. Staring.

And not in a "just glancing around the cafe" kind of way, either. No, he's full-on watching you, eyes darting between the scribbles in your notebook, the crumbs on your plate, and, worst of all, your face. Like you're the most fascinating thing in the world. Like he's never seen someone drink a mediocre americano and type furiously into Google Docs before.

It goes on for five minutes. Five full, agonizing minutes of silence, punctuated only by the occasional click of your keyboard and the muted sounds of espresso machines in the background.

Finally, you sigh, your fingers pausing mid-typing. "Don't you have better stuff to do?"

"No." The response is immediate. Too immediate. His tone is absurdly casual, like the very idea that Spider-Man—the literal defender of Seoul—could have anything more important than sitting in August Coffee and bothering you is completely ridiculous.

You raise a brow, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. "No supervillains to fight? No cats stuck in trees? Nothing?"

"Nope," he says, popping the 'p' for emphasis. "Pretty quiet day."

You shake your head and turn your attention back to your laptop. "Must be nice."

There's a pause. You can feel him shifting in his seat, the chair creaking slightly under his weight, and when he speaks again, his voice is just shy of hesitant.

"How are the pastries? Do you like them?"

Your fingers freeze over your keyboard. Slowly, you turn to face him again, narrowing your eyes.

"You didn't spit in them, did you?"

"Wha—no!" he sputters, his whole posture stiffening in obvious horror. "Why—why would I—noona, I would never spit in your pastries!"

You let him sweat for a second longer, just to amuse yourself, before breaking into a small, satisfied smirk.

"Relax, Spider-Boy. I'm kidding." You reach for the bag of snacks he brought. "Yeah, they're good. Wanna try?"

His eyes widen a little—well, as much as they can through that mask—and he seems to hesitate, like he's not sure if you're serious or trying to bait him again. You wave one of the pastries in his direction. He glances at it, then back at you, before finally nodding.

"Okay. Yeah, sure."

You watch as he carefully rolls his mask up just to his nose, revealing his mouth for the first time. You don't know what you expected, but… it's a good mouth. Maybe annoyingly good, given how little you want to admit that very obvious fact to yourself. Full lips, slightly pink, with just the faintest hint of nervousness as he bites at his bottom lip before leaning forward.

He takes a bite of the pastry you're holding out to him, and the pleased groan he lets out immediately makes you regret offering him anything at all.

"God, that's delicious," he mumbles around his mouthful, crumbs falling onto his suit. He barely finishes chewing before continuing. "Now I know why you like them so much. I mean—why people say they're so good. Not you specifically. Just, you know, people."

You snort, shaking your head as you turn back to your laptop. "You're a terrible liar."

"And you're a terrible bossy noona," he mutters, mostly to himself, stuffing the rest of the pastry into his mouth before leaning back in his chair.

You're about to toss another sarcastic remark his way when something catches your eye. Or, more specifically, half of something. A small smudge of green—matcha filling, you realize—lingering on the corner of his mouth.

It's instinctive, the way your hand moves—completely unthinking, like muscle memory kicking in before your brain has a chance to catch up. One moment, you're perfectly stationary in your seat; the next, your thumb is brushing against his lip, swiping the smudge away with a gentle, practiced motion.

He startles at the touch, his whole body jerking slightly as his eyes snap to yours. And then, just like that, reality crashes back in.

Your hand freezes midair.

His mouth parts for half a second, like he's about to say something, but then his tongue darts out—slow, deliberate—to lick the exact spot your thumb had just brushed.

You snatch your hand back like you've been burned, your face heating despite yourself.

The silence that follows is awful. Deafening. Inescapable.

He shifts in his chair, his eyes flickering to the table, then back to you, then down again. He clears his throat—once, then twice—before adjusting the edge of his suit with what you can only describe as frantic energy.

"So… uh…" His voice is tight. Way tighter than usual, cracking slightly on the first syllable. "Thanks for that. The, uh. The whole… lip thing. That was. Uh. Cool."

You blink at him, deadpan. "Cool?"

"Yeah. Cool. Totally normal and cool. Happens all the time. Super casual."

If you weren't so flustered yourself, you'd have laughed at the way he's fidgeting in his seat, his hands gripping his thighs under the table like he's trying not to explode.

"Right," you say slowly, leaning back in your chair. "Casual."

"Exactly."

He nods a little too enthusiastically, and you notice his knees bumping against each other under the table before he quickly crosses his legs. His hands drop to his lap almost immediately after, like he's trying to adjust the spandex near his thighs.

Your gaze is momentarily drawn there before—

"Anyway!" The word comes out nearly an octave higher than it should. He's already standing—or, more accurately, bolting to his feet—his hands still awkwardly hovering in front of him. "I should, uh, get going! Supervillains don't wait, you know? Gotta, uh… save the people of Seoul. Yeah. Big hero stuff."

You stare at him, unblinking, as he starts inching toward the door. "Uh-huh."

"Thanks for the pastries, noona! Great talk, as always!" He clears his throat again, audibly struggling to keep his voice steady. "Okay! Bye!"

And then he's gone, practically sprinting out of the cafe before he can embarrass himself any further.

You sit there for a long moment, still frozen, your brain catching up to what just happened. Then, slowly, you reach for another pastry.

Whatever just happened? Definitely not your problem.

"I'm such a fucking idiot."

Jungkook's voice is muffled by his hands, currently covering his face in what can only be described as unrelenting shame. He's lying on Jimin's couch, legs splayed out haphazardly, the picture of a man defeated by his own existence.

Across the room, Jimin raises an eyebrow, lazily popping another chip into his mouth. The bag crinkles loudly, much to Jungkook's dismay. "It's not that bad, Kooks. She probably didn't even notice."

Jungkook groans, dragging his hands down his face until his eyes peek out dramatically between his fingers. "She 100% noticed. It was—like—a five-minute interaction. FIVE minutes, and I made it weird. Now she's gonna think I'm a fucking weirdo and a creep."

Jimin doesn't even try to hide the snort that escapes him, his expression somewhere between entertained and unimpressed. "Yeah, because stalking her as Spider-Man didn't have her thinking that already."

Jungkook bolts upright on the couch, eyes wide with panic. "She told you that?!"

Jimin chokes on his chip, wheezing as he waves his hand for Jungkook to calm down. "No! Shit, man, calm down. I'm just saying. Like, I guess? I mean, you do kind of… hover. A lot."

"I don't hover," Jungkook protests, indignant. But even as the words leave his mouth, he hesitates. "Do I hover?"

Jimin gives him a look.

Jungkook groans again, flopping back onto the couch like his limbs have given up on life. "Oh my god, you're right. I hover. I'm that guy. And now it's worse because who the fuck pops a boner from someone—" He pauses, embarrassingly aware of the words about to leave his mouth. "—touching their lip? What is wrong with me? I must be insane. She must think I'm insane."

Jimin, now thoroughly entertained, leans back in his chair with his bag of chips, one leg crossed over the other. "I mean... it's not great," he says unhelpfully, though there's a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Jungkook lets out a strangled noise, somewhere between a groan and a whimper, and buries his face back into his hands. "She's never gonna look at me the same. I probably freaked her out. GOD, she's gonna think I'm some kind of pervert. Or—worse—she's gonna avoid me completely now. And then I'll never see her again. And then—"

"Okay, okay," Jimin interrupts, holding up a hand to stop whatever spiral Jungkook's about to drag them into. "First of all, she offered to share her snack with you, so I don't think she's avoiding you anytime soon."

"But that was BEFORE—"

"Second of all," Jimin continues loudly, ignoring Jungkook's interjection, "maybe just... stop calling her 'noona' every chance you get? It's not helping your case."

Jungkook frowns, peeking out from behind his fingers again. "What's wrong with calling her noona? That's respectful!"

"Yeah, but it's also kinda... you know," Jimin winces, waving a hand vaguely. "Weird, coming from you. Like, you're already bumbling around her like a lost golden retriever. Adding 'noona' into the mix just makes you look—what's the word?"

"Adorable?" Jungkook tries hopefully.

"Pathetic," Jimin finishes, deadpan.

Jungkook groans for what feels like the millionth time, throwing his head against the couch cushion. "Why do I even talk to you? You're supposed to make me feel better, hyung. Not worse."

"Hey, I'm here for the truth," Jimin says, pointing at him with a chip in hand. "You want a cheerleader, go call Taehyung."

"Taehyung's just gonna laugh at me," Jungkook mutters into the cushion.

"And yet, you're shocked I'm doing it too."

Jungkook mumbles something unintelligible, his face half-smashed into the cushion now as he replays every excruciating detail of his interaction with you earlier. The way your thumb had brushed his lip. The way he'd immediately been unable to control the—well, reaction. The way he'd panicked like an idiot, stammered something incomprehensible, and practically bolted out of the cafe without even finishing his sentence.

"Kill me," he says dramatically, still face-down in the cushion. "Just end me. I can't show my face again."

Jimin laughs, leaning forward to pat Jungkook's shoulder in a way that's more mocking than comforting. "Relax, man. You'll survive. Just... maybe keep your hormones in check next time, yeah?"

Jungkook flips him off blindly, his hand waving somewhere above his head.

"Love you too, Spider-Menace," Jimin quips, taking another chip like this is the best entertainment he's had all week.

The crunching sound of Jimin biting into another chip is loud enough to make Jungkook groan into the couch again. "Do you ever stop eating?" Jungkook mutters, his voice muffled by the cushion.

Jimin raises an eyebrow, unbothered, and is about to throw a smartass reply back when his phone buzzes on the coffee table. He glances at the screen, sees Taehyung's name, and shrugs, casually placing the phone between his shoulder and ear as he picks up without pausing his snacking.

"What's up?" Jimin hums lazily, chips still in hand, completely ignoring Jungkook's existential crisis unfolding just feet away from him.

Jungkook's ears perk up despite himself—because why else would Taehyung be calling Jimin right now? He lifts his head just enough to peek over the cushion, his hair mussed and sticking up in odd directions.

Jimin's expression doesn't change at first, eyes still fixated on the bag of chips in his lap as he listens. "Yeah, he's with me," he says vaguely, gesturing aimlessly toward Jungkook, who frowns at being referred to like some stray dog Jimin found.

But then Jimin freezes. His chewing slows. His eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline as Taehyung says something that causes him to do a violent double take at Jungkook.

"What?" Jimin coughs, choking on the chip he was mid-swallow. He pounds his chest a little before leaning forward sharply. "He—what? What, what, what—? Tae, calm down—!"

"What's going on?" Jungkook asks, sitting up now, his stomach twisting uncomfortably at Jimin's sudden change in tone.

Jimin waves him off with a quick flick of his hand, signaling for him to shut up. "No, yeah. Yeah, no, I know," Jimin mumbles into the phone, his tone getting increasingly more exasperated as he listens. "Tae—okay? Can you just—okay?"

"What's wrong??" Jungkook asks again, panic creeping into his voice. He hates not knowing what's going on, especially when Jimin looks... concerned? Flustered? Whatever it is, it's not good.

Jimin twists his head toward Jungkook, eyes narrowing as he motions aggressively with his entire head for Jungkook to shut the hell up.

"Okay, let me— what? You wanna talk to him?" Jimin repeats, his voice pitching higher in disbelief. "Oh, now you wanna talk to him? Fine! Okay, okay, okay, here."

Before Jungkook can process what's happening, Jimin is all but shoving his phone into Jungkook's hands, plunking the bag of chips onto the bed with a dramatic sigh.

"Take it," Jimin mutters, irritation bleeding into his tone.

"Wait, why do I have to—"

"Take it," Jimin repeats, louder this time, his hand already retreating as he grabs another chip to munch on, clearly done with whatever chaos Taehyung just unloaded on him.

Jungkook swallows nervously, holding the phone to his ear as Taehyung's voice immediately fills it in a panicked rush.

"Jungkook! Oh my god, dude, you're not gonna believe this—" Taehyung starts, and Jungkook feels his entire stomach plummet before Taehyung can even finish his sentence.

"Believe what?" Jungkook half-yells into the phone, his voice cracking just slightly at the end, betraying the anxiety bubbling under his skin.

"Don't freak out," Taehyung begins, which, of course, makes Jungkook's blood pressure shoot straight through the roof. His knuckles grip Jimin's phone tightly, and he shares a panicked look with Jimin, who's now leaning against the coffee table with a chip halfway to his mouth, watching the scene unfold like it's prime-time drama.

"I'm already freaking out, hyung! Just tell me!" Jungkook demands, pacing the room like a caged animal.

"Okay, so," Taehyung starts again, and Jungkook can hear the smirk in his voice, which immediately makes him want to fling the phone out the window. "You know Y/N, yeah?"

"Do I—what do you mean, 'do I know Y/N'?! Of course I know—just get to the point!" Jungkook's frustration is mounting by the second. He's wound so tight he feels like a single flick might send him spiraling.

"Okay, Mr. Touchy," Taehyung says innocently, and Jungkook can practically see him holding back a laugh wherever he is. "So, uh… apparently, she's been asking questions."

Jungkook stops dead in his tracks. His heart lurches in a way that makes his hands clammy against the phone. "Questions?" he repeats, voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah," Taehyung continues, tone far too blasé for Jungkook's liking. "You know, like... about Spider-Man."

Jungkook swears his brain short-circuits. For a second, all he hears is static, like every neuron in his head has collectively stopped firing.

"...What kind of questions?" he asks quietly, his voice taking on an edge that immediately grabs Jimin's attention.

"Oh, you know." Taehyung's voice is light, purposefully teasing. "Like, how he seems to always show up when she's around, or how he just happens to bring her favorite snacks, or—oh, this one's my favorite—how his voice cracks exactly like a certain freshman she knows at Yonsei."

Jungkook's knees buckle, and he collapses back onto the couch like his strings have been cut. Jimin is now openly laughing, clutching his stomach with one hand while pointing at Jungkook with the other.

"She—oh my god," Jungkook mutters into the phone, his free hand running through his hair in frantic tugs. "She knows. She knows, doesn't she? I'm so fucked."

"Hey, hey, calm down!" Taehyung says hurriedly, though his voice is still laced with amusement. "She doesn't know know. I mean, I don't think so. She's not like, accusing you or anything. Just... putting pieces together. Y'know, connecting dots."

"Connecting dots?!" Jungkook hisses, his chest tightening as his worst nightmare begins to unfold in real time. "Do you have any idea how many dots there ARE, hyung?! I'm like a walking... dot-factory!"

Jimin absolutely loses it, doubling over in laughter as crumbs from his chips scatter across the floor.

"Okay, Kook, you need to calm down," Taehyung says, though his tone suggests he's also suppressing a laugh. "She's just curious, that's all. You know how Y/N is. She's a journalist. She's always sniffing around for a good story, right?"

"She doesn't need THIS story!" Jungkook yells, his hand clenching into a fist against his thigh. "Oh my god, what if she writes about it? What if she—what if it ENDS UP IN THE SCHOOL PAPER?!"

"Relax, relax, relax," Taehyung says in quick succession, his voice almost soothing now. "She's not gonna write about it. I don't think she'd do that to you... unless, you know, you give her a reason to."

Jungkook groans, leaning forward to bury his face in his hands again. "I'm so dead. She's gonna out me. My life is over. My life is literally over."

"Hyung," Jimin finally pipes up, gasping for air as he wipes away a tear from laughing too hard. "Tell him to just confess already. At this rate, she'll figure it out before he ever grows the balls to tell her himself."

"Confess?" Jungkook sputters, jerking his head up to glare at Jimin. "Are you insane?! You want me to walk up to her and go, 'Hey, Y/N, funny thing—remember how you thought I was stalking you? Well, surprise! I was, but it's okay because I'm Spider-Man!' That's your plan?!"

Jimin shrugs, smirking as he tosses a chip into his mouth. "Worked for Andrew Garfield."

"THIS IS NOT A MOVIE!"

Taehyung's laugh echoes through the phone, loud and clear. "Oh man, I wish I was there to see this meltdown in person. Seriously, Kook, stop freaking out. Just... play it cool, okay? She doesn't know anything for sure. Yet."

"Yet?!" Jungkook exclaims, horror-struck.

"Gotta go!" Taehyung says way too quickly, the call disconnecting before Jungkook can yell at him further.

Jungkook stares at the phone in disbelief, his chest heaving as Jimin's smug laughter reverberates in the background.

"Cool," Jimin repeats mockingly, curving his lips. "Yeah, Kook, just play it cool. You're so good at that."

Jungkook groans, tossing the phone onto the couch and collapsing after it. "I need new friends."

"You love us," Jimin chirps, reaching for another chip.

Jungkook screams into the pillow.

You were expecting something, anything, really. A subtle slip-up. A sheepish confession. Hell, maybe even some stammering and nervous sweating.

But the moment you confronted Taehyung—cornered him, really, by the vending machine in the student lounge—and the words "Do you know if Jungkook's Spider-Man?" left your mouth, all he did was cackle. Loudly. Mockingly. Like a full-on villain in a Saturday morning cartoon.

"Spider-Man?" he wheezed, doubling over and clutching his stomach like you'd just told him the funniest joke in existence. "Jungkook? Jeon Jungkook? Noona, you're joking, right?"

You blinked, momentarily thrown off by how visceral his reaction was. "No. I'm not joking," you said stiffly, crossing your arms. "What's so funny about it?"

Taehyung straightened up, wiping a fake tear from the corner of his eye as he glanced at you with barely contained amusement. "Do you know Jungkook? Like, know him? Because that kid has two left feet. I've literally seen him trip over air. How would he even swing that gracefully?"

For a brief, fleeting moment, you felt the smallest hitch in your resolve. Because, well, the evidence did kind of contradict itself, didn't it? Jungkook is clumsy sometimes. That much is true. You've seen him knock over a whole stack of textbooks just trying to nod hello at you in the hallway. He once walked into a doorframe because he was too busy staring at his phone.

Spider-Man, by comparison, is supposed to be graceful. Quick. Precise. Not... whatever it is Jungkook embodies most of the time.

But then you think about the stupid coffee shop incident. The way Spider-Man stammered and fidgeted and tripped over his words like a nervous wreck. The way he dropped his entire cool superhero persona when he handed you those damn matcha pastries. He wasn't exactly graceful then, was he?

And okay, let's talk about those pastries for a second. Because the more you think about them, the more your brain starts spinning. You distinctly remember mentioning them once—to Eunjae, over lunch in the cafeteria, weeks ago. How the hell would Spider-Man know about them if he wasn't there to overhear?

You frown, chewing on the inside of your cheek as the pieces start stacking themselves again in your head. Jungkook might be clumsy, sure. But Spider-Man was clumsy too. At least, that day he was. And the matcha pastries aren't just a coincidence. They can't be.

Your inner spiral is abruptly interrupted by a bright, familiar voice calling out behind you.

"Noona!"

You whirl around at the sound like a guilty kid caught stealing candy, heart practically leaping into your throat because you know that voice anywhere. And there he is, the devil himself—Jeon Jungkook, all floppy hair and dumbly wide grin, bounding toward you like an overexcited golden retriever.

He sidesteps a couple of students in his path, his long legs moving with just a little too much energy. Honestly, it's a miracle he doesn't trip.

"I brought you these!" he announces, holding up a plastic bag like it's some kind of trophy. His grin stretches so wide it practically touches his ears, and you hate that your first thought is how stupidly adorable he looks.

Stupid, you think, swiping the bag from his hand. Not adorable. Definitely not adorable. You're sure of it.

Peeking inside, your brows furrow. "Hotteok?"

Jungkook presses his lips together, humming as he nods eagerly. "Yeah! You—" His smile falters just a touch. "You don't like it?"

The way his face drops shouldn't make you feel so guilty, but it does, and it's annoying. "No, uh, I mean…" You struggle for the right words, because… hotteok? Really? You'd been expecting the matcha pastries again. This feels almost purposeful—like he's playing dumb. Is he? Or is this proof that you've been completely off base this whole time?

You're overthinking again. Shaking your head, you wave off the thought entirely. "Yeah, thank you, Jungkook-ah," you mutter, tone softer than you mean it to be.

The banmal slips out without much thought, but the effect it has is immediate. His eyes go wide, and then his whole face lights up in the kind of beam that makes you want to smack yourself for fueling his enthusiasm.

"This is the first time you dropped honorifics with me," he says, looking downright gleeful.

You clench the bag a little tighter and wish you could hate him. Why is he so excited over something so small? Why does it make your chest feel weirdly tight? And why is it so hard to stay annoyed at him when he looks at you like that?

God, this kid.

"Don't get used to it," you mutter gruffly, turning away before the growing warmth in your cheeks betrays you completely.

"So," he begins, falling into step beside you as you start walking toward the journalism building. "What are your plans for today?"

You don't respond. Not out of spite or anything—you're just not in the mood to entertain whatever puppy-dog energy he's radiating right now.

"Writing notes?" he prompts, glancing sideways at you, his tone just a little too hopeful for your liking.

Still, you say nothing.

"Coffee?"

Nope.

"Gonna catch leads for Spider-Man's identity?"

That one makes you stop dead in your tracks. You whirl around so fast he nearly collides with you, blinking like a deer caught in headlights. "Huh?"

His eyes widen marginally, mouth opening and closing like he's trying to come up with a quick excuse. "Taehyung told me!" he blurts, the words tumbling out in a rush.

For a second, you just stare at him, blinking once, then twice. "Huh," you reply, eyebrows quirking upward.

"Yeah!" he adds, voice pitching slightly higher, probably in an effort to sound casual. "He said you were, uh, investigating? Like, Spider-Man and all that? You know, trying to figure out who he is?"

Your head tilts as you study him, arms crossing instinctively. "Did he now?"

"Uh-huh," he nods enthusiastically, though the way his hand rubs at the back of his neck gives him away almost immediately. "I mean, not that I think that's, like, bad or anything? It's cool! Totally cool! I mean, you're a journalist, so, like, it's your job, right? Investigating stuff and—"

"Jungkook."

He freezes, looking way too much like a kid caught sneaking cookies before dinner.

"Why," you ask, narrowing your eyes just slightly, "do you sound like you're trying to convince me not to?"

"I-I'm not! I'm not," he stammers, waving his hands frantically. "I was just, you know, saying! Like, uh, if anyone were trying to find his identity, it'd definitely be you because, uh… you're smart? And observant? And not at all easy to fool?"

Your brow arches higher, his stream of nervous compliments only fueling the suspicion building in your chest.

"Right," you say slowly, dragging out the word as you step closer, watching the way his Adam's apple bobs nervously when your gaze meets his. "So hypothetically…"

"H-Hypothetically," he squeaks, leaning back like he's mentally bracing himself for whatever's coming next.

"If I was trying to find out who Spider-Man is," you continue, voice calm and steady, "you wouldn't happen to have anything to do with that, now would you?"

The way he freezes, body rigid and eyes darting everywhere but at you, would be funny if it weren't so telling. The sheer panic written all over his face is practically criminal.

"I—uh—no? N-No. Definitely not," he stammers, the pitch of his voice betraying him entirely. "W-Why would I have anything to do with that? I'm just a freshman! I don't even know Spider-Man! I mean, who even is Spider-Man? Could be anyone, right? Crazy world we live in, haha…"

You take a moment to just stare at him, fighting the urge to roll your eyes so hard they might actually get stuck. "Right," you deadpan, turning on your heel to start walking again.

Jungkook exhales audibly behind you, feet scrambling to catch up. "Y-Yeah, right! That's what I thought too!" he says quickly, clearly desperate to steer the conversation in another direction. "Anyway, uh, where were we? Oh! Notes! Are you writing notes today, noona?"

You don't respond. Again. Mostly because you're too busy replaying his very suspicious reaction over and over in your head like a mental highlight reel.

Yeah… no way this kid isn't up to something.

You keep walking, your steps steady, purposeful. Jungkook, as always, trots along beside you like he's afraid you might disappear if he doesn't keep up. And unlike you, who values peace and quiet, Jungkook doesn't seem to understand the concept of shutting up.

"So, like, I was thinking," he starts, voice bright and eager. "If Spider-Man's around all the time, do you think he lives nearby? Like, maybe he's a uni student? Or—or maybe he's secretly a professor? Oh my god, imagine Professor Kim as Spider-Man—he'd probably web someone for being late to class, right? Oh, oh, or he'd use his powers to booby-trap the lecture hall if we don't submit our midterms on time! Haha—what do you think, noona?"

You don't answer.

"And have you noticed he wears, like, the same colors as Yonsei's? Like, blue and red? Do you think that's on purpose? Maybe he's trying to rep the school spirit! Or maybe he's trying to throw us off! Who knows, right? I mean, what's your theory? You must have a theory—you're always so smart about these things—"

"Jungkook," you interject, your voice flat as you stop abruptly in your tracks. He almost trips trying to halt beside you, blinking wide-eyed like he didn't expect you to actually respond.

"Yeah?"

"Don't you have class?" You ask, turning your head just enough for him to see the pointed look you're giving him.

He licks his lips, and you know he's about to lie before the words even leave his mouth. "No?"

"Liar," you deadpan, already turning back to face forward.

"You know my schedule?" he shoots back, voice teasing as he trails after you again.

You roll your eyes but don't give him the satisfaction of a retort. If you respond, he'll just milk it—probably tease you further, or worse, distract you with another string of nonsense questions about Spider-Man. No, you're better off ignoring him.

So, you keep walking. He keeps rambling.

And then—

The sound of a bus engine roaring down the street takes you off guard. You don't even register the rush of movement until it's too late.

Suddenly, there's a firm pressure against your shoulders, and you're stumbling—but not forward, no—backward. Stumbling directly into Jungkook's chest, his arms bracketing your body like they're the only thing stopping you from tumbling straight into the pavement.

Your breath catches, your heart pounding against your ribs. You freeze, blinking up at him in shock. "What the—"

He's close. Too close. His face hovers just inches from yours, his expression wide-eyed and… strained.

"Are you okay?" he blurts, his voice laced with breathless concern like he's just sprinted a marathon.

You don't answer. You can't answer. Because all you can think about is how the hell he even managed to grab you like that.

He was five meters away. Five meters away, Jungkook. There's no way he could've—

"What the fuck," you murmur under your breath, your mind racing a mile a minute as you shove yourself upright, still staring at him like he's grown a second head. "How—when—how the fuck did you just—"

"It was nothing!" he rushes out, cutting you off before you can finish your sentence. His voice cracks, and he's already letting go of you, stepping back like he's afraid of the scrutiny in your eyes. "I-I mean, reflexes? Adrenaline? Fight or flight? Haha…"

You narrow your eyes, suspicious once again. "…Right."

Jungkook scratches the back of his neck, the tips of his ears turning red. "Yeah, uh… it's all good. You're fine, right? Totally fine! So, uh… should we—keep walking? Yep, let's keep walking!"

He starts to turn away again, clearly desperate to move on, but you don't budge. You're too busy trying to piece together what just happened, trying to figure out how Jungkook keeps doing things that defy all logic and common sense.

And that's when it hits you.

Spider-Man. Fast reflexes. The ability to move like that without warning. You glance down at his feet, planted firmly on the ground, and then back up at his sheepish grin.

No fucking way.

"I'm leaving."

"No—come on, Tae, you promised!" Jungkook whines, clutching at Taehyung's shoulder like a child trying to stop his older sibling from walking out the door.

Taehyung stops mid-stride, turning to glare at him with an expression that's this close to murderous. "I promised you I'd study with you at the library," he hisses. "Not that we'd come here so you can sit there and drool all over her."

Jungkook freezes, eyes wide. "I—what?!"

"You heard me," Taehyung deadpans, shoving Jungkook's hand off his shoulder.

"I have no clue what you're talking about," Jungkook mumbles, feigning innocence as he suddenly averts his gaze.

Taehyung rolls his eyes so hard it's a miracle they don't get stuck. "Kook, you've been staring at her table since we walked in. Don't even try to deny it."

"I—have not!" Jungkook protests, voice pitching just slightly higher than normal. His head jerks around, and of course his eyes instinctively flicker to your table. The one three meters to the left. The one where you're currently sitting, completely engrossed in your notes, pencil moving methodically across the page like it's the only thing that matters in the world.

You're breathtaking. Ethereal. Like a beam of light in the dull, dusty gloom of the library.

And honestly, Jungkook's not even sure why he's into you. Okay, maybe he's a little sure. Or a lot. But that's not the point—the point is—he is definitely not staring. Not staring, not drooling. Definitely.

"You're doing it right now, man," Taehyung mutters, arms crossed.

"I'm not!"

"You are."

"I'm not! It's just—" Jungkook swallows, gesturing vaguely in your direction. "I was just… checking out the table. It's a nice table! Good wood quality, sturdy legs. The craftsmanship is—"

"Good wood quality?" Taehyung repeats, staring at him like he's lost his mind.

Jungkook groans, throwing his hands up in defeat. "Fine! Okay! Maybe I glanced at her for a second. It's not a crime, hyung!"

Taehyung lets out a long-suffering sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose like he's already regretting his life choices. "I am so done with you," he mutters. But even as the words leave his mouth, he walks toward one of the tables anyway and plops his bag down into one of the vacant chairs.

"Sit," he grumbles, motioning vaguely to the chair across from him. "And don't make me regret this."

Jungkook doesn't need to be told twice. He practically trips over himself as he sits, trying to act cool and not-at-all-focused on the fact that you're sitting so close. So close that he can see the faint furrow in your brow as you concentrate, or the way you absentmindedly tap the end of your pencil against your notebook.

He's not staring. Definitely not staring. Probably.

"You're staring again," Taehyung says flatly, not even bothering to look up from his own notes.

"No, I'm not!" Jungkook hisses, slouching lower in his chair.

Taehyung snorts. "Okay, Mr. 'Good Wood Quality.' Sure."

Jungkook tries. He really does. He's here to study—or at least, he's here to pretend to study—and he's determined to do something productive. Something library-like. Something that doesn't involve spending the entire time sneaking glances at you like some lovesick idiot.

So, step one: grab a book. Easy. People in libraries read books, right? He can do that. Simple.

He meanders through the shelves, grabbing the first book that catches his eye. He doesn't even check the title. Doesn't matter. A book's a book.

Step two: sit down. Done. Chair, occupied. Book, open.

Step three: look at the book like he's actually reading it.

He squints at the text, hoping his brain will absorb something through sheer willpower because god knows his mind sure as hell isn't cooperating right now. Every five seconds, it drifts back to the table three meters away, where you're still sitting, still taking notes, still looking unfairly... breathtaking.

"Jungkook," Taehyung mutters, his voice barely above a grumble as he glances up from his own book. "Why the fuck are you reading that?"

"What?" Jungkook blinks, startled, then looks down at the book in his hands for the first time.

Advanced Theoretical Physics.

Oh.

"You don't even study physics," Taehyung points out flatly, his tone dripping with judgment.

Jungkook flushes, slamming the book shut and fumbling to shove it under the table. "I—uh—thought it looked interesting."

Taehyung stares at him. "Sure you did."

Before Jungkook can come up with anything to salvage what's left of his dignity, you—of all people—decide to stand up, and all the air in Jungkook's lungs promptly decides to leave with you.

Oh, god. You're moving. Why are you moving? Where are you going? Should he say something? Should he act casual? Should he—

You shift slightly, gathering your things, and suddenly Jungkook's heart is doing this weird thing where it's racing and stuttering and flipping over itself, and now his body is moving before his brain can even think to stop it.

"Gotta go," he blurts, practically tripping over his chair as he bolts to his feet. "To the bathroom. I have to—pee. Yeah, really super really need to pee right now. See you in a bit!"

Taehyung looks up, stunned, as Jungkook all but sprints toward the library exit. "What the—wait—"

But Jungkook's already halfway across the library, muttering curses under his breath as he tries not to make it obvious that he's absolutely not going to the bathroom.

Taehyung sighs deeply, dragging a hand down his face before muttering to himself, "He's gonna get us banned from this place, isn't he?"

Jungkook's halfway to the library exit, heart pounding, when he realizes something odd.

You're not heading to the exit.

You're not even walking toward the bathroom.

He skids to a stop, trying very hard to play it cool, to act like he's not absolutely clocking your every move. His hands find their way into his hoodie pocket as he leans against the nearest bookshelf, pretending to scan the titles like he's not also sneaking glances at you over his shoulder.

Okay, so you're not leaving. That's fine. Totally normal. You're just… heading deeper into the library. Toward some distant corner, weaving past tables and shelves like you've got some secret mission.

And Jungkook? Jungkook is absolutely not a stalker. He's not. He's just curious. That's it. Normal behavior. Normal library behavior for a normal freshman.

Totally not unhinged.

But then you disappear behind a bookshelf, and his feet are moving before his brain can step on the brakes.

He follows, not too fast—just casual-like. Normal person stuff. Nothing suspicious. His eyes dart between shelves as he tries to spot where you went, his stomach doing this weird twisty thing that's part nerves, part excitement, part oh-god-why-am-I-like-this anxiety.

And just when he thinks he's catching up, just when he rounds the corner of yet another shelf and is about to spot you—

Yank.

Jungkook barely has time to register what's happening before soft hands grab him by the hoodie and pull him into a small, cramped room. His back bumps into something solid—he thinks it's the door—and suddenly you're standing right there, close enough that he can see every detail of your face, from the faint line of concentration on your forehead to the subtle curl of your lips as you exhale sharply.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.

"You," you exhale, your voice sharp but quiet. "Have some explaining to do, young mister."

Jungkook's mouth opens, but nothing comes out. His brain is short-circuiting, sparking like a broken circuit board, because—how? Why? When? What?

"I—uh—I—what?" he stammers, blinking rapidly as his eyes dart around the tiny supply closet you've dragged him into. It's all brooms and cleaning supplies and the faint smell of lemon disinfectant, and holy fuck, it is too small in here. You're too close.

"Don't play dumb," you mutter, arms crossing as you lean back just slightly—not enough to give him actual breathing room, but enough to make him feel like he's being scrutinized under a microscope. "You've been acting… weird."

"Weird?" He squeaks, his voice cracking embarrassingly. "Me? Weird? No, I'm not weird! I'm—uh—normal! Super normal! The most normal person ever!"

Your brow arches, the skepticism written all over your face making his knees weak. "Normal people don't act like they've got something to hide," you reply evenly.

"I don't have anything to hide!" he says way too quickly, voice pitching high again.

You don't look convinced. Not one bit.

Jungkook swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry as he tries to come up with an excuse, a cover, a way to escape both this tiny-ass room and the weight of your accusing gaze.

But all he can think about is how close you are. How your voice sounds louder in this little space. How your shampoo smells faintly like citrus. How utterly and completely trapped he feels—not just against the door, but under the intensity of your stare.

And he's so screwed. So screwed.

"The bus thing," you say, and Jungkook feels his entire soul leave his body for approximately three seconds before crash-landing right back into his chest with a painful thud.

"What bus thing?" he asks, trying for innocent confusion, but his voice comes out more like a strangled whisper. "There are lots of bus things. Buses are everywhere. Seoul's public transport system is very efficient and—"

"Three days ago," you cut him off, eyes narrowing. "When I almost got hit."

Oh.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

The memory hits him like a freight train. Three days ago. That stupid bus driver who didn't see you crossing. The way his heart had stopped dead in his chest when he realized you were about to—and he'd just—without thinking—

He'd used his webs.

On you.

In broad daylight.

As Jungkook.

Not Spider-Man.

Just... regular freshman Jeon Jungkook, who definitely shouldn't have access to web-shooters or superhuman reflexes or the ability to yank someone out of harm's way from five meters away.

"I don't—" he starts, but his mouth is dry, his tongue feeling too big for his mouth. "That was just—"

"Just what?" you press, leaning closer. "Just adrenaline? Just reflexes? Just another totally normal thing that totally normal freshmen do?"

"Yes?" he squeaks, pressing himself further against the shelf on his back like he might somehow phase through it if he tries hard enough.

Your eyes narrow further. "Really."

"Really!" He nods frantically. "I mean, haven't you heard those stories? About moms lifting cars off their kids? Same thing! Totally the same thing. Chemistry major stuff. Very scientific. Fight or flight response. Cortisol. Adrenaline. Biology... things."

"You're not a chemistry major."

"I could be!"

"You're in communications."

"...Minor in chemistry?"

You stare at him for a long moment, and Jungkook swears he can feel sweat beginning to bead at the back of his neck. This closet is too small. The air is too thick. You're too close, and your eyes are too sharp, and oh god, he's really messed up this time hasn't he?

"Jungkook," you say, voice low and steady. "How exactly did you pull me away from that bus?"

"I... ran really fast?"

"You were five meters away."

"I'm... very athletic?"

"Five meters, Jungkook."

He swallows hard, adam's apple bobbing nervously. "Would you believe me if I said I've been working out?"

The look you give him could probably melt steel. "Try again."

"Yoga?"

"Jungkook."

"Pilates?"

You lean even closer, if that's possible, and Jungkook's pretty sure his heart is about to explode right out of his chest. "One more chance," you murmur. "Tell me the truth."

And god, he wants to. He really, really wants to. Because you're right there, looking at him with those eyes that see right through him, and he's tired of lying, tired of pretending, tired of—

"I just..." he starts, voice barely above a whisper. "I couldn't let you get hurt."

Your expression softens, just slightly, but your gaze remains unwavering. "How did you do it?"

"I—"

Just as Jungkook's about to bolt, there's a distinct click that makes both of you freeze.

"What the—?" You whirl around, pushing past him to grab the handle. It doesn't budge. You try again, yanking harder this time. Nothing.

"You must be fucking kidding me," you mutter under your breath, jiggling the handle with increasing frustration.

And that's when Jungkook realizes several things at once:

1. Someone's locked you two in.

2. The closet is tiny.

3. You're pressed up against him trying to open the door.

4. Your ass is—

Oh god.

Oh god.

This cannot be happening. Not again. Not after the coffee shop incident. Not after he literally had to swing away to deal with his... situation.

"Fuck," he breathes, trying to press himself further into the piece of furniture behind him, but there's nowhere to go. The shelves dig into his back as he attempts to create even an inch of space between your bodies.

His hands hover awkwardly at his sides, not daring to touch you, not daring to move. His breath catches in his throat as you shift again, still wrestling with the door handle, completely oblivious to the way each movement sends sparks of electricity through his entire body.

"Hey!" you call out, banging on the door. "This isn't funny!"

Focus on something else, Jungkook tells himself desperately. Anything else. Math. Chemistry. Professor Kim's boring lectures. That time Jimin ate an entire jar of kimchi and—

You shift again, and Jungkook has to bite his lip to suppress a strangled noise.

"Seriously," you growl, hitting the door again. "Whoever's out there better unlock this right now or I swear to god—"

Think unsexy thoughts. Think unsexy thoughts. Dead puppies. Tax forms. Spidey suit chafing. Anything but how soft you feel against—

"Jungkook?" Your voice cuts through his desperate mental gymnastics. "You okay? You're breathing kind of weird."

"Fine!" he squeaks, voice way too high to be convincing. "Totally fine! Just, uh... claustrophobic! Very claustrophobic. Super claustrophobic. Did I mention I'm claustrophobic?"

You turn your head slightly, and even in the dim light, he can see your brow furrow. "Since when?"

"Since... right now?"

Another shift of your hips as you try the handle again, and Jungkook has to close his eyes, silently praying to whatever deity might be listening to either kill him now or get him out of this situation before he combusts from sheer embarrassment.

Because if you notice... if you realize... oh god, he'll never live it down. He'll have to transfer schools. Change his name. Move to a different country. Become a hermit in the mountains where no one will ever find him—

"Can you try pushing while I pull?" you ask, completely unaware of his internal crisis.

Jungkook makes a sound that might be agreement, might be distress, might be his soul leaving his body. He's not really sure anymore.

All he knows is that he's trapped in a closet with you, with your body pressed against his, and his spidey-sense is absolutely no help because apparently it doesn't warn him about situations that might kill him from pure mortification.

"Jungkook?" you prompt again, and he realizes he hasn't moved to help with the door.

"Right!" he says quickly, voice cracking. "Sorry! Just... give me a second to... uh... mentally prepare."

You snort. "For pushing a door?"

"Yes," he says weakly, because what else can he say? 'Sorry, I need a minute because you feel too good pressed against me and I'm trying very hard not to embarrass myself'?

Yeah, no. He'd rather die.

Jungkook does what you say. He really does. He plants his palms flat against the door, muscles tensing as he tries to push in time with your pulls. But it's too much. Too much to focus on, too close, too you.

His very healthy, very 21-year-old brain is absolutely screaming some unfortunate, very, very filthy thoughts right now, and no amount of silently yelling at himself to stop it, stop it, STOP IT seems to be working.

Push and pull. Yeah, he's thinking of that in an entirely different context, and honestly, sue him. He's a guy. A guy experiencing literal hell because your ass keeps brushing against him every time you shift, and it's doing things to him.

You move again, and Jungkook swears he's going to lose it. Like, right here. On the spot. His knees are weak, his palms are sweating, and his brain is running on some kind of autopilot loop of, "Abort mission! Shut it down! This is a disaster!"

Fuck him. Fuck his life. Just take him now, death. Send the reaper. Hell, send Taehyung to throw him into the Han River. Anything but this.

But then—just as his brain reaches critical overload—you stiffen.

Oh no.

You turn your head slightly, glancing at him over your shoulder, and the look in your eyes is... not great. In fact, it's terrifying.

"Jungkook," you say, his name an ominous warning.

His whole body seizes, every alarm in his mind blaring at full volume as sweat beads at the back of his neck. "Yeah?" he squeaks, his voice cracking so hard he wants to dig his own grave and lie in it.

"Are you hard?"

Oh, fuck.

Oh FUCK.

His brain short-circuits. His entire being freezes. His soul? Gone. It has left the building. His vision blurs at the edges as the words echo around the tiny closet, bouncing off every surface and hitting him square in the chest over and over again.

"I—uh—what?" he stammers, his voice so high-pitched it might as well be a dog whistle.

You straighten, still half-facing him, and your brow furrows with that look of realization that makes him want to throw himself into the sun.

"You are," you say, your tone shifting between disbelief and a growing edge of... amusement?

"I—I—no—what? No, I'm not! That's—no, that's ridiculous!" He tries to back away automatically, but there's nowhere to go, and his shoulders slam against the wood behind him.

You fully turn at this point, arms crossing as you raise a suspicious eyebrow. "Really, Jungkook?" Your eyes drift ever so slightly downward, and oh no oh no oh no don't look down don't look down don't look down.

He flails. Not physically, thankfully, but mentally? He's losing it. He's scrambling for something, anything, to salvage even a shred of dignity.

"It's—it's not what you think!" he blurts out, his hands flying up defensively. "It's—it's the—the door! Yeah! This stupid closet! I told you I was claustrophobic, right? That's gotta... do something... biologically... right?"

You stare at him, unimpressed. Completely, utterly unimpressed.

"It's not me," he continues, voice cracking again because his body is betraying him. "It's—it's like—science! Random reaction!"

"...Random reaction." Your expression is unreadable now, which somehow makes this worse.

"Totally random," he insists, nodding way too quickly. "You know, like... blood flow! Hormones! Human anatomy! It's a thing! You can look it up!"

"Oh, I'll look it up," you mutter, the corner of your mouth twitching like you're trying very hard not to laugh.

"Please don't," Jungkook whispers, his face burning so hot he's genuinely worried the fire alarm's going to go off.

And honestly? He doesn't even care if the fire alarm goes off at this point. He'd happily burn in this library right now if it meant escaping the absolute mortification of this moment.

Jungkook is fairly certain he's about to pass out, maybe die, and definitely disintegrate into dust when it happens. You turn around, shift again, just slightly, your body brushing against him in a way that feels… deliberate?

Or is his brain just playing tricks on him now?

Oh god. Oh fuck. Is this some cruel, sick hallucination brought on by his overactive imagination? Is his mind punishing him for thinking all those filthy, traitorous thoughts earlier? Why can't he have some kind of superpower to read minds right now? Be Professor X or some shit, because at this point, anything would be better than not knowing what the hell is going through your head right now.

Do you think he's a creep? A weirdo? A perverted little freshman who can't keep it together for five fucking minutes?

Or—

The thought makes his stomach flip violently, a spark of something hot—and definitely dangerous—shooting down his spine as you shift again.

Or do you find this… fun?

Amusing?

Arousing?

Because there's something about the way you're not stepping back, the way you're not recoiling in disgust, the way your breaths are just slightly heavier than before, that's making Jungkook's head spin.

And then you chuckle—low, quiet, but unmistakable.

"This is the first time this has ever happened to me," you mutter, the sound light but laced with something he can't quite name.

But he doesn't care what it's laced with. He doesn't even care what it means.

Because oh god, that chuckle—he'd bottle it if he could. He'd trap it in a jar and keep it with him forever, listen to it on repeat like a favorite playlist, let it echo in his head until he went insane from the sound of it alone.

His mouth opens, but no words come out. His body is frozen, his brain completely fried, every single one of his senses hyper-focused on the fact that you're still right there, pressed against him, closer than you've ever been before.

Say something, dumbass, his brain screams at him. Anything. Literally anything.

"I—it's not my fault?" he manages weakly, his voice cracking so pathetically he wants to punch himself.

You laugh again, and this time there's no mistaking it—there's something mischievous in it, like you're enjoying watching him squirm. And oh no, oh god, you're enjoying this.

"I didn't say it was," you reply, your voice smooth, calm, fucking deadly.

Jungkook swallows hard. His legs feel like they're about to give out any second now. His palms are clammy. His heart is doing that thing where it feels like it's both racing and stopping entirely at the same time.

"I—uh—should we try the door again?" he stammers, trying desperately to redirect the situation before his entire body spontaneously combusts from the sheer tension in the air.

You hum softly, not answering right away, and Jungkook feels every muscle in his body tense in response.

You keep moving, but now it's with purpose—up and down motions that are too deliberate to be anything but intentional. Like you're actually trying to... to get him off. Right here. In this tiny closet. In the fucking library.

Jungkook's mind is gone. Absolutely fucking gone. His consciousness has left his body, floating somewhere near the ceiling as he tries to process what's happening. He's honestly shocked he hasn't passed out yet, given how fast his blood is rushing south.

His hands hover awkwardly over your hips, trembling with the effort not to touch. His teeth dig into his bottom lip, desperate to hold back the embarrassing sounds threatening to escape. Because he refuses to pant like some desperate animal, even though that's exactly what you're reducing him to.

But then—oh fuck—you reach back, grabbing his hands. And before his brain can catch up, you're placing them firmly on your hips.

"It's okay," you murmur, your voice low and honey-sweet. "You can touch me."

The permission makes him shudder, a full-body tremor that he couldn't suppress if he tried. Your hand slides over his, guiding it upward, and his breath catches in his throat as you move it higher, and higher, and—

Oh god.

You press his palm against your breast, and Jungkook's brain completely flatlines.

A pathetic whimper escapes him before he can stop it. His fingers twitch against the soft swell under your shirt, and he's pretty sure he's died. This is death. This is heaven. This is some kind of fever dream his horny brain has cooked up.

"Is this really happening?" he whispers, his voice raw and desperate. "Like, actually happening? Not just another dream or—"

He cuts himself off, realizing what he just admitted, but it's too late. The words are already out there, hanging in the heated air between you.

"Another dream?" you repeat, and he can hear the smirk in your voice. "You dream about this often, Jungkook-ah?"

Fuck.

"Way too often," he confesses, the words spilling from his mouth before his brain can catch up. And yeah, that's definitely because his mind has completely checked out. Because normal Jungkook? Coherent Jungkook? Would rather die than admit something like that.

But normal Jungkook isn't here right now. Normal Jungkook left the building the moment you pressed his hand to your breast. Now there's just... this Jungkook. The one who can't think straight because you're letting him squeeze and touch and feel, and your ass is doing absolutely criminal things against his cock.

His forehead drops to your neck, breath coming in heavy pants that he can't control anymore. Fuck trying to be quiet. Fuck trying to be composed. His hips move on their own, grinding forward to match your rhythm.

Because you gave him permission, right? You said he could touch. You guided his hands. So this is okay. This is allowed. This isn't just another fevered fantasy his desperate brain cooked up at 3 AM.

"Noona," he breathes against your skin, the honorific slipping out again because his filter is completely gone. His fingers flex against your breast, testing, exploring, learning what makes your breath hitch. "Fuck."

You guide his movements with a confidence that makes his head spin, showing him exactly how to touch you. His fingers find your nipple through the fabric, and the way it peaks under his touch makes him dizzy with want. Your hand stays over his, encouraging him to squeeze, to explore, to learn.

And Jungkook? He's never been this hard in his entire fucking life.

He's pathetic, really. Getting this worked up from some dry humping and breast play like he's fifteen instead of twenty-one. Sure, they're absolutely amazing tits—perfect, actually, fitting in his palm like they were made for his touch—but still. He's broadcasting his virginity like a fucking neon sign, getting this desperate this fast.

But he can't help it. Can't stop the way his hips keep rolling against you, seeking more friction, more pressure, more. He knows he's close—can feel it building in his abdomen, that telltale tingling that makes his toes curl in his stupid mismatched socks.

"Noona," he whimpers against your shoulder, the sound muffled by your shirt. "Noona, I'm—fuck—"

His breath comes in sharp, desperate pants. He's making these absolutely embarrassing sounds—little whimpers and moans he has to muffle against your skin because if anyone heard him like this, he'd actually die on the spot.

The pressure builds, and builds, and builds, until he's grinding back helplessly, practically sobbing because it feels so good he can't stand it. His free hand grips your hip like a lifeline, probably too hard, definitely leaving marks, but he can't help it.

"Please," he chokes out, though he's not sure what he's begging for. "Please, I'm—I can't—"

He's going to come in his pants like a fucking teenager, and the worst part? He doesn't even care anymore.

"It's okay, Jungkook-ah," you murmur, voice honey-sweet and deadly. "Let go for noona."

And that's—that should be illegal. The way those words hit him is criminal, making his whole body seize up like he's been electrocuted. His hips stutter, losing rhythm as everything goes white-hot. He groans against your shoulder, embarrassingly loud even muffled against the fabric, as his orgasm hits him like a fucking freight train.

He came. He just—he actually just—came in his pants. Like some inexperienced kid who's never been touched before.

Mortifying. Absolutely fucking mortifying.

A hiccup escapes him, something between a sob and a whimper, and he wants to disappear. To evaporate. To cease existing entirely.

"Hey," you whisper, so soft it makes his chest ache. Your hand reaches back, fingers threading through the hair at the nape of his neck, and his skin erupts in goosebumps immediately at the gentle touch.

He wants to cry. Wants to apologize. Wants to explain that he's not usually this pathetic (lie), that he can last longer than three minutes (another lie), that he's not always this embarrassingly eager (the biggest lie of all).

But the words stick in his throat like clay, thick and suffocating. Because what can he possibly say? 'Sorry I just creamed my pants from some dry humping and titty grabbing?'

"It's okay," you murmur, and another hiccup escapes him.

No. No, don't do that. Don't pity him. Don't say those words like anything about this situation is remotely okay. Because it's not. It's the furthest thing from okay. He just—he literally just—

"I really liked that," you add, voice soft but sure.

Jungkook's head snaps up so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash. "What?"

You… liked it? How could you possibly have liked that? He barely lasted three minutes. He came in his pants like a middle schooler. He probably squeezed your tit too hard and left bruises on your hip and made the most embarrassing sounds and—

"How?" he croaks out, voice raw and disbelieving. "How could you—that was so—I'm so—"

Pathetic. Desperate. Inexperienced. Embarrassing.

His brain supplies about fifty different self-deprecating adjectives, but none of them make it past his lips because he's still trying to process the fact that you said you liked it.

The dam breaks.

Jungkook is crying. Tears spill over his flushed cheeks, unbidden and hot with shame, and oh god, he's really lost it now. He's crying, actually fucking crying, because apparently, being mortified isn't enough. No, his body has to betray him in every possible way all at once.

His blurred vision catches you turning around to face him, and then your hands—soft, warm—reach up to gently brush the tears away from his eyelids. The gesture makes him hiccup, and he immediately wants to crawl under the floorboards and die.

"It was cute," you murmur, and your tone is soft but steady, like you actually mean it.

"Don't say that," he mumbles, voice cracking as he ducks his head, his tears threatening to spill faster. He can't handle this. He really, really can't.

You smile—a smile so kind it feels like a dagger to his chest. "Why? I'm not lying."

"You are."

"I'm not."

"It was so embarrassing!" he bursts out, the words tumbling from his mouth in one long, panicked string. "I made such embarrassing sounds and—and I—I came in my pants and—"

"It's what I wanted," you interrupt, your words cutting through his spiraling like a blade.

He freezes, the tears still clinging to his lashes. His breath catches, the air suddenly clammy.

"...What?" he croaks, the word so small and broken it barely makes it past his lips. His mind blanks, unable to process what he just heard. Surely he misheard you, right? Surely this is some kind of cruel, shame-induced hallucination because there's no way.

"It's what I wanted," you repeat, your voice unwavering as you look him straight in the eye, your gaze too steady, too certain.

His breathing stutters. His tears momentarily forgotten, he stares at you, wide-eyed and silent, like you've just flipped his entire world upside down.

Your hand is still on his cheek, thumb brushing away the lingering wetness under his eye, and Jungkook can't look away from your face. Can't process the way you're looking at him—soft but certain, like you actually meant what you just said.

"But—" he starts, voice wavering. "But why would you—I mean, I—" He swallows hard, his face burning. "I barely even touched you. I just... got off on you like some desperate—"

"Because," you cut him off, your other hand coming up to frame his face, holding him still when he tries to look away. "I liked making you fall apart like that. Liked knowing I could affect you that much."

His breath catches. "But—"

"And," you continue, your thumb trailing down to brush over his bottom lip, making him shiver. "I liked how honest you were. How you couldn't hide how much you wanted it."

Jungkook's brain short-circuits again. Because what the fuck? What the actual fuck? You liked that he was desperate? That he was pathetic and needy and—

"The sounds you made," you murmur, leaning closer, close enough that he can feel your breath against his lips. "Were fucking hot."

He makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, caught somewhere between a whimper and a groan. Because this can't be real. This has to be some kind of fever dream. Some kind of post-orgasm hallucination.

"Noona," he breathes, his hands twitching at his sides, unsure if he's allowed to touch you again. "I—"

And then the door clicks.

Both of you freeze, heads snapping toward the sound. Light floods the closet as the door swings open, and there stands Taehyung, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"Time's up, lovebirds!" he announces cheerfully. "Did you two work out your... tension?"

Jungkook is going to kill him. He's actually going to murder his best friend. Right after he dies of embarrassment. Again.

"Hyung," he croaks out, face burning hotter than the sun. "Did you—was this—did you plan this?!"

Taehyung just grins, wiggling his eyebrows. "You're welcome!"

Yeah, Jungkook is definitely going to kill him.

Just... maybe after he changes his pants.

© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[lonelyroommp3]

originally put this in the tags and realised it made a massive unreadable block of text sooo putting it in the body instead

i also think it is very very helpful - especially with things like denser political/economic/scientific articles - to see if you are able to neutrally paraphrase the content into your own words (your OWN words!! not feeding it into chatgpt etc!! the work of doing this is the entire point). you want to check if you are able to answer basic questions based entirely on facts provided within the body of what you are reading, with minimal inference/filling in gaps/jumping to worst (or best) case scenarios.

the best questions to ask deal with those fundamental question words we all deal with in primary/elementary school

what: what is happening? what has been discovered or proven?

when: when was the article published? (<- arguably the most important question; check you're not reposting content from, for example, the previous trump presidency as if it's current news). when did the events being described happen, or when are they planned to happen?

where: where is it happening? (in particular, check that you are not falling victim to phenomena like us-centricism here. e.g. it's wild that i have to say this but seeing as it's a real mix up that's happened on here, if an article mentions "georgia", are they talking about the country or the state?)

who: who is making it happen? who are they working with? who are they working against? who are these people in a broader context (e.g. if a government official is mentioned, can you identify what branch of government they work for? if a scientist, economist, businessperson, etc, is mentioned, do you know what company/institution they're affiliated with and what their specialty or industry is?)

why: why is a politician (in their own words) enacting a specific policy? why is this economic phenomenon happening?

how: how is this policy going to be enforced? how did scientists make this discovery?

and some bonus what questions: (in the case of e.g. government policy) what barriers might they face towards enacting this? what are some potential (realistic/tangible/short or medium term - this is not the place for long term catastrophising) consequences if it does/does not come to pass?

if you are unable to answer these questions (or you just can't be arsed - happens to us all sometimes) you have two options: don't repost the content at all, or repeat the process finding additional sources that fill in the gaps you were unable to answer the first time round. because either you don't understand key fundamental factual aspects of what the original was trying to say, OR the source itself is too vague/biased/unreliable/uninformative to be used as a worthwhile source of news in its own right.

it should go without saying that this goes hand in hand with op's original points about checking for bias, credibility, etc - you may be able to answer all of these questions based on a single article but the "facts" presented to you therein could still very well be total bullshit. but i see so many examples on here of people reposting articles where it's very clear they have skimmed it and filled in what they think it is saying, so i think it's very important to not just check how reliable & trustworthy your news is, but also to make sure you actually understand it before you share it any further.

it's completely okay to not understand things on your own, but sharing - and unquestioningly believing - things you don't fully comprehend based on what you kind of think is going on (especially if you append some sort of fear-mongering summary based on the worst case scenario you could possibly glean from the headline or a brief skim or an explainer from your favourite generative AI model) is a very common way not only for misinformation and panic to permeate, but also for propaganda to sink its teeth into you.

(p.s. you don't need to actually write down and paraphrase every single news article you read - just asking the questions in your head can be enough and it becomes a pretty much automatic process once you've had enough practice at it - but if you're really struggling with a particular article writing it down like it's a proper school worksheet can be helpful. yes, it's extra work, but combating the spread of misinformation is worth that work.)

Not perfect and not always right but basically:

Is it a screen shot?

Is there a link?

Did you click/read the link?

Was it a real source (AP wire, local news, the original online post - not Fox, not the Sun, not NY Post, etc)?

Did you find any confirmation?

Did it strongly confirm a bias or suspicion?

Did it make you feel angry, smug, disgusted, superior, and/or helpless?

Is it important enough to you that you think it needs to be shared?

Do you have the energy, time, ability to research, confirm, and provide sources, links, and some additional clarifying details?

Generally I have this in mind, not necessarily always and not always observed, and I forget and blah blah. But it's a pretty simple guide to remember, and honestly items 1 and 9 cover me most of the time.

[fivewholeminutes]

How to avoid being spoiled with ST members' identities

A not so short guide for tumblr newcomers

Hello new fans and (probably) tiktok refugees! This is a guide on how to enjoy sleep token online without being spoiled and also, a guide on how not to be a twat at the same time.

It is rather long, but please give it a chance. If not for you, then for other people who do not want to be spoiled.

I was thinking about making a reminder post about it for ages and recent post from @zelink-stan02 inspired me to make it sooner!

Tumblr is one of not many places online where the chances of you getting jumpscared with the guys' faces and names are minimal. You're not completely safe here, but it's still way better than on other platforms. And a lot of users try to keep it that way.

So, the basics for people who want to avoid spoilers online!

No twitter. That is a place of no honour. No exceptions. Nothing good ever comes from ST twitter. Also i am not calling it x.

Tiktok is also not safe. But most of you probably know that.

Pinterest is a super quick way to see all their faces.

Idk about facebook, but i bet there are morons commenting with their legal names there too. Like on twitter.

Googling is very tricky. Image results will most likely show you their faces among 20 first photos and if you do google them. Well. The main search used to show the names as suggestions up here before; I'm glad to see that for now this is fixed:

BUT LO AND BEHOLD. Pictures tab gives you a treat (derogatory) of a full vessel's name RIGHT THERE:

First suggestion. They're not even trying. So yeah, googling is very tricky.

I didn't scroll further to the right, but i bet ii's name is there too. (Their names are spoiled most often, cause they're writing the songs.)

7. If you look for the lyrics, google sometimes shows vessel and ii's legal names in songwriters' credits. I haven't seen it recently, but it doesn't mean you won't see [redacted] instead of "Vessel 1" and so on in the credits. Try not to scroll too far when checking the lyrics. I think Apple music shows their names in lyics all the time, someone correct me if I'm wrong though.

FORTUNATELY,

if you want pictures, band info, older rituals' shenanigans etc. etc., we have real mvp's here on tumblr!

@sleepanonymous has it all. Including an archive of band-related stuff and also older (mostly) vessel's stuff without any names or faces revealed. Just older songs, if you're curious! Sleep Anon has a neat google drive archive too. Please check the tags and other links in their pinned post!

We also have another pillar of our community here, @thesleeptokenarchive, who shares older rituals' details, song release dates and many other important information and dates.

My dear friend @a-s-levynn created this beautiful archive with band pictures for people who want to find that very specific picture without having their faces spoiled. Behold, the Sleep Token Reference Archive (STRA). Perfect for artists, but not only!

Beautiful people @kaddyssammlung, @vulcanette and @chaosandchaos are posting cool band photos they find regularly. Others too, but these three are the most active! We're also lucky to have @hecetas here, posting their original photos of the band (and not only!)

Also, The Choir is not anonymous. The band itself shared their actual name, Espera, and the ladies are not faceless. It was their decision, band supported it, so you don't need to worry to keep them anonymous.

Last but not least! How not to be a twat in the sleep token fandom space on tumblr:

Do not tag any band-related stuff with their names or older projects' names.

Do not post photos of their faces and tag it as the band or band members.

If you want to sceam about the love you have for that one older Vessel's project, the not solo one, you can do it here: @wings-of-clay

If you are a curious being and face/names reveals don't mean much to you, you can always scream about their past projects with your closest friends in the DMs. Or ask literally anyone here if they want to talk about those things without revealing those things' names publicly. Most of us have their faces and names spoiled anyway. But trust me, you don't need to put any names for us to understand what you mean.

Not exactly a tumblr thing, but! One of the band members streams on twitch. It is an unspoken rule to NOT mention anything band-related in the chat. No "worship", no band name, other members' names, nothing. He wants to keep those things separate. You get blocked there or he stops streaming for everyone if you're too pushy.

And remember folks, digging too much into their personal lives guarantees a court case against you!

I'm not joking. There is a person who is going to face charges for being way too parasocial and stalker-y about them. Do not be like that person. This applies to all public figures, not only sleep token. But some people take anonymity as a challenge to dig even deeper for all their info.

Last, but not least! I have the names spoiled and i don't mind talking about old projects and stuff. So I'm here for you if you want to google something, but are afraid of a face reveal, or if you just wanna talk about the older stuff (tho i admit, i don't know much about previous bands/projects of all of them). However, I will not be engaging in anything related to their private lives or families and I will block you on spot if you mention anything like this to me.

[calaisreno]

Re-Read Recs: Victorian Edition

Thanks to @totallysilvergirl for pointing me to this post by @acethatlovesdinos asking for more Victorian Johnlock. Your timing is great; I was just compiling a list of Victorian setting fics for my next RRR post!

If you go searching specifically for Johnlock in a Victorian setting, part of the problem, as always, will be finding things. As admirable as the AO3 tagging system is, when you're searching for something specific, you still have to dig a bit.

Many people, myself included, assign all their Victorian stories to the fandom tag "Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle."

But some writers add "Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle" to all their stories, including those set in BBC or other adaptations, because they wish to attribute the characters' creator.

And some do not use the ACD tag at all because their stories, even those in a Victorian setting, are inspired by the BBC adaptation and imagined with those characters.

There are other tags: Victorian, Victorian Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Victorian Holmes/Watson, Victorian Johnlock.

(My own approach: readers may imagine whatever actors they prefer; I tag by the setting. Even so, I've tagged stories set in the 1920s and 1820s as ACD, even though these are outside of the Victorian Era.)

There is no one-click method to separate out all the stories, and only the stories, where Watson and Holmes are together in a Victorian setting. AO3 lets us use tags however we wish; it's a folksonomy, a collaborative system. For the number and variety of stories contained there, it is the most practical method.

You can search an individual author's works, filtering and sorting by kudos, hits, relationships, tags, and other things. You can search anyone's bookmarks in the same way. (I'm always surprised when people don't know this!)

If you search my works, for example, you will find 60 stories in the Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle fandom. A couple of those are tagged 'timetravel,' so if you don't want that, you can exclude that tag. If you don't want any stories with Mary Morstan married to John Watson, you can exclude John Watson/Mary Morstan under Relationships.

However you search, if you filter your search results by hits or kudos, you will find that stories in the ACD/Victorian Johnlock category have many fewer of these. AO3 went live only a year or so before BBC Sherlock began to air, and it was one of the top fandoms for many years. There are a huge number of stories in the BBC fandom.

But there are dedicated and talented authors who have been writing Holmes/Watson for a long time, and today I'd like to point you towards a few of them. Here are some of my favorite re-reads:

Memento Vivere - @mydogwatson - The life stories of Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes and John Watson. An alternate history.

My Gentle Sin Is This - janeofarc - It takes a near miss for Holmes to realize that he cannot imagine his life without Watson.

Missing Pages - @PlaidAdder - a group of interlinked short stories (most between 2000 and 7000 words) which tell the story of how Holmes and Watson really came to be separated at the Reichenbach Falls, and how they found each other again

Missing - @Random_Nexus - Holmes is missing. Watson is trying to figure out where he is and what happened.

Oubliette - gardnerhill - A series: a treatise on love and grief. Watson is kidnapped by a gang; Holmes must find him before it's too late.

Laphroaig in the Lumber Room - wordybirdy - Holmes & Watson discover a bottle of Laphroaig inside the lumber room at Baker Street. A drinking game of truth results in intimate confessions.

All of these authors have written many excellent Victorian Holmes/Watson fics. But there are many more you should look at if you want to read more of our boys in their original canon setting. I think I will have to write a Part 2 for this post!

Thanks for reblogging!

@totallysilvergirl @lisbeth-kk @helloliriels @keirgreeneyes

@redmondcollege @raina-at @7-percent @lhrinchelsea

@a-victorian-girl @ghostofnuggetspast @friday411

@meetinginsamarra @inevitably-johnlocked @copperplatebeech

[dsireland86]

ooh i got a hc request so for all the boys so what do you think love at first sight would be like for them?

Love At First Sight

Tag list:

@philomenie @supersquirrel1996 @foliosgirl @angelmarie89 @fadingintothegrey @thisbicc @lacy1986 @dominuslunae @shayzillaaaa @mrsnoahsebastian @flowery-mess @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @stardustsirenmelody @romanreigns-supreme @anything-more-than-human @into-the-grey @rumoured-whispers @myownthoughts12 @sister-sebastian @missduffsblog @bngurngheart  @somebodyllelse @xxkittenkissesxx @dizzylmwahh @Youlookforultraviolet @kenjipepsi1 @blackveilomens @chey-h @disappearintothegrey

Love at first sight, in my opinion would go a little something like this...

Matt:

He would deny the entire feeling the very first time he sees her, writing it off and telling the guys to fuck off when they notice the expression on his face. The feeling leaves him irritated and in a mood that he just can't seem to escape until the show that night, and he sees her getting hit on by another guy. Matt can tell it's making her uncomfortable, and it sparks the feeling of possession in him. Before he can stop himself, he's walking over to her and intervening between her and the douchbag. "There you are, babe. I've been looking for you." Matt wedges himself between the two of them, blocking her view of the idiot who thinks he's good enough for her. Her face breaks out in the widest smile as she bites her lower lip. "Well, I've been right here the entire time, folding shirts," she laughs. Matt grins, then turns to the guy behind him. "Can I help you with something? My girl's a little busy at the moment." The guy shakes his head and walks away, mumbling shit under his breath. Matt turns back to her, moving in a little closer. "Your girl?" Matt shrugs. "Well, that's up to you. I know we just met, but..." She's kissing him before he can finish his sentence, pulling him into her. Matt would be sold the very moment.

Nicholas:

Nicholas would feel so awkward the first time he met her. They're standing in Starbucks, waiting for their coffee and Nick can't help bit stare at how pretty she is and her early 90s look; flannel shirt, cargo pants, combat boots, and a red scarf. He's instantly hooked. As they wait for their orders, they're giving each other glances and small smiles, pretending hard that they're not interested in the other. When their orders and names are called out, Nick is the first to grab his. With one last look and a smile, he walks away slowly, kicking himself for not talking to her as he takes a seat by the window. Minutes later, she's sitting across from him, staring as if waiting for something. She's simple and pretty, really easy on the eyes. "I think you took my coffee." Nicholas is in a daze and at first doesn't acknowledge her. "Hello? Did you hear me?" "What? No, I'm sorry," he chuckles, lowering his head. Thankfully, she's laughing, too. "My coffee. You stole it?" Nicholas raises an eyebrow. "What? No, I didn't. My name is Nick. This is what I always order," he claims, turning his cup around to show her. "Do you always order decafe?" "Ew, gross! No!" "Well, then that's mine," she claimed. "No. Not unless your name is Nick." Turning her cup around, she shows Nick the name written on the cup she's holding. "The only two differences are the decaf and Nic, short for Nicole, with a C." Nicholas looks from her to his cup then to her cup and realizes she's right. "I feel like an idiot. I'm so sorry," he apologizes, sliding the cup he mistakenly took towards her. "This is so freaking awkward," covering his face. "Are you blushing?" she giggles, trying to look at his face. "Oh my gosh, you are!" Light laughter surrounds the two of them and the moment Nicholas looks up into her soft brown eyes, he's done for. "Do you, er, wanna take a walk with me? Maybe down to this little used book store I go to sometimes?" Nick nods, grinning. The two of them leave together, never knowing that was the day they were no longer single.

Jolly:

Love at first sight for Jolly would be something smooth, nothing dramatic, nothing complicated. The first time he sees her is at a meet and greet. She's shy and quiet, but very sweet and polite. At first, he thinks she might cry when she sees the four of them standing together, waiting for her to come over and say hello and have her picture taken with them. Her eyes lock with his, and it's instant fire for Jolly. The way she carries herself, her modesty and respectfulness, has him seeing nothing but her. She smiles at him and, unlike the others, chooses to stand next to him and Nicholas, snuggling herself in between them perfectly. She smells amazing, like flowers after the rain, and Jolly can't help but inhale deeply as he slides his arm around her waist. The picture's taken and she turned around to thank them, lingering a little longer around Jolly. He doesn't want her to leave but knows she has to. When the meet and greet ends, Jolly heads to the bathroom, thankful to finally have some quiet. Turning the corner, he runs right into someone, almost knocking them down. "Crap! I'm so sorry!" he yells, grabbing them by the shoulders before they hit the ground. Jolly realizes it's her, the one who had him at first sight. She meets his gaze with a small smile, both of them oblivious to the tension already brewing between them. "It's you," she whispers, clasping her hands around his forearms for balance. Jolly smiles. "Are you okay? I didn't hurt you did I?" She shakes her head. "Where are you going in such a hurry?" She releases her grip on Jolly's arms, but he doesn't let her move away from him. "I asked to use the bathroom after the meet and greet and was told I could use the one back here. I got lost trying to find it and well, here I am." "Lucky for me, huh," Jolly chuckles. "I don't know. I guess so?" She replies, unable to hide the thrill in her voice. "It is," he assures her. "I've got to use the bathroom. Will you wait here for me?" Her eyes widen a little but she nods quickly, assuring Jolly she'll wait. After that, once he finds out she's come to the show alone, Jolly has her following him everywhere, and she's more than happy to. That night marked the beginning of forever for both of them.

Folio:

A night out with friends would be the kicker for Folio. He's laughing and living it up, having some beers and playing some pool when she was walks in with a few of her own friends. Their eyes meet and it's instant attraction, but she wants to play hard to get. With her smiles and giggles, Folio follows her around, even if it's only with his eyes, as she carries on through the night having the best time with her friends. Challenging her to a game of pool, Folio makes it a point to stand across from her just so he can see her pretty face and all the little things about it he likes. The game is a quick one, which Folio swears he let her win which she willingly allows him to believe just to watch how cute his is when he gloats. Karaoke proves to be her expertise. She and her girlfriend get on the stage and belt out a nineties country song, which Folio happens to know, and when it's over, Folio's the first to give her a standing ovation. She's falling hard for him already, so much that when she gets off the stage, she lets Folio pull her in for a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Hours later, as the bar winds down and it's closing time she and Folio are inseparable. Hands are all over each other, lips are touching and emotions are tangled. He doesn't want to say goodbye and she doesn't want him to. "Come take a ride with me," he whispers in her ear. "What do you mean," she giggles. "On my bike. Come ride with me." The sparkle in his eyes is irresistible. "You have a bike! Like a crochrocket bike or a Harley?" Folio laughs at her question. "Darling, I'm a Harley man. Crochrockets are not my thing." Folio's smile and gleam in his eyes are enough to fully convince her. "Then Cowboy, take me away," she grins, kissing Folio gently on the lips. "Yes, ma'am!" He picks her up and carries her outside to his bike, kissing her again before getting on. He starts up the bike, and instantly she's turned on completely, climbing up and sitting behind him, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist. "Are you ready, pretty girl?" Folio asks, backing the bike up slowly. "As I'll ever be," she giggles, squeezing him tightly. They continued being inseparable, even after that night and for their two year anniversary, went back to that same bar to celebrate.

Noah:

The first time Noah laid eyes on her, he was instantly attracted to how beautiful she was, but he's hesitant about her intentions as he is with most people. She's too nice, too sweet, making him think there might be something more she wants. Sometimes it's hard for Noah to believe that some girls are just genuinely nice to him for him and not because of who he is and what he does, so the entire time she's following Matt around, trying to get a feel for the job, Noah's eyes are following her, watching her intensely. For a while she thinks Noah hates her, asking around if Noah acts the way he is with everyone or just her. She never gets a straight answer, so she decides to confront Noah head on. Noah doesn't know what to say at first as her questions and accusations come flying at him, but when he sees she's on the brink of tears, he suddenly feels like a horrible person. "I'm sorry, please don't cry," he tells her. His brows crease in frustration, unable to put his feelings into words. "The explain to me, Noah, help me understand, because I'm about to lose my mind." Noah feels like a jerk, and has no idea how to explain how he's feeling. "That's just it, I can't explain it! I don't know how to make it make sense without it sounding stupid or something." She relaxes her shoulders a little. "Just try. Be honest. I'm a big girl. I can handle it." Noah looks into her eyes and sees the truth he needs to see in them. Taking a deep breath, he spills his secrets. "I think you're beautiful, okay. Like really beautiful. And you're really nice." She smirks, staring at Noah oddly. "Okay, and that's a bad thing?" she shakes her head and shrugs her shoulders. Noah huffs. "Well, no, but I just think..." "Think what?" Noah closes his eyes, realizing how stupid what he's about to say sounds. "I feel like you might not like me for me, but only for what I am. I know, it sounds stupid; prideful really." Noah looks down, feeling the heat in his cheeks. But then he hears her soft chuckle and looks up at her. "What? What's so funny?" he asks, unable to hide his own grin. "Nothing," she shakes her head with a smile. "You're adorable, that's all." "Adorable?" Her statement catches Noah off guard. "Yeah, adorable. I don't blame you at all for feeling the way you do, Noah." "You don't?" Her response shocks Noah. "No, not at all. I would probably feel the same way. Girls are crazy. They do some of the most extreme things." "But you're a girl," Noah points out. "Yeah, but I'm not that girl. I'm more like you; skeptical, scared, leery... people's true intentions aren't always to see." Noah's lips curve up into a small grin. "No, they aren't. So, you're not mad at me?" She shakes her head. "No, Noah, I'm not mad at you." He relaxes his shoulders and takes a deep breath, letting it out quickly. "We can take it slow; as slow as you want. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere," she states, giving Noah's arm a soft rub. When she goes to pull away, Noah grabs it, lacing his fingers with hers. "Alright. Let's take it slow. But let's at least try. Is that fine with you?" His question touches her heart, making it skip a beat. "Yeah, that's fine with me," she agrees, smiling big. A few weeks later, they make it official, no longer taking it slow, and by the end of the tour, there's a drawer of Noah's things at her place.

[frutigerfischl]

Oh my goood, your headcanons for CaitVi x Wanted Criminal! Reader were sooo accurate and awesome, can you, PLEASE, write a one-shot with this idea?

⌗ TITLE┆BLOOD WILL RUN┆song: my own piece of hell ★ ₊ ˚⟡

⌗ TAGS┆gn!reader, poly relationship, caitvi/reader, wantedcriminal!reader ★ ₊ ˚⟡

⌗ NOTE┆im glad you thought the hcs were accurate!! My friend helped me with them so I can't take all the credit :3, short oneshot because writers block is getting to me ★ ₊ ˚⟡

There’s blood under your nails again.

Not your blood, at least not this time. Someone else’s. A little too much of it, if the stiff, drying patches on your gloves are anything to go by. You peel them off, shoving them deep into the bag slung over your shoulder, before the dripping from your wrist can leave a trail on Caitlyn’s spotless floorboards. She’d have a fit if she saw the mess you were dragging into her home again—no, not home, safehouse. That’s what she called it when she shoved the key into your hand a few months ago. “For emergencies,” she’d said.

Caitlyn had known better than to ask how long you’d been running by then. Long enough that you stopped counting.

You’re halfway through shrugging out of your coat when the front door clicks open.

The instinct to bolt hits you hard, years of surviving on quick reflexes tightening your muscles. But the sharp edge of the voice that follows pulls you back from the brink.

“Relax. Just us.”

Vi.

You don’t turn. You don’t need to. You’d know that voice anywhere—the gruff rasp of it, like she’s always a little winded, as if her fights haven’t quite let her go yet. It’s comforting, in a way.

You glance over your shoulder anyway, long enough to catch her stepping through the doorway, Caitlyn right on her heels.

They’re still wearing their uniforms. The sight of Caitlyn in hers—crisp, formal, perfect—makes you flinch, even now. The cuffs hooked at her belt glint under the low light of the chandelier, a sharp reminder of how close this whole thing comes to falling apart every single time you see them.

They are falling apart, you think. All three of you.

Caitlyn shuts the door behind them, her eyes already scanning the room. “You’re hurt,” she says, her voice dipping into that soft, precise tone she saves for when she’s trying not to sound concerned. It doesn’t work.

“Not my blood,” you mutter.

That earns you a sharp look from Vi. “You shouldn’t even be here. You know what they’re saying about you up in Piltover, right? Enforcers are pulling double shifts trying to track you down.”

“As if I didn’t notice,” you shoot back, your mouth twitching with something too bitter to be called a smile. “You think I want to be here? I don’t exactly have a lot of options right now.”

It’s a weak excuse, and all three of you know it.

You hadn’t had to come here at all. You could’ve run further. Stayed in Zaun, burrowed into some forgotten hole until things cooled off. But you didn’t. You came here—their apartment, in Piltover of all places—and Vi’s scowl makes it obvious what she thinks of that decision.

But Caitlyn, true to form, softens before Vi does. She crosses the room, her long legs eating up the distance between you in a few steps. Her hand brushes your arm, light as a whisper, before moving up to tilt your chin so she can look at you properly.

Your mouth opens—some weak protest forming on your lips—but it dies when she meets your eyes.

“You’re lucky,” Caitlyn murmurs, her gaze trailing over your face like she’s cataloging every bruise, every scrape, every wrong thing she can’t fix. Her lips purse just slightly, a soft, worried quirk. “There’s a warrant with your name on it and your face sketched right at the top. If anyone else had caught you tonight—”

“They didn’t,” you interrupt. You force yourself to hold her stare. “And they won’t.”

It’s bold. Reckless, even. You know better than to make promises like that.

Behind Caitlyn, Vi scoffs. “Bold talk, coming from someone hiding in our apartment right now.”

Caitlyn’s fingers twitch on your chin, her thumb brushing just under your jaw. You see it in her face—the conflict, the silent battle between her sense of duty and something deeper, something softer. You wonder if she knows you see it, if she realizes how much you hate yourself for putting her through this.

“You can’t stay here,” Caitlyn says finally, stepping back. Her voice is gentler now, but firm. “Not long-term.”

“Like I don’t already know that,” you mutter.

Vi moves closer, leaning against the wall and crossing her arms. Her presence is a weighty thing, solid and grounding. Where Caitlyn is cool precision, Vi is something rawer, something that cuts sharper and bleeds deeper. “They’ll find you eventually, Y/N. If you keep coming back here, we’re all screwed.”

“And what do you want me to do, huh?” you snap, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “Keep running? Go to Zaun? You think I’ll last a week down there with Silco’s people crawling all over the place?”

Silence. Thick and suffocating.

Vi doesn’t answer, and Caitlyn doesn’t meet your eyes.

For a long moment, it feels like all of you are drowning.

Then, finally, Caitlyn sighs. The sound is soft, but it carries the weight of a decision she doesn’t want to make. She looks at Vi, and something unspoken passes between them.

“Fine,” Caitlyn says, her voice tight. “You can stay. But just for the night.”

You swallow, the tension in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Thanks.”

Vi’s eyes narrow, but she doesn’t argue. She just pushes off the wall, coming to stand next to Caitlyn. “You better not make us regret this.”

For the first time tonight, you feel something almost like relief. It’s fragile and fleeting, but it’s there.

Caitlyn moves first, gently tugging you toward the couch. “Sit. Let me clean you up.”

You don’t argue.

[ironstrange1991]

Defender Strange's hands headcanons

Warnings: None

Word Count: 450 words

A/N: Hey guys! I found these headcanons lost in my google docs, I think they were written while MoM was still in theaters. I just think they're too cute to leave rotting there. It's very short, but I hope you like it ;)

- After the accident Defender Strange had a long time to adapt with the new reality involving his hands. He went through the entire healing process that led him to practice the Mystic Arts and overall his experiences are not very different from our Doctor Strange.

- However, he handled the whole process more calmly and dealt with his limitations faster. It doesn't mean he accepts his hands as they are. He just learned to let it go and use magic when necessary to keep them steady.

- Defender Strange never wore gloves to hide his scars. Although he finds the scars abhorrent and considers the tremors in his hands a weakness, the idea of ​​wearing gloves never even crossed his mind.

- When he met you his relationship with his hands changed a little. He started to feel a little more bothered by the tremors when you were around. He hid the tremors with magic at first. He was ashamed of his hands when you were around.

- For him it was quite strange when he realized that you had a kind of affection for his hands. He didn't know how to deal with the fact that you were always holding or stroking them and watching the scars closely. Sometimes he disguised it by trying to distract you and pulling his hand out of yours. You knew why he did it and it made you sad.

- Over time he got used to your way of showing affection for his hands. When they hurt, and there were days when they hurt more than other days, you massaged them and as if by magic the pain went away. You used to hold them between yours, sometimes take one of them to your face, or give them kisses.

He couldn't help but find all these gestures adorable.

- He realized you had a kink in his hands. Something about their size or the way they were always warm. He didn't ask exactly, but he proceeded to use it to his advantage. In the way he touched you, or the way he held you. He also used to massage you, of course he couldn't apply pressure on the massage, but you always loved having his hands on you.

- The truth is that you helped him to really accept his hands and not feel ashamed of them. You even said it was sexy the way he used them to do magic. He wasn’t used to do it when you were around, not if he could avoid it, and definitely not more than necessary, but when he did, you liked it.

Reblog please! Leave a comment if you liked it. Interact! I will love to read all of your comments and opinions. It inspires me to keep writing!

DEFENDER STRANGE MASTERLIST

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[authorhjk1]

December special 2025

Hi everyone!

I know you guys might think this is way too early, since December is in literally 12 month. But after last time, I realized that I need to have a little more time to write the individual stories, which also means we need to do the voting earlier. I haven't set a date yet, but I'm aiming for something around October. Also, last time a couple of people mentioned that the time to send in requests was a little too short. So here we are!

Pretty much the same rules as before. Everything goes. You can request anything for the December specials and when I read your request and answer it, I'll let you know what I think and maybe make a few changes, if I don't feel comfortable writing specific kinks and such. I'll answer every request I get as soon as possible and add it to my personal list of requests. I'll then write a short "teaser" like I did before, so we can keep the request list, which I will update regularly at the end of this post, relatively short, because sometimes I get quite long requests. You can send me requests by messaging me directly, or by sending an ask to my inbox. Please make sure you label your requests as "December special requests". I'll make a tag for the requests I get, so you can scroll through them like last year.

The year 2025 will have four Sundays throughout December. That means I'll be writing four stories. A Christmas/Winter theme is preferred, but not a requirement. I'll post reminders probably every two months, so you guys don't forget that you can send in requests. I haven't decided on how the voting is gonna be, since we tried two different styles so far. I'll tell you more about that when the time comes. I'll add the link to this post to my pinned post, so you guys can easily access it. If I forgot any important information, please let me know.

Looking forward to your requests this year!

List of requests for the December special 2025:

1.

You, Irene and the new coworker Seulgi work for a media company, who produces music videos for entertainment companies. Around this time of the year, two female soloists are about to have their comebacks. Im Yoona and Karina. They both have similar music, similar concepts and the same target audience, which makes them natural rivals. A good music video always impact on a song's popularity and success. Which of the two can convince your team to invest more time and attention into their music video?

(A continuation of "Welcome party")

2.

G!P Ryujin brought back a surprise from Itzy's tour. A tied up Yeji in your bedroom. You make her watch you fuck Ryujin, before the two of you use Yeji however you want.

[ravenhathaway1]

Caitlyn and Jinx as In-Laws

Dear arcane writers: Please help. Write for me or send fics and tags. Please, please, please. 🙏 🙏🙏

I need to read a modern fic where everyone isn’t traumatized from going through and putting each other through crazy shit. Where Caitlyn and Jinx are in-laws (or on their way to being) and don’t like each other for normal, everyday reason. Like they have that begrudging best friend and best friend’s boyfriend relationship, where they don’t like the other because they take up too much of VI’s time. Also because they’re entirely too similar (we know how people behave with people who are just like them). It could be set during or after college (we all know Jinx graduated way in advance and got early acceptance). One day someone who doesn’t like Cait, for whatever reason (jealous of her and Vi, academic or sports rival, rivaling school, etc.), I offer up a vengeful ex-Maddie, says something to Powder (interchangeable in this fic) thinking they have a fellow shit talker and hater in her and she goes off on them. Afterwards Ekko (also early acceptance), or this shit talker, is like “You don’t even like her?!” And Jinx is like “Don’t have to, she’s family. Only I talk shit about her.” Long story short, Caitlyn hears (either because she’s like around th corner or through the grapevine) and this starts their begrudging friendship journey where they realize they are actually very similar. By the end of the fic they’re bff’s. I don’t know, I just feel like if they got to know each other they would be such a great duo.

Anyway, I can’t write for shit, so if you see something similar or you write something along these lines tag me please. I’ve had this idea for a while now and not found anything like it and I’m desperate. I don’t even know who to send a request for this to. 😭 But it would be so fun.

[sirhamburrger]

DIE WITH A SMILE (m. bachira x reader)

━☆ (post-apocalypse au, for day three of @phantasmaebg) ━☆ in which the only thing you can do is join him in undeath. ━☆ wc (written portion): 831 || tags/cw: f!reader, reader is a researcher working on a cure for the virus, bachira is part of an elite military squad, major character deaths (both bachira and reader, among others)(this is a zombie apocalypse au after all) || event m.list ━☆ why did i write this... this is so sad *runs away crying*

meguru bachira is beautiful. a little tired - that much is evident from the dark circles under his golden eyes - but still: beautiful. his eyes practically light up when you step into the room, clad in full personal protective equipment. 

for a moment you get self conscious of how you look dressed like a walking banana, but that all disappears when he chuckles warmly, making you blush beneath your mask.

“you’re even more beautiful than i expected,” the squadron member breathes.

you cock your head to the side, highly skeptical as you take a seat in front of him. “you can only see my eyes, though,” you point out, voice muffled.

“yeah, well.” a short pause, then, “they say true beauty is all in the eyes.”

you don’t quite know how you should respond to that, so you don’t.

you end up talking to him than is honestly necessary for the psych eval. he’s a sweet man, and the things his squad-mates have said about him are proven true - optimistic, cheerful, perceptive. somehow, the man you’ve only ever been able to talk to over the phone from behind a reinforced glass panel has become one of the people you trust most in this world.

maybe it’s the way he listens to you intently about the stresses of work, lets you confide in him about hard days - especially really hard days when you find out another one of you has been lost to the virus - trusts you enough to spill his own secrets too.

maybe it’s the way he laughs, or calls you pretty when he’s not calling you “doc”. maybe it’s the way you relate to him, both being people with risky jobs. in a broken world like this, either of you could go at any minute. but he helps you accept it, and he helps you embrace it.

but maybe it’s the way he tries to reach a hand out to hold yours on the table during a particularly hard part of the conversation, but restrains himself, a dejected and heartbroken expression on his face.

how ironic that the only thing you want is the only thing you cannot have. not just yet, at least.

it’s been three days since squad z perished in tokyo’s biggest hot zone, and meguru is not doing well.

it started with erratic vitals - high blood pressure, arrhythmia, severe migraines, then escalated  violent outbursts. your superiors don’t allow you in the room with him any more, even though you’d bet your life he would never hurt you. it hurts to see him like this. delirious, in mourning, broken.

he is not the man he once was, and you’re not entirely sure he’ll live long enough to see that change.

he still talks with you, so at least that hasn’t changed. you are one of the last few scientists on earth even remotely close to synthesising a cure, since many have been wiped out already. it’s stressful, frankly, and you’ve had shameful, selfish thoughts about ending it all - joining the dead before you are forced to walk amongst them. but meguru tells you to keep your chin up, doc, you’re getting there.

and who are you to say no to him, if not for the fact that he’s not doing much better himself?

you open up to him once, more than you think you should. you tell him about how you’ve wanted to be a scientist for the longest time as a child, but before that, you wanted to be a singer. but your parents saw no future in it. so you never pursued it further.

in the quiet of the space between you, then, meguru bachira asks if you would sing for him.

and you do.

you don’t even notice when he starts to cry, but you know that you’re crying too.

you bring him flowers sometimes. he lets them die in a corner of the confinement cell. you can’t blame him for not even trying.

the horde has broken in.

all your colleagues, your superiors, your friends - they’re all gone. they’ve all been reduced to mindless monsters, hungry for human flesh. now, those monsters push against the door, trying to get to you.

you stare back through the glass, eyes landing on meguru, who convulses on the ground, clutching his head. his head jerks backwards, blood spilling from his mouth. just like all the others. you let out a sob, your heart aching for him.

you fumble for your phone.

the air smells like blood, and meguru looks like hell.

you pad towards him slowly, tears streaming down your face. you freeze when he notices you, hunger in his bloodshot eyes. you take a step towards him. hold his hand. embrace him. tilting your head to the side, exposing your neck to him.

he’s crying now as he mumbles something. it sounds like i’m sorry and thank you. maybe it’s both. you feel hot breath on your neck, and his sharp teeth sinking into your skin.

and all is well in the world.

bllk masterlist || general masterlist © sirhamburrger 2025

[ambiguous-avery]

Chasing Shadows, Part 4

Dean Winchester x OC fem!Touched!Reader/You | WC: 6927

Summary: She’s never been afraid of the dark, not really. She’s more concerned about getting lost in it. He’s haunted by every dark deed he’s ever done. It’s constantly nipping at his heels like a hell hound. He’s her light in the dark, and she’s the one bit of darkness he’s willing to embrace.

Tags/Warnings: No use of Y/N, canon-typical violence, eventual romance, eventual smut, fluff and angst, POV alternating (sometimes a little all over the place), mutual pining, no beta we die like men

Disclaimer: The base concept of Touched comes from @aylacavebear and is used with permission. I’ve taken creative liberties with it.

A/N: I think this is the longest I have ever committed to a single story before in my life, and I am so excited to have others along this journey with me. I feel like in my short time here on Tumblr, I’ve learned so much more about writing and how to string words together in ways that people seem to enjoy. I think it’s safe to say that I have drawn a lot of inspiration from @godmadeaterribleerror for this part. If you haven’t read her work, I highly, highly recommend her. She is an amazing writer.

You couldn’t remember the last time you had shared a bed with someone. So when you woke up with a heavy weight over you and warmth at your back, it was almost jarring. Almost. You stopped yourself from immediately pulling away and instead tried to will yourself to relax. Dean’s arm pinned you against him, your back pressed against his chest. After the initial wave over surprise had ebbed away, it was easier to melt against him, reveling in the closeness of another person. Life had been too hectic as of late, so finding a significant other hadn’t been high on your list of priorities. The right guy had never come along, and if his company wasn’t better than the peace and quiet you had in your own solitude, then there was no reason to keep him around. It didn’t quell the little rat of loneliness that gnawed at the edges of your self-esteem, though. 

This though? The lonely rat was loving this.

Your eyes slid shut again, comfortable in the moment despite the spring digging into your side and the lump in the pillow that sat in just the wrong spot. You must’ve dozed off because when you came to again, Dean’s warmth was gone. Rolling into the spot where he had been, it was mostly cold. You frowned before sitting up and looking over at the other bed. Sam was gone, and the thought that you had been left behind roared to the forefront of your mind. You stumbled out of bed, nearly falling flat on your face when your foot got tangled in one of the blankets, and rushed to the window. Relief washed over you as you spotted the Impala still parked just outside of the room. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding and physically felt the tension in the air lift.

A door squeaked on its hinges behind you, and you turned to find Dean stepping out from the bathroom, still fumbling with the buckle of his belt. You didn’t even try averting your gaze from watching the way his nimble fingers worked the leather through the metal.

“Mornin’, sweetheart.” You heard the grin in his voice before you begrudgingly lifted your eyes to look at his face. “You get a bit cold last night?” he asked. When you tilted your head in question, he continued, “‘Cause you were all over me like I was your personal heater.” You weren’t sure how it was possible, but his smile seemed brighter than usual. And were those dimples? How had you missed those before? You blushed.

“Hey, I’m pretty sure that you were the one wrapped around me like some kind of octopus when I woke up this morning,” came your indignant response, although there was no real heat behind it. He laughed and walked towards the bed, briefly stopping to scoop up your keys from the floor. The light on them was flashing, and he clicked it off.

“Hey, I never said I was complaining. Pretty girl in my bed wants to cuddle? How could I say no?” You smiled. Ever the charmer, huh? You couldn’t say that you hated it, although it would likely get old sooner rather than later. Or maybe not. You couldn’t say for sure.

You gathered up some clothes from your suitcase you had pushed into the corner of the room and slipped into the bathroom to change. When you came out, Dean was seated on the edge of the bed the two of you had shared, your keys set on the bedside table right next to the obsidian pendant you had purchased. He picked it up.

“So, this is the kind of thing you like, huh?” he asked, turning the stone in his hands. A twinge of something you couldn’t name shot through you, and the urge to walk over and snatch it from him had you marching over to him before you caught yourself part way there and stopped. To try and save face, you held out your hand expectantly, waiting for him to hand it over rather than taking it from him.

“I dunno; I just kinda thought it was cool. And at five bucks, I figured it couldn’t hurt to pick it up.” That was the understatement of the year, but how were you supposed to tell him that something as simple as holding the pendant made you feel complete? That there had been a perfect crescent shaped hole in your very existence that you didn’t know you had until you wore the stone? That sounded like a good way to get Dean to turn around and drop you back at your house with no further questions. He dropped the necklace into your hand, and your fingers wrapped around it. The stone, despite having sat on the table the entire night, was warm, as though you had been wearing it the entire time. You moved to pull the necklace over your head but paused. 

When you had done that last night, you had been whisked off to the Void without meaning to, and you weren’t sure you wanted a repeat of that visit. At least, you didn’t think you wanted a repeat. What exactly had happened was still hazy in your mind. You vaguely remembered someone or something there with you which was a first. It had spoken to you, and the words it had said were on the tip of your tongue but they wouldn’t fully form. You knew that when you Walked, your whole body went to the Void, leaving no physical form behind until you re-emerged. Dean hadn’t mentioned anything about you disappearing into the shadows which made you think that your trip to the Void had only been mental. If you had actually gone there. 

Sam and Dean had mentioned a spirit attached to an item, and you could put two and two together. Could there be a spirit attached to the necklace? Part of you wanted to bring it up to Dean. But another, much louder, part of you vehemently argued against the idea. If there was something bad about the necklace, then the brothers would likely take it and destroy it, and the thought of that did not sit well with you. You would just add it to your list of things to research when you got access to their library.

You tugged the necklace on and tucked it beneath your shirt, thankful when there were no impromptu trips to the Void. You and Dean slipped into idle small talk, and you realized that this was the first ‘normal’ conversation you had had with Dean since meeting him two days prior. The last 48 hours had been packed with so many new experiences that it left you reeling when you really thought about it. You had met this man two days ago, and you were already road-tripping with him and his brother. And you thought people in romcoms moved fast... Dean only gave surface answers to your ‘get to know you’ questions, telling you that hunting was a ‘family business’, and he and his brother had been at this for several years. Before you could delve into anything too deep, Sam came back into the room, a brown paper bag in his arms.

“Got some breakfast.”

When you had been promised a library of information about supernatural creatures, your mind had jumped to the mental image of floor-to-ceiling shelves with books packed all along them in a room tucked away in a large Disney-esque mansion. This wasn’t what you had pictured. The library was no less cozy or comfortable looking, though, and even though you didn’t have your Disney princess amount of books, you were certain that there was enough information in the room to keep you busy for a long while. 

Their homebase – the bunker, they called it – was a large, cold-war era industrial-looking complex with winding hallways and all sorts of older looking furnishings. Sam motioned down one of the hallways with doors lining the sides.

“Take your pick,” he said. “Dean’s in 11, and I’m in 21. But all the others are vacant. They’re all identical, but you’re welcome to look through them.” You still peeked into each one of the rooms, not because you doubted what Sam said, but rather because you were curious to explore. Like he had promised, each of them had the same bed, desk, and bedside table in them, with the only variation being where they were in relation to the door. After a short deliberation, you settled on room 16, placing yourself comfortably between their rooms, at least numerically. In practice, the bunker’s layout wasn’t quite as straightforward, and your room physically was closer to Dean’s. But only by a bit. You tossed your suitcase onto the bed, figuring that you would have plenty of time later to unpack before you left and met back up with the brothers.

Dean took it upon himself to give you the grand tour, and you were thankful for it because you were likely going to get very lost in the identical hallways and various doors and rooms. The bunker seemed to have everything. A gun range, a garage full of old cars – was that a 1967 Ford Mustang Fastback? – a kitchen, and the “war room” as Dean called it. Hell, there was even a hidden dungeon with a single chair in it. Dean seemed quite keen on you stepping into the weird symbol drawn onto the ground before moving onto the next room. By the time you made it back to the library, Sam had piled a few books onto one of the tables.

“There’s no rush, but I pulled the books I could think of that had to do with shadow creatures, night creatures, and things that are generally associated with the dark.” He sounded like a kid in a candy store, almost immediately diving into the way the library was sorted when you matched his enthusiasm. Somewhere within these walls had to be the answer you were looking for. It was just going to take some digging. You cracked open the first book. The text was tiny with near illegible handwriting in the margins. You frowned. Correction: this was going to take a lot of digging.

The first week at the bunker took some getting used to. It was clear that the boys weren’t used to having someone of feminine persuasion living in their shared space, at least not Dean. Sam had shared an apartment with a girlfriend of his years ago, although he seemed reluctant to talk about it beyond that. You had walked in on several of Dean’s late night fridge raids when he was clad only in his boxers, and his flushed cheeks and uncharacteristic sheepishness told you that he hadn’t meant for you to see him like that. You learned that Sam had a habit of going on morning runs, and, figuring that you didn’t have anything better to do now that you didn’t have a job, you asked if you could join him. 

That had turned out to be another mistake. 

Sam had long legs which meant that every one of his strides equaled about two of yours. And he had the benefit of having done this for who knows how long before you came to the bunker. After the first day, you had decided that you were going to give yourself a break and take it easy on the research. You would’ve told Sam that you probably weren’t going to join him for any more runs except that he seemed so genuinely happy to have a running buddy. You didn’t have it in you to take that away from him, so you resigned yourself to a new morning routine. Mercifully, Sam slowed down a bit in the following days.

Getting to know the brothers was fun in its own right. They each had their own quirks, of course, but the more time you spent with them, the more you saw the similarities they shared. Sam was the booksmart one, and Dean was more hands on. Between long bouts of research in the library with Sam – occasionally Dean joined in the research too – you spent quite a bit of time with Dean. Sometimes he would teach you things about guns at the range. He would take up a spot right behind you, leaned in close and chest pressed against your back as he would nudge your foot into the right spot for balance. His hands would sit over top of yours, and he would help you aim with the iron sights. Other times, you would sit with Dean in the garage while he worked on the Impala – you learned her name was Baby – and listen to music. It consisted almost entirely of just classic rock. You had heard almost all of the songs he played, but you couldn’t always name them. 

“This one’s easy. It’s Led Zeppelin’s Immigrant Song,” you said as the familiar guitar riff played through the speaker. 

“Thank god you know Led Zeppelin. I think I would’ve had to kick you out if you didn’t,” he said, glancing over at you as he wiped his greasy hands on a rag. 

“Oh please, you wouldn’t do that. I’m way too cute to be kicked out of here.” You stuck your tongue out at him playfully as he shook his head, a light smile playing on his lips. He went back to what he was doing, tossing the rag to the side while he ducked back under Baby’s open hood. He was sweaty and greasy, but you found that it was kind of endearing. He put a lot of effort into making sure Baby was well taken care of. You wondered if he was like that with women he cared about. You could definitely see it in the way he seemed to watch over Sam like a hawk. After a bit, the song changed to another familiar tune you had definitely heard before.

“Okay, what’s this one?” he asked, continuing your guys’ game. You listened closely, knitting your brows together in thought as a piano started playing. You knew it. The song title was rattling around somewhere in the back of your mind, but you couldn’t quite pull it. As the song dipped into the hook, you perked up.

“Ooh, it’s, uh,” you snapped your fingers. It was right there on the tip of your tongue. “It’s the car part cryptid song!” you blurted out. Dean stopped what he was doing, dip stick only half pulled out, and turned to look at you, his expression more confused than you had ever seen him before.

“Car part cryptid?” he repeated slowly, looking at you like you had just grown a second head.

“Yeah! Baba O’Riley!” You grinned triumphantly as the song name rolled off your tongue. Dean’s confusion didn’t waver. Your grin faltered. “Y-you know... Baba like a baba yaga and O’Riley like the auto parts store?” As your explanation sank in, Dean simply sighed and shook his head again, all dimples.

“Why does that make so much sense?” he asked, chuckling to himself as he returned to his work. “Car part cryptid...” you heard him mumble under his breath.

You and Dean had circled each other the entire time you adjusted to living at the bunker, exchanging flirty remarks and quips here and there, but it never seemed to go any further. Neither of you brought up sharing the bed in the motel, and there hadn’t been any offers of a repeat from either party. The initial lust and attraction hadn’t faded, at least not from you. Rather it had been tempered into something more solid. More tangible. Something that could’ve served as a foundation for an actual friendship that was more than just sex. Maybe even a relationship, if that was in the cards. You weren’t going to hold your breath for it. A friendship would be enough. If that’s all he wanted to offer, it was all you would take. 

In the middle of the third week of your stay at the bunker, Sam had called Dean into the War Room, stating that he had found a case several hours north in Nebraska. Just like the ghost in the small town you had stopped at on the way here, you were relegated to stay at the bunker where it was safe. 

“But I’ve been learning so many different things! It’s not like last time,” you had argued.

“We’re teaching you these things so you know how to keep yourself safe. Not so you can join in on the fray. Leave the monsters to us, sweetheart,” Dean had said. You pouted, but he didn’t budge on his decision. As you watched the Impala rumble out of the garage, you decided that your new goal – how many did you have now? – was to become competent enough to join them on a hunt.

Your search for an answer about yourself had hit dead end after dead end. None of the books Sam had set out had anything remotely close to what you potentially were. Anything that had shadow walking abilities didn’t also have the ability to heal and vice versa. It was frustrating, constantly beating your head against a wall with nothing to show for it. You tossed the book you had onto the table and pushed your chair away from it, the legs scraping against the bunker’s wooden flooring. You were getting nowhere. You blew out an exasperated breath, your fingers unconsciously finding the crescent moon pendant you wore. You had made no headway on finding answers, and the strange experience you had had when leaving the pawn shop was little more than a whisper of a memory. You were ready to go crazy if you spent another hour staring at a book. 

It was time for something different.

The boys had been gone for the entire rest of the week and part way into the next, and with each passing day, it had gotten harder and harder to focus on keeping your mind occupied. Their safety was a constant concern, and you spent more than a couple nights laying awake in your bed imagining horrible scenarios involving whatever creature you had read about most recently. They had been courteous enough to send you a text or two each day, updating you that they were still alive and that they’d be back as soon as the hunt was over, but it was incredibly lonely and quiet in the bunker without them. You had even begun missing morning runs with Sam. You had tried keeping the routine a couple of times, but without someone to hold you accountable, there was no motivation to get up early and run. 

Instead, you had spent the better part of the week getting a much better grasp on the limitations of your shadow walking. You had replaced the battery in your light on your keys several times, and the more you Walked, the more confident you became with it. Previously, it had been like jumping into a pool with both feet every time you Stepped into the void. But as you practiced, it became more like a gentle wade into the shadows. You found that you could move through the bunker in the shadows the same way you could in your home, but you were unable to cross the bunker’s threshold in the shadows. With your light flashing just beyond the open door to the bunker, you had tried moving into it but found yourself stopped by some sort of invisible barrier. Concerned that you might have locked yourself out of the safe house, you exited the shadows and were relieved to find that you could still physically enter without issue. Sam had told you that the bunker was warded from just about everything, and no creature or entity could enter through supernatural means. Apparently, that included your Shadow Walking. 

There were all sorts of different weapons in the bunker, and you had tested just about everything with a sharp edge, thinking that if you could find something you couldn’t heal from, then that might help in narrowing down what you were. The search hadn’t proved fruitful though. You tried a few different knives you found, one of the axes in the library, and even went so far as to try a couple of the paring knives in the kitchen. None of them left a lasting mark, and you cursed having put yourself through the pain for nothing. When you read the same sentence for the fourth time and still didn’t comprehend the words, it was your sign that you needed to put the book down and call it a day on the research. Another day with no progress. You were way past just being sick of it. You needed something that was mind-numbing in a different way.

It was a short trek back to your room, and you popped in one of the DVDs Dean had insisted that you needed to watch. Westerns had never been your go-to genre, but Dean liked them. You couldn’t really say you had ever given them a fair chance, so you owed it to yourself to at least give it a try. You dozed off within the first twenty minutes of the movie. Your phone’s ping woke you, and the clock on it read 9:43pm.

Not dead, on our way back. ETA 2 hours

Sam’s text was a relief to see. You were about ready to go stir crazy if you had to spend another day completely alone in the bunker. You had grown so used to having them around that their absence almost felt like you were missing a limb. You took a quick wake-up shower and were already in the garage when the Impala rolled in. Your excitement over seeing them was cut short when they stepped out of the car. Dean’s jacket was half shredded, and he had several cuts across his face, chest, and arms, and it looked like one eye was swollen shut. Sam had a busted lip and walked with a limp. Your eyes dropped down to a blood stained bandage wrapped just below his knee.

“Oh my god, what happened?” Dean tucked himself under Sam’s arm on his good side and helped support him.

“Rough night,” Dean said. You thought he might have been trying for his signature smile that always made your stomach flutter, but it was tainted by a grimace as they progressed further into the bunker. 

“I’ll meet you guys in the infirmary,” you said, darting to the kitchen and grabbing a bowl. As you stepped into the infirmary, your jaw practically hit the floor. Dean had his back to you as he helped Sam up onto the blue medical bed. “You drove all the way back here with that?” There were claw marks that dragged from his shoulder blade across his back and disappeared below the waistband of his jeans. 

“It’s not as bad as it looks. You fix up Sammy, and I’ll have him stitch me back together,” Dean’s tone was nonchalant, but you had picked up over the weeks that Dean didn’t like to let on whenever he was hurting. This was likely no different.

“Oh no you don’t. Neither of you are leaving this room until I’m done with you.” And it was your turn to put your foot down. You had read through a medical textbook on and off during your research time, learning how to properly identify and dress wounds. Initially, you had questioned Sam why you would ever need that knowledge if you could just bleed into whatever wound he or Dean had and solve the issue. Sam had insisted it was good knowledge to have regardless of super healing abilities, and you had to admit that you were starting to understand why.

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean affirmed, surprising you with his compliance.

You held your hand over the glass bowl, blood dripping down your fingers as you squeezed and pushed more blood out of the wound before it closed up. You cleaned Sam’s leg wound with a damp cloth and rubbing alcohol before dipping your thumb in the bowl and swiping your blood over the deep gash that had torn through his calf. He grunted through gritted teeth as you repeated it twice more, each pass encouraging the skin and muscle to knit back together. After the fourth time, the wound had disappeared, leaving fresh, slightly pink skin in its wake. 

“Do you want...?” you motioned to Sam’s busted lip, and he shook his head.

“I’m good. Thank you.” He tested his leg, bending and unbending it a couple of times. When he was confident about it, he got off the medical bed, tentatively placing his weight on his leg. “Still sore,” he reported, “but way better than it was. Thank you, again.” You nodded before turning to Dean who seemed transfixed by watching you mend Sam with ease.

“Alright, you’re up next, you big, bad hunter.”

“Oh, I’m good,” he waved you off with a hand. “You don’t gotta bleed for me, sweetheart.”

“Nu-uh. I said you’re not leaving, and I meant it. Get on the bed or so help me God I will strap you to it.”

“Ooh, kinky.” He quirked his eyebrows up suggestively, and you pinched the bridge of your nose. Sam excused himself from the room with a quiet,

“I’m just gonna let you two be.”

“Just get up there,” you ordered, pointing at the bed. “Sam, can you grab a bag of frozen peas?” you called after him, still hearing his retreating footsteps. He made a vague affirmative noise somewhere down the hall.

Dean relented and seated himself on the bed. You looked him over, mentally cataloging his injuries. 

“I think it would be better if you took off what’s left of your jacket and shirt for this,” you said softly. Blood soaked both garments, and they were likely going out with the trash in the upcoming week. There wasn’t much of a chance to save them. 

“First demanding that I get on the bed, and now you’re telling me to strip? Careful, sweetheart. Keep this up and I might think you’re into me.” Despite his teasing, Dean moved to obey. When he tossed his shirt and jacket onto the bed, your strictly medical gaze slipped. Even bloodied and cut up, Dean looked good. Hunting clearly kept him in shape, and while you had felt his body pressed against yours before, it felt like a completely different ball game seeing him like this. 

If Dean caught you staring, he didn’t say anything. You grabbed a new cloth and dipped it in the warm water you had prepared, setting about cleaning each one of the cuts across his skin. There was a tattoo over his left pec, and you were pretty sure you had seen the symbol in one of the books you read through. Which one exactly eluded you at the moment, though. Sam returned with the bag of peas partway through you cleaning the blood from the wounds on Dean’s back, and Dean pressed the bag against his swollen eye. Sam said a quiet good night, and you paused in your treatment of Dean to give Sam a hug. 

“Maybe let’s skip tomorrow’s morning run?” you said, looking up at him. He smiled, briefly squeezing you back.

“Yeah, I think I can afford to take a day off.”

You methodically worked your way up Dean’s arms, painting blood over each and every individual cut and wiping away the excess with another clean cloth. Your fingers trailed over his cuts for medical purposes and ran over the veins of his forearm for more selfish desires. It was oddly intimate in a way you hadn’t expected. When you had helped him with his wounds from the vampire, you had seen him shirtless then as well. But this time, Sam wasn’t there as a sort of buffer, and there was more for you to mend. You could feel Dean watching you work, and you tried not to squirm under the weight of it. Could he see through you? It felt like he could. Felt like he could see the way your heart skipped a beat when he looked at you or the way your fingers dragged against his skin longer than they needed to. When you moved to his back, you were thankful for the weight of his heavy gaze lifting. When you brushed your thumb along the first deep cut on his back, Dean sucked in a sharp breath. You immediately pulled your hand back, fearing that you might have hurt him, but he urged you to continue with a soft,

“Sorry, I’m good.” You took your time with each laceration, starting with the top one and working your way down with care. Up close, you could see that there were freckles dotted across his back, and you endeavored to memorize all of them. His skin was warm beneath your touch, and your fingers lingered on him for seconds longer, not willing to let the moment be over so quickly. When you reached the lowest wound, the one that dipped beneath his waistband, you hesitated.

“This last one goes a little lower,” you said. Dean looked at you over his shoulder.

“Is this you telling me that I need to lose my pants too?” 

You had managed to tamp down your embarrassment up until this point in the name of stitching Dean up. However, his comment broke through the paper thin wall you had put up, and you jerked your hand away from him.

“Wha- no, you d- that’snotwhatImeant!” Despite your floundering, you heard the distinct sound of metal clinking as Dean made quick work of his belt. To your relief, though, rather than discarding his pants entirely, he slid the back of them down enough to reveal the last bit of the claw mark that ended just above the cleft of his ass. You swallowed and took a steadying breath as you worked on the last wound. As your fingers dragged along the length of it, your blood working its magic and encouraging the skin to repair itself, you couldn’t help but notice two dimples that mirrored each other on his lower back. They were subtle, but as your fingers ghosted over them, you felt the slight dip of them. They were adorable.

And now you were always going to think about Dean Winchester’s lower back dimples when he smiled.

“Okay, I think that’s the worst of it. Did you want me to get the ones on your face?” You stepped around the bed to face him and impressed yourself with your ability to string together a coherent sentence with thoughts of his well toned back dancing in your mind. Dean set the bag of peas on the bed next to him. The swelling of his eye seemed to have gone down some, but it would likely take another day or so before it was fully back to normal. You weren’t sure if your healing abilities extended to swelling like that, and if they did, you didn’t have the faintest idea of how you would apply your blood to it.

“Nah, you’ve done more than enough, sweetheart. Thank you,” he said your name earnestly. There was a warmth in his voice that you hadn’t heard before, and it spread through you, enveloping you like a blanket. You clung to it. 

“Of course, Dean. Anytime.” And you meant it. Wounds were something you could fix, and you were more than willing to help either brother if it was within your skillset. There was a beat of silence between you. “Anyway, it’s late, and I’m sure you’re exhausted. You should get some rest.” You set about discarding the cotton balls and gauze you had used.

“What, Sam gets a good night hug, and I don’t?” You met his gaze, and there was a curious half-smile tugging one side of his lips upwards, though it wasn’t enough for the small divet in his cheek to show. It almost seemed bashful in nature.

You wiped your hand on the cloth you held before moving to stand in front of him, right between his slightly parted legs. You didn’t miss the way both ends of his belt rested against his thighs or his unzipped fly or the dark color of his boxers peeking out from beneath the denim. You’d stay here forever if he asked it of you. Had you missed your chance with him? Did you even have a chance in the first place? Flirty Dean seemed to be a default setting, if the way he interacted with the cashier at the corner store was anything to go off of. He probably had women falling for him left and right, and you were just another casualty. Dean pulled you into his arms and out of your thoughts, and instinctively, you returned the hug, soaking in his heat and closeness. This would be enough for you. You felt him take a breath in like he was going to say something, but he hesitated and instead you felt him press a kiss to the top of your head.

“Good night, Dean. Welcome back.”

“Good night, sweetheart.”

Dean groaned as he rolled his shoulder, trying to loosen the uncomfortable tightness there. He kicked the door to the shower room closed behind him before stripping down and stepping under the hot spray. It felt good to be back. The motel showers couldn’t compare to the bunker’s, and returning to the motel room that didn’t have you there had sparked a strange feeling of disappointment in him that he wasn’t prepared to face. Nevermind that he had foregone staying a final night in the town before driving back to the bunker. He hadn’t admitted to Sam that he had been chomping at the bit to get back to the bunker. To you. And watching you take care of Sam without a second thought did things to him long before your hands had even touched him. When that had happened, he wasn’t expecting just how tender you would be with him. He was used to Sam’s terse “suck it up”s and “you’ve had worse; this is nothing”s. You hadn’t said any of that. You had taken care of him. Hell, you bled for him and Sam. Again. And he hadn’t needed to ask. Not that he ever would have. He didn’t want to ask anything of you because everything he wanted felt like it was more than you would be willing to give.

But he already had asked.

You had momentarily stopped focusing on him to give Sam a hug before he turned in for the night, but when you were done patching him back together, you had been so ready to dismiss him without so much as a pat on the back. The fact that he had to ask for a hug when you had freely given one to Sam? That stung a bit. More than a bit. How sad was that? A girl showed him a little bit of kindness, and he was jealous that he had to ask for a hug. But he hadn’t been ready to give up that modicum of physical touch you had given him. 

And he had almost slipped up a second time in the next breath. Almost asked you to stay with him for the night. Almost asked for too much. Instead, he tucked it all into a neat little gift and left it with you in a kiss. If there were a god out there that gave a shit about him, then maybe they’d whisper to you in your sleep and you would deign to give him another one of your brilliant, unburdened smiles or touch him again with hands that were soft and untainted by the horrors of the world.

Dean swore he could still feel the echoes of your touch on his skin. Did you know? Did it feel the same when your wounds sealed up? Did your skin tingle with a soothing warmth as a cut stitched back together the same way his had? Did you feel the same rush that shot through him whenever you dragged a finger over him, leaving nothing short of a miracle behind with every touch? He doubted it. If he understood it right, you had grown up with your healing ability which meant it was as natural as breathing was for you. What would you do when you had your answer? A hunter’s life wasn’t for you. You deserved a normal, safe life with a partner and kids if that was what you wanted. Surely once you had your answer, you would leave. Once your curiosity was sated, there wouldn’t be any other reason for you to stay. So he would just have to cherish however much time he had left with you.

When Dean stepped out of the shower and pulled on a fresh t-shirt and sweatpants, he spotted a familiar looking stone sitting on the counter. He picked it up, running his thumb run over the smooth suface of the crescent. It was warm in his hand, likely from the heat of the steam from his shower, and as he turned it over in his palm, it thrummed against his skin. His immediate instinct was to throw it against the opposite wall. In his experience, nothing good ever came from an object that did something when it was picked up. Against his better judgement, though, he didn’t. You had had the necklace for weeks, and there hadn’t been any strange occurrences or any change in your demeanor that set off alarm bells in his head. It didn’t rule out the possibility of something playing the long game, but Dean had seen the way you kept it close like a security blanket. He couldn’t justify destroying it on little more than a wild assumption. 

He gathered up his belongings and dropped them off in his room before continuing down the hall to the closed door marked ‘16.’ He knocked, waited for a few moments, then knocked again. You didn’t answer, and he should’ve just left it at that. He should’ve been happy with all the attention and care you had already given him tonight. But he was selfish and weak. So he didn’t do what he should have done. 

Dean quietly pushed the door to your room open, thankful when the hinges were silent and didn’t betray his entrance. He spotted your flashing keys on the bedside table, and he couldn’t stop from smiling as he realized that he hadn’t had a chance to show you what he had picked up while on the hunt. He was certain that you’d smile when you saw it. Sam hadn’t let him live it down when he saw it attached to Baby’s keys. You were laying on your side, facing the door, and Dean couldn’t help but wonder just how you managed to sleep with flashing lights in your face. It was probably another thing you had just done for as long as you remembered. At least after you had gotten lost the first time. 

He couldn’t help himself. Dean stared at your sleeping form, mesmerized by the way the shadows created by your light danced across your face. It was as though they had a mind of their own and seemed to fall in just the right way to accentuate your features. Your expression was so peaceful as you slept. Not an ounce of a hunter’s instinct keeping you with a foot in the waking world in case something happened. He wanted to keep it that way. If he had it his way, you would never lose sleep worrying about being attacked in the middle of the night. He had made a promise to keep you safe, and he intended to keep it.

Dean pulled your necklace from the pocket of his pants and froze on the spot when he saw it. The pendant gave off a soft glow. It wasn’t bright or vibrant, though. It was more akin to a black light. The glow was dark, almost purple in appearance. Had it been doing that when he found it in the showers? A sense of unease crept into the back of his mind as he moved to hold the necklace by the braided leather cord rather than the pendant itself just in case. As it dangled from his fingers, he eyed it carefully, half expecting something more to happen. He sprinted back to his room, grabbing for the gun beneath his pillow, and when he looked back at the crescent moon, the glowing had stopped. Just to be doubly sure, he turned off the light in his room. 

Still no glow.

He took slow, deep breaths as he eyed the necklace, waiting for something – anything – to happen. Nothing did. He walked back towards your room, watching all the while. When he crossed the threshold of your room, the glow was back. And when he dared to stand beside your bed, the glow was at its brightest. He needed Castiel to give him answers because Dean couldn’t in good conscience let you keep wearing it without knowing what it was doing. He muttered a quiet apology before leaving and closing the door behind him, the leather cord of the necklace wrapped around his hand.

---

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Part 3 --- Part 5

[ask-codeearasure]

Thank you.

Redemption arcs are easier to write if they have lower stakes. Nightmare is not an example of this. Killer is not an example of this either.

Since we're complaining about how the canon or canon-adjacent versions of these characters are handled, Corrupted!Nightmare has long since crossed what's called the moral event horizon. In short, this means Nightmare is no longer in a position where redemption is possible, as he willingly torments trillions of individuals across the multiverse and takes pride and pleasure in that fact, on top of the personal torture and programming he puts Killer through.

However, because fandom in general has much debate over whether or not a character can be redeemed or not, it's safer for me to state that why and how an antagonistic character can be redeemed depends on the weight and importance their actions have on the narrative of their stories and the other characters around them.

In which case, if I apply this notion, my conclusion remains the exact same. Corrupted!Nightmare is irredeemable. He has too much power, authority, and torturous effects on every single character he interacts with, with very very few exceptions. He can feel all negative emotions, including negative versions of positive emotions, with the exception of love. Say he could feel regret, I don't believe it would be in anyone else's favor but his own.

Now say I'm analyzing a different version of Nightmare with the stakes of his crimes not nearly as high as the canon variation, my opinion then would be a whole other conversation.

With Killer, because he's not a total douchebag and he is forced to kill and maim others only half the time, either because of his programming or from Chara or Nightmare threatening him, his redemption would still be difficult as fuck, but it's possible. What's required is a support system, which Color provides and then some.

With Color, Killer is allowed a choice. He is not stripped of his autonomy or value in what he thinks or feels. In Killer's case, this is the room he needs in order to ask himself what he actually wants and what he could do to improve his circumstances and how he views himself and others.

Redemption is never, ever, going to happen overnight. It is a process in which a character has to put in work and effort to "reprogram" themself in a sense so they can pursue the goal(s) they couldn't under their old circumstances, even if it's something simple like a meaningful apology.

Killer is shown to have this possibility in Rahafwabas's works. That's another thing that leaves me so certain that he can be a good person if he wanted to AND had the resources to support that endeavor.

Meanwhile, Nightmare doesn't, and he has no need or want to either, as the tags above have stated. He's like Fire Lord Ozai from Avatar: The Last Airbender. He does not need more depth to him or a redemption arc to make him a good character or villain. He's fine as is, because the simplicity is what he was made to be.

-- Sarco

I find it so funny there’s so much debate on if nightmare can be redeemed or not and there’s lots of fanart and fanfics about his redemption arc, and yet when killer canonically expresses a desire to leave the bad sans gang and change..there was absolutely nothing about it.

In fact people either actively ignored it for their ships or family feels, or only acknowledged it to paint color in a bad light and send killer running back to nightmare or to dream. Not to mention the tendency to demonize dream in those fics.

Not to mention the tendency in “nightmare redemption” fics to either have killer forgive him or have the two of them start dating for some reason

[stunie]

HEY HEY hope ure doing good!! i saw u mentioning ume's silly shirts and it made me think of how ume would 100% be one of the guys who wears "I♥️MY GF" shirts or matching his and hers shirts with his s/o 😭😭 just ume and his silly tshirts is so cute

oh nia ): this. thinking about him all excited the night before his lil netflix date with you. he saw the shirts through the shop window earlier on his way home— and five minutes later, he was already out the door with the bags in his arms. he had his new outfit for tomorrow draped over his chair hours ago (he gets really excited for dates so he likes to prepare everything early), but he just can’t seem to stop looking at it. he keeps imagining how you’ll react— picturing the look on your face when you see the “i love my girlfriend!” in huge letters across the top. and… just maybe he could try and convince you to put a kiss mark on it too. the whole thing plays out in his head over and over until he’s finally falling asleep with a soft smile tugging at his lips, arms wrapped tightly around his pillow in hopes that tomorrow can come just one second faster.

[wasyago]

i imagine it's quite chilly in the black sea (for the lack of sun and color), so they're wearing slightly warmer clothes now uwu

+ thoughts

[invinciblevalentine]

atp i would snort reeve tuesti fic like cocaine.

if anyone knows any fics that put reeve through the blender like “Son” by She_sees_in_the_dark or “Through Another’s Eyes” by CorsairOriginal—

i need to see that man under enough pressure to make a diamond crack. For my health.

[iicaru2]

the bottom chuuya tag actually takes years off my life every time i see it. like are you sure? you're dying on THAT hill? when dazai is right fucking there? okay